Possible titles for the entry that will follow with Montreal photos tomorrow:
- "Fuck it. Arret, arret!"
- "A porn shop and a bar"
- The trouble with kilometers
- "I should have declared that doughnut."
- We live in a beautiful world.
- Montreal. Burlington - only, like, not.
8.04.2005
8.03.2005
On the road again
Four musical events.
Three cities.
Two countries.
One week.
The V North American Tour (OR The "this seemed like a really good idea at the time" tour) continues today with a visit to our friendly neighbors to the north*.
The last time I went to Montreal for a show was in the fourth grade, when I won tickets to NKOTB's Magic Summer Mystery Tour at Olympic Stadium.
I daresay things have changed a signficiant amount since 1990. This should prove interesting. Fun. French, no?
But I've been playfully indignant for the last day or so, as numerous people have commented on the fact that it's a good thing I'm going with someone who will be able to get us back into the country, if need be.
I promise to not create situations of international alarm, OK?
This time.
But if I didn't have to work tomorrow...
P.S. Rufus is closing Friday's show. ??? I adore Rufus music. This is well established. And I'm looking forward to Rufus with a band. But how does one actually top BEN FOLDS LIVE PERFORMANCE?
(Hopefully with a huge, rich version of "Oh What a World" that makes me sing along to the harmony...)
P.P.S. I have a cold. I blame the blueberries. I didn't have one at this time yesterday. Back to raspberries and apples for me!
*I've known for a long time that my blood includes a bit of French Canadian, but I discovered only last night that there's some straight forward Canadian Canadian in the mix as well. Apparently my family heritage includes some Newfoundland living. Who knew? Not I. I always knew my love for "aboot" was more than simply amusement with the accent. Hockey, eh?
Three cities.
Two countries.
One week.
The V North American Tour (OR The "this seemed like a really good idea at the time" tour) continues today with a visit to our friendly neighbors to the north*.
The last time I went to Montreal for a show was in the fourth grade, when I won tickets to NKOTB's Magic Summer Mystery Tour at Olympic Stadium.
I daresay things have changed a signficiant amount since 1990. This should prove interesting. Fun. French, no?
But I've been playfully indignant for the last day or so, as numerous people have commented on the fact that it's a good thing I'm going with someone who will be able to get us back into the country, if need be.
I promise to not create situations of international alarm, OK?
This time.
But if I didn't have to work tomorrow...
P.S. Rufus is closing Friday's show. ??? I adore Rufus music. This is well established. And I'm looking forward to Rufus with a band. But how does one actually top BEN FOLDS LIVE PERFORMANCE?
(Hopefully with a huge, rich version of "Oh What a World" that makes me sing along to the harmony...)
P.P.S. I have a cold. I blame the blueberries. I didn't have one at this time yesterday. Back to raspberries and apples for me!
*I've known for a long time that my blood includes a bit of French Canadian, but I discovered only last night that there's some straight forward Canadian Canadian in the mix as well. Apparently my family heritage includes some Newfoundland living. Who knew? Not I. I always knew my love for "aboot" was more than simply amusement with the accent. Hockey, eh?
8.02.2005
Berry blue
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides...
- Sylvia Plath, "Blackberrying"
I climbed into my car with a small plastic bowl filled with organic blueberries. It sits by me now, with signficantly fewer berries than when I began the trek back. I've never been a particularly avid fan of this particular fruit, having accepted the bowl more out of courtesy than enthusiasm. But I believe these to be on an entirely different plane of existance then their supermarket bretheren.
As I drove, the same as as I type, I reached into the bowl, pulled out a small number of the little blue berries and popped them into my mouth one at a time. Some are sweet, some have the tart kick I always prefer. But I let the juice ooze onto my tongue, preferring to squeeze them open than the quick bite.
They may be the best blueberries I've ever tasted, and as I consume this unexpected mid-afternoon snack, I relish the fruits of summer and all that come with them - the sunglasses perched atop my head, the denim skirt and sandals I'm wearing and the air conditioning that instantly cooled me as I stepped out of the sunshine and into the building.
I have to hope that August stretches out in front of my as languidly as I wish it to.
-----------
I staggered into my apartment late yesterday afternoon to find a small cardboard box waiting on my laptop keys. Even in my exhausted state, I had to find the energy to chuckle.
"Mr. A-Z." I ate a quick dinner, changed into pajamas and curled up beneath a comforter to feel the fan on my face, listen to the music and close my eyes. Whether I slept or not (I didn't - not really, anyway) didn't matter. I just didn't want to have to think or function for awhile. I thought listening to the album in such a state might change my mind about its components.
I thought last night that it didn't, but I'm starting to think that it did. It's not that I enjoy the album, it's not that I don't (although admittedly, it's much closer to the latter). Therein lies the problem. I love many of the songs included in the tracklisting. Because I've enjoyed the live renditions of those songs (in some cases) and live recordings of others (in many cases), I was eagerly anticipating the album.
And then it came out.
And I sat there, listening with a look of disappointment on my face. It didn't sound like a Jason album. Was it presumptuous of me to make that assessment? Of course. But when has that stopped me before?
I now look at it as a resource for some of the songs I enjoy. I can look at the tracklisting and pick out of the mix which ones I will listen to in "Mr. A-Z" form and which will be listened to in other formats.
1. Life is Wonderful - Curbside Tour recordings or the album (on rare occasion).
2. Wordplay - Live (I don't know why, but I felt so much better about this song after Saturday. It still irks me, but it's grown on me a great deal.)
3. Geek in the Pink - Live (hate the album version)
4. Did You Get My Message? - Album.
5. Mr. Curiosity - Album (with a grimace at the opera bit, but I prefer the slower treatment on the album over the peppier live).
6. Clockwatching - Album (it's alright, I suppose, but not a big fan of the song).
7. Bella Luna - N/A (Don't like it, won't go out of my way to listen to it)
8. Plane - Any way I can hear this song, I will. I adore this song. Curbside recordings are great, and I love the studio treatment.
9. O. Lover - Live, I suppose. Don't dig the studio version and that's the only way I've heard it.
10. Please Don't Tell Her - See "Plane."
11. Forecast - Live.
12. Song For a Friend - Live. Curbside recordings.
The thing I've always enjoyed about Jason's music is that he doesn't try to come off sounding like anything else. And when this album is at its worst, it sounds like a cheesy take on various styles. "Geek" has an inherent funk to it - there's no need to add the beatbox style.
But when it's just showcasing the band and Jason's vocals (try listening to the end of "Plane" and not be impressed), it impresses me.
There's just too much other crap thrown into the mix to mess it all up.
Which is why I'm already looking forward to the fall tour. It will be great to hear the songs again, without producers' polish all over them.
8.01.2005
Crash Bang Boom
It hit around 3:30, during my second coffee of the day.
The artificial adrenaline rush I was riding dropped away, leaving me suspended over the Grand Canyon of fatigue.
Think Wile E. Coyote. A second to look at the audience, hold up a sign that says, "Yikes," and then crash to the ground far, far below.
Running? No way in hell.
Catching up with roommates? Doubtful.
Calling the family as everyone is assembled in Massachusetts? Sorry, gang.
I reckon that I will be curling up under a blanket, perhaps setting up a mellow playlist and napping, if not all out sleeping.
That said, I should continue the "call it like I see it" trend that kicked into gear this weekend.
I want my phone to ring. I want to ask, "OK, so what was that?"
I'm not thrilled with myself for wanting that, but the fact remains that I do. Why deny it?
It would require too much energy.
I'm too tired to be anything but honest.
Yikes.
The artificial adrenaline rush I was riding dropped away, leaving me suspended over the Grand Canyon of fatigue.
Think Wile E. Coyote. A second to look at the audience, hold up a sign that says, "Yikes," and then crash to the ground far, far below.
Running? No way in hell.
Catching up with roommates? Doubtful.
Calling the family as everyone is assembled in Massachusetts? Sorry, gang.
I reckon that I will be curling up under a blanket, perhaps setting up a mellow playlist and napping, if not all out sleeping.
That said, I should continue the "call it like I see it" trend that kicked into gear this weekend.
I want my phone to ring. I want to ask, "OK, so what was that?"
I'm not thrilled with myself for wanting that, but the fact remains that I do. Why deny it?
It would require too much energy.
I'm too tired to be anything but honest.
Yikes.
I could attempt to compile the weekend experiences into a single, cohesive story, but exhaustion-induced scatterbrain would result in something like the following:
I worried that I'd forgotten to lock the car and then I was staring at the mirror through vibrant, teal-lined eyes before the alarm went off at 5 a.m. and prompted a chorus of "Oh, fuck you, Jason." The bartender at the brewery commiserated about the Yankees game because he was from Massachusetts after I felt a cold cup placed against my bare back. The cupcake tasted better at midnight after we walked down the pathway next to the stage as the Take It Easy Buddies were doing soundcheck.
So, instead, I'm going to break it up into mini-story form. Including some of the bits I scribbled into my notebook during the weekend.
--------
On the train from Stamford to Grand Central Station, a little girl is dozing in her stroller. She tried so valiantly to stay awake, but her head now rests against her mother's arm; Mommy is also holding her sleeping hand.
The backdrop has shifted from trees and small buildings to trees, hotels and building space. I have the aisle seat, so I don't know if the skyline has become visible, but I like to imagine it looms ahead of our ambling train, a mass of shadowy blue in the distance. I will the train to approach it with increasing speed.
"Local train to New York," comes the call over the speakers as we start and stop and start again. With each stop, it becomes increasingly real to me that I'm actually here.
Near here, anyway.
--------
You get in line and stand there so you can be allowed into a space and stand there. If you're lucky, you get to move into another space and stand there awhile longer. By the time you're through, you've been penned and corralled, feeling entirely bovine. You can hear the news, but don't really see it unless you've a view of the small televisions near the corner of the studio building. It's clearly a slow newsday.
You already know what the band will play - your walk from the hotel several blocks away included a pathway by the stage, where Jason and company were conducting soundcheck. "The Remedy," "Wordplay" and "Please Don't Tell Her." You realize you were right in predicting two out of the three and are pleasantly pleased to have been wrong about the last. The skies were just beginning to brighten as you took your place in line - and several hundred people stretched out in a line behind you. There was much smaller number of people in front of you, and you silently thank the group you're with for making that possible.
You squeeze forward with the rest of the horde trying to get into the VIP section when the gate was opened, and you're the last to squeak through when they close the doors. You're closer, you have more room to breathe and you realize you'll have to actively avoid the cameras, but you don't really care at this point. The band rehearses "The Remedy" and Jason remarks that when it goes live, the audience should be singing along at this point. You don't realize at the time that the whole exchange was broadcast, and you sing along to the words you've heard for years upon years, ignoring the surprise that he'll apparently start with an old song while supporting a new album.
Then they actually perform, and the three-plus hours you've been standing there, listening to repeat news about a woman billing her husband for a dissolved marriage, melt away. You're singing along to the songs, standing on tiptoe to snap a shot of Bill or Toca or Ian or Eric or Jason or whoever else the camera happens to catch. Your friends are singing along next to you, also adding the little riffs that you know Jason will add, and you have to laugh and duck away as the camera catches The Post It Girls standing next to you. You're just there for the experience and the music and the chance to enjoy seeing him before the fall tour. And then the songs are over and you're standing around with friends, watching the crew pack up the equipment and convert the staging area to the alley it usually is. When you walk by a couple of hours later, there's little standing out to make it clear that a mini-concert was held there earlier in the morning.
This is The Today Show.
--------
Every third person in Union Square was carrying huge bundles of sunflowers. I tried to snap a discreet photo of the gigantic floral clusters, but instead captured an endless series of elbows and heads. I never would make it as a papparazzi, I suppose.
The farmers' market was in full swing. We made a loop around the park and I took pictures of the contrast between grass and granite. There was a traditional mailbox attached to the trunk of a tree, far above the reach of postal workers and seemingly without an owner waiting to receive the latest junk mail. The humorous installation made me laugh, and another walking nearby stared at me as if I was the crazy person who'd hammered the mailbox there in the first place.
I took a sip of Michelle's raspberry cider as we approached the brewery for lunch and beer (or, in my case, hard cider and chambord). We lined up at the bar, directly below the Yankees game, and several of us groaned upon seeing Jeter's smug face in the batter's box. The bartender noticed our grimaces and asked if we were Sox fans. Five out of six - our Midwestern member abstained - nodded, and the bartender (charming, with dark hair, dark eyes and easy smile) laughed. He'd grown up in Massachusetts and felt our pain.
I suddenly liked New York all the more.
--------
I stared into the mirror. My eyes were lined in dark, teal green.
"Whoa."
The stylist clucked, and I quickly assured her that it wasn't that I didn't like it, it was just incredibly different.
But hell, if this wasn't the time to try something different, when was?
The girls, each made up and lovely, blinked as they saw me. "Whoa."
I began to count down the moments until I could wash it off.
"No, that looks amazing." L1 grinned.
"Those are Fuck Me Eyes. So V, what are you doin later?" said L2, making me burst into laughter.
Screw it. I was going to have fun with this.
--------
We missed Honestly, which disappointed me, but we arrived at the club just as Averi finished their first song. I walked into the performance space, expecting to have to walk about to get a good spot, but the room was tiny. Walking from the back to the front, with a stop at the bar, required about eight paces. I was near the stage, vodka cran in hand, in no time.
Of the seven of us (new New Yorker J had come to join us), only three had seen the band before. But it seemed that they all enjoyed the sound. They were treated to a great introductory performance - the band was on. Michael and Stu coupled for a sax/guitar duet during "Empty Pages" that left me grinning like an idiot and made me realize just how happy I was to have seen the band's progression over the years. The set was short, but packed with energy and flair. The crowd eagerly clamored for more.
It felt wonderful, being in a new place, surrounded by new friends and old, seeing a familiar band in a completely unfamiliar context. Not to mention that I felt great. Self-empowerment, loving yourself and all that are great in theory, but sometimes you just need a halter top, heels and eyeliner to make you feel ready to take on the world.
And then the headliner started. We later discovered that the seven of us each individually cringed with the opening chords, but didn't necessarily want to come out and say it.
The bar in the other room began to look really good.
-------
I actually like Red Stripe. A beer.
I know. I was amazed by it too. I actually remarked on it as I stood in the bar, taking surprised sips from the bottle J had handed me as she went outside.
Shortly thereafter, though, I set the bottle on the bar and made my own way for the door. I had planned on sticking around for a bit longer; my friends were going to be awhile as they figured out what would come up next. I wanted to finish my inherited beer and the conversation.
Because, quite frankly, I was enjoying both - the conversation most of all.
But a moment later, I had to force myself to not have a look of complete surprise on my face, said, "Um, okaaaaay. Bye." and headed for the Village instead.
Huh.
-------
Near Grand Central, we were looking about for somewhere to grab a quick bite to eat before embarking on the trip home. It felt bizarre, the weekend already being over. I realized how much I'd been looking forward to it, how much I'd been enjoying it. Suddenly it started to dawn on me that I had to get back to normal.
And that I was going to be exhausted the next day.
"I want to find some Jamaican," K said as we carried our bags about. "But I know I won't be able to find it."
"I want to find a Chipotle," I said with a sigh. "But I have no idea where they all are around here."
As we crossed the street, K looked at buildings stretching down into the distance.
"Jamba - Hey, there's a Chipotle!"
I quickly looked over. Right next to the Jamba Juice was the familiar silver lettering. I grinned, and K laughed.
"Let's go."
DIY is good. But as I took a bite into my first real Chicken Fajita Burrito in about 10 months, I realized that DIY ain't got nothin on the real thing.
Mmmmm.
I sent Beth a quick text message, as I knew she'd be amused.
"Eating Chipotle. SWOON."
I had managed to do everything I'd hoped I would do in New York. Save one, that is.
-------
I realized as we rode on the train back to Connecticut that I, lover of all skylines, never took in the sight of a shadowy New York skyline.
It seemed appropriate. It was an characteristically uncharacteristic weekend.
I closed my eyes, leaned back against the seat and thanked the city.
It had been fun to step out. And I felt a bit different leaving.
For the better.
I worried that I'd forgotten to lock the car and then I was staring at the mirror through vibrant, teal-lined eyes before the alarm went off at 5 a.m. and prompted a chorus of "Oh, fuck you, Jason." The bartender at the brewery commiserated about the Yankees game because he was from Massachusetts after I felt a cold cup placed against my bare back. The cupcake tasted better at midnight after we walked down the pathway next to the stage as the Take It Easy Buddies were doing soundcheck.
So, instead, I'm going to break it up into mini-story form. Including some of the bits I scribbled into my notebook during the weekend.
--------
On the train from Stamford to Grand Central Station, a little girl is dozing in her stroller. She tried so valiantly to stay awake, but her head now rests against her mother's arm; Mommy is also holding her sleeping hand.
The backdrop has shifted from trees and small buildings to trees, hotels and building space. I have the aisle seat, so I don't know if the skyline has become visible, but I like to imagine it looms ahead of our ambling train, a mass of shadowy blue in the distance. I will the train to approach it with increasing speed.
"Local train to New York," comes the call over the speakers as we start and stop and start again. With each stop, it becomes increasingly real to me that I'm actually here.
Near here, anyway.
--------
You get in line and stand there so you can be allowed into a space and stand there. If you're lucky, you get to move into another space and stand there awhile longer. By the time you're through, you've been penned and corralled, feeling entirely bovine. You can hear the news, but don't really see it unless you've a view of the small televisions near the corner of the studio building. It's clearly a slow newsday.
You already know what the band will play - your walk from the hotel several blocks away included a pathway by the stage, where Jason and company were conducting soundcheck. "The Remedy," "Wordplay" and "Please Don't Tell Her." You realize you were right in predicting two out of the three and are pleasantly pleased to have been wrong about the last. The skies were just beginning to brighten as you took your place in line - and several hundred people stretched out in a line behind you. There was much smaller number of people in front of you, and you silently thank the group you're with for making that possible.
You squeeze forward with the rest of the horde trying to get into the VIP section when the gate was opened, and you're the last to squeak through when they close the doors. You're closer, you have more room to breathe and you realize you'll have to actively avoid the cameras, but you don't really care at this point. The band rehearses "The Remedy" and Jason remarks that when it goes live, the audience should be singing along at this point. You don't realize at the time that the whole exchange was broadcast, and you sing along to the words you've heard for years upon years, ignoring the surprise that he'll apparently start with an old song while supporting a new album.
Then they actually perform, and the three-plus hours you've been standing there, listening to repeat news about a woman billing her husband for a dissolved marriage, melt away. You're singing along to the songs, standing on tiptoe to snap a shot of Bill or Toca or Ian or Eric or Jason or whoever else the camera happens to catch. Your friends are singing along next to you, also adding the little riffs that you know Jason will add, and you have to laugh and duck away as the camera catches The Post It Girls standing next to you. You're just there for the experience and the music and the chance to enjoy seeing him before the fall tour. And then the songs are over and you're standing around with friends, watching the crew pack up the equipment and convert the staging area to the alley it usually is. When you walk by a couple of hours later, there's little standing out to make it clear that a mini-concert was held there earlier in the morning.
This is The Today Show.
--------
Every third person in Union Square was carrying huge bundles of sunflowers. I tried to snap a discreet photo of the gigantic floral clusters, but instead captured an endless series of elbows and heads. I never would make it as a papparazzi, I suppose.
The farmers' market was in full swing. We made a loop around the park and I took pictures of the contrast between grass and granite. There was a traditional mailbox attached to the trunk of a tree, far above the reach of postal workers and seemingly without an owner waiting to receive the latest junk mail. The humorous installation made me laugh, and another walking nearby stared at me as if I was the crazy person who'd hammered the mailbox there in the first place.
I took a sip of Michelle's raspberry cider as we approached the brewery for lunch and beer (or, in my case, hard cider and chambord). We lined up at the bar, directly below the Yankees game, and several of us groaned upon seeing Jeter's smug face in the batter's box. The bartender noticed our grimaces and asked if we were Sox fans. Five out of six - our Midwestern member abstained - nodded, and the bartender (charming, with dark hair, dark eyes and easy smile) laughed. He'd grown up in Massachusetts and felt our pain.
I suddenly liked New York all the more.
--------
I stared into the mirror. My eyes were lined in dark, teal green.
"Whoa."
The stylist clucked, and I quickly assured her that it wasn't that I didn't like it, it was just incredibly different.
But hell, if this wasn't the time to try something different, when was?
The girls, each made up and lovely, blinked as they saw me. "Whoa."
I began to count down the moments until I could wash it off.
"No, that looks amazing." L1 grinned.
"Those are Fuck Me Eyes. So V, what are you doin later?" said L2, making me burst into laughter.
Screw it. I was going to have fun with this.
--------
We missed Honestly, which disappointed me, but we arrived at the club just as Averi finished their first song. I walked into the performance space, expecting to have to walk about to get a good spot, but the room was tiny. Walking from the back to the front, with a stop at the bar, required about eight paces. I was near the stage, vodka cran in hand, in no time.
Of the seven of us (new New Yorker J had come to join us), only three had seen the band before. But it seemed that they all enjoyed the sound. They were treated to a great introductory performance - the band was on. Michael and Stu coupled for a sax/guitar duet during "Empty Pages" that left me grinning like an idiot and made me realize just how happy I was to have seen the band's progression over the years. The set was short, but packed with energy and flair. The crowd eagerly clamored for more.
It felt wonderful, being in a new place, surrounded by new friends and old, seeing a familiar band in a completely unfamiliar context. Not to mention that I felt great. Self-empowerment, loving yourself and all that are great in theory, but sometimes you just need a halter top, heels and eyeliner to make you feel ready to take on the world.
And then the headliner started. We later discovered that the seven of us each individually cringed with the opening chords, but didn't necessarily want to come out and say it.
The bar in the other room began to look really good.
-------
I actually like Red Stripe. A beer.
I know. I was amazed by it too. I actually remarked on it as I stood in the bar, taking surprised sips from the bottle J had handed me as she went outside.
Shortly thereafter, though, I set the bottle on the bar and made my own way for the door. I had planned on sticking around for a bit longer; my friends were going to be awhile as they figured out what would come up next. I wanted to finish my inherited beer and the conversation.
Because, quite frankly, I was enjoying both - the conversation most of all.
But a moment later, I had to force myself to not have a look of complete surprise on my face, said, "Um, okaaaaay. Bye." and headed for the Village instead.
Huh.
-------
Near Grand Central, we were looking about for somewhere to grab a quick bite to eat before embarking on the trip home. It felt bizarre, the weekend already being over. I realized how much I'd been looking forward to it, how much I'd been enjoying it. Suddenly it started to dawn on me that I had to get back to normal.
And that I was going to be exhausted the next day.
"I want to find some Jamaican," K said as we carried our bags about. "But I know I won't be able to find it."
"I want to find a Chipotle," I said with a sigh. "But I have no idea where they all are around here."
As we crossed the street, K looked at buildings stretching down into the distance.
"Jamba - Hey, there's a Chipotle!"
I quickly looked over. Right next to the Jamba Juice was the familiar silver lettering. I grinned, and K laughed.
"Let's go."
DIY is good. But as I took a bite into my first real Chicken Fajita Burrito in about 10 months, I realized that DIY ain't got nothin on the real thing.
Mmmmm.
I sent Beth a quick text message, as I knew she'd be amused.
"Eating Chipotle. SWOON."
I had managed to do everything I'd hoped I would do in New York. Save one, that is.
-------
I realized as we rode on the train back to Connecticut that I, lover of all skylines, never took in the sight of a shadowy New York skyline.
It seemed appropriate. It was an characteristically uncharacteristic weekend.
I closed my eyes, leaned back against the seat and thanked the city.
It had been fun to step out. And I felt a bit different leaving.
For the better.
I was sitting in a park across the street from a 24-hour bakery (Mmmm...MagnOLIAS...) as Saturday night crept into Sunday morning and took a call from a flatmate.
"Were you about four rows back this morning? Chuck saw orange and short blonde hair and he's convinced it was you."
I wasn't four rows back, so I assumed he was wrong, albeit sweet in trying to spot me in a crowd of faceless, camera-wielding dancing bodies.
But he's good - he managed to spot me. So as to prevent the rash of anonymous-but-not-really comments that could likely pop up here today otherwise, I'll own up. Admit and proudly embrace it.
Yes, you could see me on The Today Show, but only if you knew who I was and what I was wearing. But if you could pick the back of my orange-clad self out of the crowd, you would see that I clapped. I snapped pictures. I sang along. I daresay that shifty camera above and behind us caught me shaking my ass a bit as I grooved to "Wordplay."
And yes, as it was being performed live, I was enjoying it. Much as I said before the journey that I didn't like the song.
It was live. That makes all the difference.
Beth laughed hysterically as we reviewed the tape yesterday evening.
But I proudly embrace the fact that I rocked at Rockefeller Center. And know what?
It was fun. Kitschy, random fun much deserved after waking up at 5 a.m.
I'll add more to this little space about my weekend after I get a coffee into me. 'Cause I am a walking zombie today.
(What? I have to gear up for two more concerts this week? In Montreal and Boston? I'll rally, because that's what I do, but I predict I will be able to sleep standing up by Sunday.)
"Were you about four rows back this morning? Chuck saw orange and short blonde hair and he's convinced it was you."
I wasn't four rows back, so I assumed he was wrong, albeit sweet in trying to spot me in a crowd of faceless, camera-wielding dancing bodies.
But he's good - he managed to spot me. So as to prevent the rash of anonymous-but-not-really comments that could likely pop up here today otherwise, I'll own up. Admit and proudly embrace it.
Yes, you could see me on The Today Show, but only if you knew who I was and what I was wearing. But if you could pick the back of my orange-clad self out of the crowd, you would see that I clapped. I snapped pictures. I sang along. I daresay that shifty camera above and behind us caught me shaking my ass a bit as I grooved to "Wordplay."
And yes, as it was being performed live, I was enjoying it. Much as I said before the journey that I didn't like the song.
It was live. That makes all the difference.
Beth laughed hysterically as we reviewed the tape yesterday evening.
But I proudly embrace the fact that I rocked at Rockefeller Center. And know what?
It was fun. Kitschy, random fun much deserved after waking up at 5 a.m.
I'll add more to this little space about my weekend after I get a coffee into me. 'Cause I am a walking zombie today.
(What? I have to gear up for two more concerts this week? In Montreal and Boston? I'll rally, because that's what I do, but I predict I will be able to sleep standing up by Sunday.)
7.31.2005
7.29.2005
Adventure
Several weeks ago, as I rode back from Massachusetts to Vermont, I listened to an anecdote relayed by a friend. A friend of that friend had volunteered to visit with senior citizens and spent one afternoon talking with an older woman.
The volunteer asked about the woman's life and engaged in discussion about the events of the day - typical smalltalk designed to make the woman feel she had someone to talk to about whatever she desired.
The woman interrupted an exchange by peering at the volunteer and asking a direct question.
"Do you have adventures?"
The volunteer paused before replying. The volunteer was young and relatively carefree, thus assuming that the details of the current life were probably seen as interesting or exciting to someone in the last stages of existance.
"I suppose I do, yes."
The woman continued to peer as she spoke.
"Let me tell you this. I had people around me when I was younger. And I had adventures. Those people? They are gone now. I am alone.
"But I have my adventures. No matter what else happens in my life, the adventures I have are all mine. I have them with me now."
As I prepared to leave the apartment this morning and, after finishing up tasks in Vermont, embark on the weekend festivities, I thought about who that woman was. I wondered what she looked like, what adventures she had had in her youth.
I have my adventures. And I am about to add more to my collection.
The volunteer asked about the woman's life and engaged in discussion about the events of the day - typical smalltalk designed to make the woman feel she had someone to talk to about whatever she desired.
The woman interrupted an exchange by peering at the volunteer and asking a direct question.
"Do you have adventures?"
The volunteer paused before replying. The volunteer was young and relatively carefree, thus assuming that the details of the current life were probably seen as interesting or exciting to someone in the last stages of existance.
"I suppose I do, yes."
The woman continued to peer as she spoke.
"Let me tell you this. I had people around me when I was younger. And I had adventures. Those people? They are gone now. I am alone.
"But I have my adventures. No matter what else happens in my life, the adventures I have are all mine. I have them with me now."
As I prepared to leave the apartment this morning and, after finishing up tasks in Vermont, embark on the weekend festivities, I thought about who that woman was. I wondered what she looked like, what adventures she had had in her youth.
I have my adventures. And I am about to add more to my collection.
7.28.2005
Not that I'm at all enthused
I love ending a phone coversation with "I'll see you tomorrow. GET SLEEP," and realizing I'm not going to follow my own orders as well as I ought to.
Then preparing to go to sleep knowing fully well that the upcoming hours will probably be the last spent in REM cycle for most of the weekend. Looking over at a full piece of luggage, making sure I haven't forgotten anything I need and realizing (thanks to a thoroughly amused flatmate) that I probably have well more than what I need.
New York adventures begin tomorrow. I may be updating Flickr with some photos as I go, so check it out over the course of the weekend. The Today Show, the Knitting Factory and who knows what else.
This is going to be fun. Think good, non-bag-searching thoughts for me.
And have a great weekend.
Then preparing to go to sleep knowing fully well that the upcoming hours will probably be the last spent in REM cycle for most of the weekend. Looking over at a full piece of luggage, making sure I haven't forgotten anything I need and realizing (thanks to a thoroughly amused flatmate) that I probably have well more than what I need.
New York adventures begin tomorrow. I may be updating Flickr with some photos as I go, so check it out over the course of the weekend. The Today Show, the Knitting Factory and who knows what else.
This is going to be fun. Think good, non-bag-searching thoughts for me.
And have a great weekend.
Various & Sundry
My flatmates returned to Casa de Racca yesterday evening, laden with luggage and stories and digital photographs to share. It was surprising - almost a little jarring, but in a good way - to hear the apartment fill so quickly with voices other than my own. Admittedly, it had only been a week since they departed on their vacation, but it felt like much longer. Had it really only been seven days since coffeebreaks and conversation? Had I really been battling the out-of-memory DVR trying to record "Stargate SG-1" for only a week?
I smiled upon seeing photographs of Annapolis and sighed at the sight of Washington images.
(It really is a pity that I didn't appreciate DC while I was there to experience it.)
I tried to catch them up on what had been happening on the homefront during their adventures, but quickly realized there was little on which to report.
So we went out for Blizzards instead.
Back to normal.
In other news. I am looking for information from savvy New York residents or travelers. We are driving down to NY tomorrow. We want to park the car outside the city and take a train in. WHERE THE HELL SHOULD WE GO TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN?
Any advice would be most appreciated.
Updated: Plan set. No need for advice. Merci.
I smiled upon seeing photographs of Annapolis and sighed at the sight of Washington images.
(It really is a pity that I didn't appreciate DC while I was there to experience it.)
I tried to catch them up on what had been happening on the homefront during their adventures, but quickly realized there was little on which to report.
So we went out for Blizzards instead.
Back to normal.
In other news. I am looking for information from savvy New York residents or travelers. We are driving down to NY tomorrow. We want to park the car outside the city and take a train in. WHERE THE HELL SHOULD WE GO TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN?
Any advice would be most appreciated.
Updated: Plan set. No need for advice. Merci.
7.27.2005
This is how it is supposed to be.
Adrenaline. I take steps two at a time in order to get back to the phone, the notepad, the computer more quickly. The words are coming fast and furious, the phone keeps ringing, the voices on the other end are helpful.
I talk about last night's game and fall into a conversation with "the boys," mentioning players and plays and being treated to insight as well-informed as my own. Groans over Clement's knockdown, speculation about Nixon's season prospects. I'm asked my opinion on trade rumors and how it will affect the team.
Small clusters of people shooting off new ideas, new angles; we feed off each other and feel a collective sense of excitement about what's being crafted. I'm the center, rattling off facts and figures, mentioning names and backstories.
I'm told I'm doing well. "Keep it up." "Way to go." "This will be a good one." "It deserves plenty of space."
I realize that when I have this finished, I've another project ahead that promises to be just as promising.
This is why I struggle through the other days. So I can get to today.
--------
And, in other news. I accidentally deleted the masterpiece IM conversation conducted between one Michelle and myself last night, as the Red Sox attempted to rally back from the (stupid) defecit (they should never have fallen into in the first place) against Tampa Bay. I didn't think much could top some of the post-season IM commentary we provided (an example of which was archived for the ages here), but last night's conversation may have topped those.
It was ended with Boston's 10-inning victory.
V: Never doubted them.
M: Isn't it funny how every member of Red Sox Nation says that ALL THE TIME??!?
V: Love it. OK, gotta go to bed. G'night.
M: Sweet dreams. Night!
Remy, much as I look to him on a regular basis, ain't got nothin on us.
Adrenaline. I take steps two at a time in order to get back to the phone, the notepad, the computer more quickly. The words are coming fast and furious, the phone keeps ringing, the voices on the other end are helpful.
I talk about last night's game and fall into a conversation with "the boys," mentioning players and plays and being treated to insight as well-informed as my own. Groans over Clement's knockdown, speculation about Nixon's season prospects. I'm asked my opinion on trade rumors and how it will affect the team.
Small clusters of people shooting off new ideas, new angles; we feed off each other and feel a collective sense of excitement about what's being crafted. I'm the center, rattling off facts and figures, mentioning names and backstories.
I'm told I'm doing well. "Keep it up." "Way to go." "This will be a good one." "It deserves plenty of space."
I realize that when I have this finished, I've another project ahead that promises to be just as promising.
This is why I struggle through the other days. So I can get to today.
--------
And, in other news. I accidentally deleted the masterpiece IM conversation conducted between one Michelle and myself last night, as the Red Sox attempted to rally back from the (stupid) defecit (they should never have fallen into in the first place) against Tampa Bay. I didn't think much could top some of the post-season IM commentary we provided (an example of which was archived for the ages here), but last night's conversation may have topped those.
It was ended with Boston's 10-inning victory.
V: Never doubted them.
M: Isn't it funny how every member of Red Sox Nation says that ALL THE TIME??!?
V: Love it. OK, gotta go to bed. G'night.
M: Sweet dreams. Night!
Remy, much as I look to him on a regular basis, ain't got nothin on us.
7.26.2005
Swing, batter, ouch
I used to pitch. I practiced at least four days a week during the off-season, five or six days a week during the on-season. When it was too snowy to be outside, my mother (pitching coach and practice catcher) and I would practice either in my high school gymnasium or, if some basketball team (other than my own, that is) was practicing, in a cement-lined hallway that was, in retrospect, far too narrow and low-ceilinged for us to really have used.
There were a lot of ricochets and bounces. My mother is one of the bravest people I know.
I began pitching in junior high and continued straight through high school and summer ball. Much as I didn't want to pitch in college, I was coerced (read: ordered) by my varsity softball coach to keep practicing so I could be the third-string pitcher.
I was taught to do what the coach tells you, whether you like it or not. So despite the fact that I knew I was not a college pitcher, I kept pitching. Won't get into how I actually did during those college pitching appearances.
Between the fallball and spring seasons, my collegiate pitching coach and I practiced in a racquetball court. There were a lot of ricochets and bounces there, too. So I was pretty quick with the duck and cover.
With the exception of that one college year (hereby known as the V Gets Into Her Head Seasons), I didn't get particularly rattled when I pitched. I knew I wasn't anything particularly special as a pitcher, but I could get the job done and knew I had a good shot at out-thinking the batters. I was a smart pitcher.
Whether it actually went to the places I intended is neither here nor there, thank you.
The only thing that ever made me nervous was the possibility that I could get a ball hit right smack back at me. And sometimes that would freak me out. I'd had nightmares about it. Fastball in, fast shot back at my head.
There were a number of close calls, actually. During a high school game, a Lady President (hey, that was their name - just go with it) fired a shot. Really good line drive that found my glove about six inches from my left ear. The only reason I caught it was because I was bringing my glove around from behind my back. I wasn't moving to the ball - the ball came to me.
During a summer season, against the Lady Devils, a really imposing batter who had already made me a little nervous sent a hard ball right back at my stomach. I still don't know how I caught that one. My parents said after the game that I had a Betty Boop face right after the hit - huge eyes, mouth forming the tiniest little "O." Then I checked to see precisely where I would have been hit.
There were the quick one-hoppers that I blocked with my body - no big deal there. And the other one that was hit to my right that I accidentally knocked down with my right hand. My coach yelled at me for that one - "You could have broken your hand!" - but it was instinct. And I didn't get hurt, so it was all good. Got the out, right?
But all things considered? I got off lucky.
Which is why, upon seeing Matt Clement get a vicious line drive to the head tonight, I called my parents right away. When my father answered, I said the only thing that came to mind.
"THAT WAS WHAT I WAS ALWAYS WORRIED WOULD HAPPEN TO ME!"
He didn't seem surprised that I called. It was actually his response that surprised me.
"I know. I was always kind of worried that would happen to you too."
I paused. It made sense, though. He couldn't have told me at the time because I could have been a basketcase on the mound.
"Remember that time -"
"The shot to the stomach?"
"Haha - no, I was thinking the time I barehanded it."
"Your coach was ready to kill you..."
Hope Matt's doing OK.
There were a lot of ricochets and bounces. My mother is one of the bravest people I know.
I began pitching in junior high and continued straight through high school and summer ball. Much as I didn't want to pitch in college, I was coerced (read: ordered) by my varsity softball coach to keep practicing so I could be the third-string pitcher.
I was taught to do what the coach tells you, whether you like it or not. So despite the fact that I knew I was not a college pitcher, I kept pitching. Won't get into how I actually did during those college pitching appearances.
Between the fallball and spring seasons, my collegiate pitching coach and I practiced in a racquetball court. There were a lot of ricochets and bounces there, too. So I was pretty quick with the duck and cover.
With the exception of that one college year (hereby known as the V Gets Into Her Head Seasons), I didn't get particularly rattled when I pitched. I knew I wasn't anything particularly special as a pitcher, but I could get the job done and knew I had a good shot at out-thinking the batters. I was a smart pitcher.
Whether it actually went to the places I intended is neither here nor there, thank you.
The only thing that ever made me nervous was the possibility that I could get a ball hit right smack back at me. And sometimes that would freak me out. I'd had nightmares about it. Fastball in, fast shot back at my head.
There were a number of close calls, actually. During a high school game, a Lady President (hey, that was their name - just go with it) fired a shot. Really good line drive that found my glove about six inches from my left ear. The only reason I caught it was because I was bringing my glove around from behind my back. I wasn't moving to the ball - the ball came to me.
During a summer season, against the Lady Devils, a really imposing batter who had already made me a little nervous sent a hard ball right back at my stomach. I still don't know how I caught that one. My parents said after the game that I had a Betty Boop face right after the hit - huge eyes, mouth forming the tiniest little "O." Then I checked to see precisely where I would have been hit.
There were the quick one-hoppers that I blocked with my body - no big deal there. And the other one that was hit to my right that I accidentally knocked down with my right hand. My coach yelled at me for that one - "You could have broken your hand!" - but it was instinct. And I didn't get hurt, so it was all good. Got the out, right?
But all things considered? I got off lucky.
Which is why, upon seeing Matt Clement get a vicious line drive to the head tonight, I called my parents right away. When my father answered, I said the only thing that came to mind.
"THAT WAS WHAT I WAS ALWAYS WORRIED WOULD HAPPEN TO ME!"
He didn't seem surprised that I called. It was actually his response that surprised me.
"I know. I was always kind of worried that would happen to you too."
I paused. It made sense, though. He couldn't have told me at the time because I could have been a basketcase on the mound.
"Remember that time -"
"The shot to the stomach?"
"Haha - no, I was thinking the time I barehanded it."
"Your coach was ready to kill you..."
Hope Matt's doing OK.
I don't recall ever going out of my way to watch a shuttle launch on television before.
We crowded around the televisions in the main room, where we watched the first flames and the sudden upward thrust. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong and forcing myself not to gasp upon seeing the fuel tanks break away from the shuttle itself.
Amazing that, in 2005, decades after the first trips to space, I was surprised to see the Discovery actually make it into space.
But, of course, there was good reason to be skeptical.
so i left the museum and, on the metro ride back towards my neighborhood, checked my messages, only to discover that my father had called to ask about what had happened to "the space shuttle." unaware of the fact that columbia was in orbit, i figured there had been a launch delay or something, so i called him at work and told him i didn't know, but i'd find out when i got home--just had to run some errands and whatnot. so i stopped at tenleytown, took my own sweet time grocery shopping (i found that i have two additional grocery stores that aren't super far away from my place--yeah, larger selection!!!), walked home, stopped at panera to get myself a bowl of mesa bean & vegetable soup (mmmm...), then ambled into the apartment, turned on the tv, and realized what had happened.
whoa.
besides my initial shock about the events that had transpired, i found myself comparing this experience to the experience i had as a young child learning of the challenger explosion. i don't remember a lot of that day--i was five, afterall--but i do remember watching the explosion on television and talking to my parents about what had happened. but i remember knowing that something like that had never happened before and hoping that it would never happen again.
when i discovered that it was columbia that had exploded this time, i instantly realized that i had seen columbia in person--back in junior high when my family vacationed in florida. my brother, who had been a huge nascar fan, was being treated to a trip to the daytona 500 by my father. since mom and i were letting the men of the family be all macho-like and watch cars race around a circle track (can you tell i've never been a nascar fan myself?), we decided to spend the day at the kennedy space center. so we drove down, took a tour and, as luck would have it, were able to see a shuttle on the launch pad, as it would be taking off on a space mission two days later. the shuttle was columbia.
so i spent much of the afternoon watching the television coverage, then took a break from that to work out (but wound up watching the coverage while i cross-trained in the gym) and then ate dinner while watching the coverage...
We crowded around the televisions in the main room, where we watched the first flames and the sudden upward thrust. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong and forcing myself not to gasp upon seeing the fuel tanks break away from the shuttle itself.
Amazing that, in 2005, decades after the first trips to space, I was surprised to see the Discovery actually make it into space.
But, of course, there was good reason to be skeptical.
so i left the museum and, on the metro ride back towards my neighborhood, checked my messages, only to discover that my father had called to ask about what had happened to "the space shuttle." unaware of the fact that columbia was in orbit, i figured there had been a launch delay or something, so i called him at work and told him i didn't know, but i'd find out when i got home--just had to run some errands and whatnot. so i stopped at tenleytown, took my own sweet time grocery shopping (i found that i have two additional grocery stores that aren't super far away from my place--yeah, larger selection!!!), walked home, stopped at panera to get myself a bowl of mesa bean & vegetable soup (mmmm...), then ambled into the apartment, turned on the tv, and realized what had happened.
whoa.
besides my initial shock about the events that had transpired, i found myself comparing this experience to the experience i had as a young child learning of the challenger explosion. i don't remember a lot of that day--i was five, afterall--but i do remember watching the explosion on television and talking to my parents about what had happened. but i remember knowing that something like that had never happened before and hoping that it would never happen again.
when i discovered that it was columbia that had exploded this time, i instantly realized that i had seen columbia in person--back in junior high when my family vacationed in florida. my brother, who had been a huge nascar fan, was being treated to a trip to the daytona 500 by my father. since mom and i were letting the men of the family be all macho-like and watch cars race around a circle track (can you tell i've never been a nascar fan myself?), we decided to spend the day at the kennedy space center. so we drove down, took a tour and, as luck would have it, were able to see a shuttle on the launch pad, as it would be taking off on a space mission two days later. the shuttle was columbia.
so i spent much of the afternoon watching the television coverage, then took a break from that to work out (but wound up watching the coverage while i cross-trained in the gym) and then ate dinner while watching the coverage...
7.25.2005
Spill it.
I'm a sucker for a meme and came across this at le petit hiboux (one of my favorite blog reads), so figured I'd do my own. A random snapshot of what's in my purse on a given day. Click on the picture, which will take you to Flickr and the notes that explain each item. The only thing missing? The cellphone used to take the picture.
People, please. Do not pull this shit as I'm getting everything set to go to New York at the end of the week.
On a somewhat related, terrorism-free (that I know of) front, the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly focuses on "Mr. A-Z" for its lead music review. C+, if my memory serves me correctly (it has yet to go up on the EW site). The critic basically thinks Jason's too impressed with his wordsmithing, so he writes an incredibly clever review that (unintentionally? I can't be sure) collects J's quips and barbs and fires them right back at him.
My personal favorite is in response to the chorus on "Plane," to which he responds something like this (and I'm paraphrasing here): If the plane goes down, Jason, you're going to be screaming like a little girl, just like the rest of us.
From the perspective of pro-album people, it's a bad - as in unfavorable - review. But I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and my critic soul gave the author, Chris Willman, a very enthusiastic two thumbs up. It's not often that I'll burst into laughter - numerous times - while reading a music review. But this one was quite hilarious.
It'll be interesting to see what the people on RKOP will say, however, as any review that does not say how amazing/gifted/insightful (select all that apply) J is is immediately written off as "mean," "harsh" or "stupid."
My own personal take on the album? Still feeling it out (thank you, VH1, for the early listening opportunity), but I'm more inclined to agree with Mr. Willman at this point. But I'll wait until I actually have the album in my stereo to make up my mind for sure.
Otherwise? I enjoyed a self-imposed exile from most of the world this weekend. With an empty flat and a busy couple of weeks ahead, I relaxed. Slept without setting the alarm, cleaned and messed up the apartment, watched some movies, went running and the like. "Harry Potter" was finished Friday night, with portions reread on Saturday. For those yet to read it, fear not - I'll not give away spoilers. But I can say that I enjoyed it.
And finally. I dreamt last night that I ran into an ex-boyfriend I haven't seen in...what, almost four years? We had an enjoyable, if not slightly awkward short catch-up session. After walking away, I ran into a group of other acquaintances from those college days gone by and we made our way into a coffeeshop to sit and sip and speak. During said conversation, one remarked on how excited she was to attend E's wedding this weekend. I did a doubletake and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, adding "He saw you and he didn't even mention it to you? That's funny, it's being held over at (insert name of nearby church)."
The bizarre part was that I was really upset. Not necessarily that he was getting married, but that he didn't mention it to me when I asked, "So how are you? What's been going on?"
On a somewhat related, terrorism-free (that I know of) front, the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly focuses on "Mr. A-Z" for its lead music review. C+, if my memory serves me correctly (it has yet to go up on the EW site). The critic basically thinks Jason's too impressed with his wordsmithing, so he writes an incredibly clever review that (unintentionally? I can't be sure) collects J's quips and barbs and fires them right back at him.
My personal favorite is in response to the chorus on "Plane," to which he responds something like this (and I'm paraphrasing here): If the plane goes down, Jason, you're going to be screaming like a little girl, just like the rest of us.
From the perspective of pro-album people, it's a bad - as in unfavorable - review. But I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and my critic soul gave the author, Chris Willman, a very enthusiastic two thumbs up. It's not often that I'll burst into laughter - numerous times - while reading a music review. But this one was quite hilarious.
It'll be interesting to see what the people on RKOP will say, however, as any review that does not say how amazing/gifted/insightful (select all that apply) J is is immediately written off as "mean," "harsh" or "stupid."
My own personal take on the album? Still feeling it out (thank you, VH1, for the early listening opportunity), but I'm more inclined to agree with Mr. Willman at this point. But I'll wait until I actually have the album in my stereo to make up my mind for sure.
Otherwise? I enjoyed a self-imposed exile from most of the world this weekend. With an empty flat and a busy couple of weeks ahead, I relaxed. Slept without setting the alarm, cleaned and messed up the apartment, watched some movies, went running and the like. "Harry Potter" was finished Friday night, with portions reread on Saturday. For those yet to read it, fear not - I'll not give away spoilers. But I can say that I enjoyed it.
And finally. I dreamt last night that I ran into an ex-boyfriend I haven't seen in...what, almost four years? We had an enjoyable, if not slightly awkward short catch-up session. After walking away, I ran into a group of other acquaintances from those college days gone by and we made our way into a coffeeshop to sit and sip and speak. During said conversation, one remarked on how excited she was to attend E's wedding this weekend. I did a doubletake and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, adding "He saw you and he didn't even mention it to you? That's funny, it's being held over at (insert name of nearby church)."
The bizarre part was that I was really upset. Not necessarily that he was getting married, but that he didn't mention it to me when I asked, "So how are you? What's been going on?"
7.22.2005
"There's a storm comin' through and it's going to be a good one."
We were playing our own style of telephone, warning each other of the darkening skies outside. "Looks like it's going to rain" turned into "It's going to rain" into "It's about to rain" into "Big storm about to unleash havoc on powerlines, hills and streets everywhere."
Fine, it was actually just "Be sure your car windows are rolled up." But if you read between the lines, the predictions for calamity were definitely implied.
By the time the warnings reached me, thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance, even through the walls and floors of my building. Everyone else hunkered down in their seats while I grabbed my bag and headed to the door. I wanted to see if I could catch a few moments outside before the sky opened up.
I love the strange light and feel to the outdoors as a thunderstorm rolls in. Familiar environments take on a different sheen - as if bathed in flourescent lighting - and the sky visibly struggles between light and dark. Clouds above move faster, less defined in their shapes. The air, still humid, tries to grab at your skin before the rain-leading breeze tears it away.
And then there's the thunder, alternating between rumbles and cracks, forming an ever-quickening tempo that sends pedestrians scurrying for cover. Apartment, shop, restaurant, car - it doesn't matter where people wind up as long as it is Out of the Rain. The sound tries to convince everyone that it is menacing, intimidating - I wind up doing my best to call it's bluff. The lightning is what one looks out for. The thunder is the powerless lackey behind the lightning, trying to bully everyone else.
I walked across the street and around the corner, passing two acquaintances walking quickly in the other direction. They gave quick smiles and one looked confused to see me walking away from what apparently should have been my destination.
"Better hurry, you don't want to get caught out here in the rain, right?"
I shrugged. "I'll make it. But yeah, this storm looks like it's going to be a good one."
---------
In other, related news. I hate to seem as if I'm trying to spoil everyone else's weekend, but part of me is hoping this weather continues through the weekend. I had to put on my jacket this afternoon because the temperature dipped below 70 and enjoyed the sensation of actually feeling a chill in the air.
Besides, there's nothing like rainy skies and perhaps a little thunder to serve as a perfect backdrop for my weekend-long hot date with a 16-year-old wizard.
You know what I'm talking about. Rawr!
We were playing our own style of telephone, warning each other of the darkening skies outside. "Looks like it's going to rain" turned into "It's going to rain" into "It's about to rain" into "Big storm about to unleash havoc on powerlines, hills and streets everywhere."
Fine, it was actually just "Be sure your car windows are rolled up." But if you read between the lines, the predictions for calamity were definitely implied.
By the time the warnings reached me, thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance, even through the walls and floors of my building. Everyone else hunkered down in their seats while I grabbed my bag and headed to the door. I wanted to see if I could catch a few moments outside before the sky opened up.
I love the strange light and feel to the outdoors as a thunderstorm rolls in. Familiar environments take on a different sheen - as if bathed in flourescent lighting - and the sky visibly struggles between light and dark. Clouds above move faster, less defined in their shapes. The air, still humid, tries to grab at your skin before the rain-leading breeze tears it away.
And then there's the thunder, alternating between rumbles and cracks, forming an ever-quickening tempo that sends pedestrians scurrying for cover. Apartment, shop, restaurant, car - it doesn't matter where people wind up as long as it is Out of the Rain. The sound tries to convince everyone that it is menacing, intimidating - I wind up doing my best to call it's bluff. The lightning is what one looks out for. The thunder is the powerless lackey behind the lightning, trying to bully everyone else.
I walked across the street and around the corner, passing two acquaintances walking quickly in the other direction. They gave quick smiles and one looked confused to see me walking away from what apparently should have been my destination.
"Better hurry, you don't want to get caught out here in the rain, right?"
I shrugged. "I'll make it. But yeah, this storm looks like it's going to be a good one."
---------
In other, related news. I hate to seem as if I'm trying to spoil everyone else's weekend, but part of me is hoping this weather continues through the weekend. I had to put on my jacket this afternoon because the temperature dipped below 70 and enjoyed the sensation of actually feeling a chill in the air.
Besides, there's nothing like rainy skies and perhaps a little thunder to serve as a perfect backdrop for my weekend-long hot date with a 16-year-old wizard.
You know what I'm talking about. Rawr!
I pulled into the driveway and noticed a slip of salmon-colored paper sticking crookedly out of the mailbox. I stopped the car, hopped out of the car and grabbed at it.
Amazon! Delivery! My name and address, written in block letters.
"I didn't want to leave it on the back porch, didn't know if it would be safe." Retrieve package: 8 a.m. Friday at the post office.
There was no problem leaving my digital camera out by the back door - in snowy conditions, no less - but my neighborhood postal worker didn't know if HARRY POTTER would be safe in the same spot? I had to wait until the next morning to pick it up? I couldn't start reading tonight?
I seethed with anger. I seethed my way through the punk show. I seethed my way through flipping through TV channels. I seethed my way through a phone conversation with K - well, when I wasn't busy laughing, that is. And I seethed my way through last night, when I tossed and turned all night (I attribute this lack of sleep to unknown factors, but certainly not the HP void).
Yet I was still smiling brightly at the post office this morning as the package was placed in my hands.
"Thank you so much," I said, looking down at the brown cardboard. "I really appreciate it!"
----------
In other news. I'm exhausted just thinking about what approaches (ever so delightfully) quickly. Two weeks from now (well, two weeks from tonight, anyway), I will have already returned from Manhattan mayhem, traveled to Montreal for Coldplay, returned to Vermont and traveled to Boston for the Ben/Rufus sandwich tour date.
This might just kill me. Or be fantastic. Not quite sure which.
Amazon! Delivery! My name and address, written in block letters.
"I didn't want to leave it on the back porch, didn't know if it would be safe." Retrieve package: 8 a.m. Friday at the post office.
There was no problem leaving my digital camera out by the back door - in snowy conditions, no less - but my neighborhood postal worker didn't know if HARRY POTTER would be safe in the same spot? I had to wait until the next morning to pick it up? I couldn't start reading tonight?
I seethed with anger. I seethed my way through the punk show. I seethed my way through flipping through TV channels. I seethed my way through a phone conversation with K - well, when I wasn't busy laughing, that is. And I seethed my way through last night, when I tossed and turned all night (I attribute this lack of sleep to unknown factors, but certainly not the HP void).
Yet I was still smiling brightly at the post office this morning as the package was placed in my hands.
"Thank you so much," I said, looking down at the brown cardboard. "I really appreciate it!"
----------
In other news. I'm exhausted just thinking about what approaches (ever so delightfully) quickly. Two weeks from now (well, two weeks from tonight, anyway), I will have already returned from Manhattan mayhem, traveled to Montreal for Coldplay, returned to Vermont and traveled to Boston for the Ben/Rufus sandwich tour date.
This might just kill me. Or be fantastic. Not quite sure which.
7.21.2005
Damn The Man - oh wait...
My brother is a punk. Punk rocker, punk lifestyle, punk, punk, punk. The first ventures into The Offspring developed into NoFX, Rancid, The Vandals and then the various subcultures and genres I only knew from his energetic dispatches to me about the scene.
I forayed a bit into the poppier of the punk - went to Warped Tours, hit up a few earlier shows - but I was more of a ska kind of girl at that point. And as he went off into more obscure bands and scenes, I discovered my equally underground and addictive world of singer-songwriters.
We often fall into discussions talking about particular musicians or bands in our respective areas of relative expertise, and while doing so can make it feel as if we each know precisely what it's like to sit or stand in the venues, taking in the sounds. It's one of my favorite aspects about our relationship - you know, beyond the whole same blood thing.
He has been in various bands for years now, and I've had a chance to attend an almost embarrassingly low number of performances. So when the opportunity arises to be able to make a show, I jump for the chance to show my support. Which is why I found myself back at 242 (for the first non-professional time since, I believe, the ska days of early college) this evening. His band was part of a lineup, he was in Vermont for a rare appearance (which is why one might note almost all of the recaps of brother-sister misadventures involve me in Boston), and I was ready to be there.
This requires, however, me to step significantly out of my comfort zone. There's only so much an acoustic-y kind of girl can do to blend into a punk crowd, so I put on my black shirt and jeans and prepared to get a couple of surprised looks. In fact, the people taking money at the door gave me a surprised expression as I approached and handed over my cash.
Fortunately, some mothers were around wearing mom clothes that stood out far more than my sister wear. And those at the show were pretty laidback and cool, particularly as T introduced me as his sister. That apparently brought with it a certain level of cred.
I stood with T through the first two sets, quickly thrust back into memories of past shows and past sweaty crowds. I remembered how much easier it was to enjoy the music when I already knew the words, but smiled upon seeing how into it the audience was.
And how polite they were to those mothers.
T's band was the best of the three I saw - and I say that without sistery bias. They had the most lyricism, most musicality, and T by far had the most stage presence. He prowled around the floor stage, grabbed people to sing along with and otherwise delivered, despite being exhausted before the show.
But the thing that I thought of most during the show? I used to be one of the Question Authority types. I still am to some degree, but now spend my time thinking of politics in the two- or perhaps three-party perspective. What can be done within the system and to what extent one goes outside the system. But do I go to protests? Do I write my letters or make my calls? Do I embrace a cause strongly enough to write or sing about it to spread the word?
No. I settled into acceptance and the refined process of discussion, courteous rage against the system.
Somehow it felt, as I stood among a group of people passionate about music, causes and a culture, that I was The Man.
Unsettled about the notion, I returned to focusing on T as he ran across the stage.
I forayed a bit into the poppier of the punk - went to Warped Tours, hit up a few earlier shows - but I was more of a ska kind of girl at that point. And as he went off into more obscure bands and scenes, I discovered my equally underground and addictive world of singer-songwriters.
We often fall into discussions talking about particular musicians or bands in our respective areas of relative expertise, and while doing so can make it feel as if we each know precisely what it's like to sit or stand in the venues, taking in the sounds. It's one of my favorite aspects about our relationship - you know, beyond the whole same blood thing.
He has been in various bands for years now, and I've had a chance to attend an almost embarrassingly low number of performances. So when the opportunity arises to be able to make a show, I jump for the chance to show my support. Which is why I found myself back at 242 (for the first non-professional time since, I believe, the ska days of early college) this evening. His band was part of a lineup, he was in Vermont for a rare appearance (which is why one might note almost all of the recaps of brother-sister misadventures involve me in Boston), and I was ready to be there.
This requires, however, me to step significantly out of my comfort zone. There's only so much an acoustic-y kind of girl can do to blend into a punk crowd, so I put on my black shirt and jeans and prepared to get a couple of surprised looks. In fact, the people taking money at the door gave me a surprised expression as I approached and handed over my cash.
Fortunately, some mothers were around wearing mom clothes that stood out far more than my sister wear. And those at the show were pretty laidback and cool, particularly as T introduced me as his sister. That apparently brought with it a certain level of cred.
I stood with T through the first two sets, quickly thrust back into memories of past shows and past sweaty crowds. I remembered how much easier it was to enjoy the music when I already knew the words, but smiled upon seeing how into it the audience was.
And how polite they were to those mothers.
T's band was the best of the three I saw - and I say that without sistery bias. They had the most lyricism, most musicality, and T by far had the most stage presence. He prowled around the floor stage, grabbed people to sing along with and otherwise delivered, despite being exhausted before the show.
But the thing that I thought of most during the show? I used to be one of the Question Authority types. I still am to some degree, but now spend my time thinking of politics in the two- or perhaps three-party perspective. What can be done within the system and to what extent one goes outside the system. But do I go to protests? Do I write my letters or make my calls? Do I embrace a cause strongly enough to write or sing about it to spread the word?
No. I settled into acceptance and the refined process of discussion, courteous rage against the system.
Somehow it felt, as I stood among a group of people passionate about music, causes and a culture, that I was The Man.
Unsettled about the notion, I returned to focusing on T as he ran across the stage.
"I'm a ghetto blaster..."
OR Why I Trilled Upon Receiving a Package From Los Angeles
Question of the day:
Upon the acquisition of one Bushwalla's "Ghetto Blaster" four track, how many times will one V listen to the title track? The album was waiting in my mailbox upon my brief stop at home late yesterday afternoon, and I've had it in the car stereo ever since.
"Ghetto Blaster" and "Self-Depricating Hip Hop" have already become addicting. Therefore rendering the two albums I've been listening to most as of late (Elliott Smith's "Figure 8" and the Jay-Z/Linkin Park collaboration - how about that for an eclectic mix?) temporarily useless to me.
It was a double music coup kind of day, as I also wound up with a copy of Gregory Douglass' latest. I've yet to give it a listen (for obvious reasons), but I figure I'll give it a shot - see if it helps me figure out why GD has yet to click with my usually-singer-songwriter-friendly self.
Question of the day:
Upon the acquisition of one Bushwalla's "Ghetto Blaster" four track, how many times will one V listen to the title track? The album was waiting in my mailbox upon my brief stop at home late yesterday afternoon, and I've had it in the car stereo ever since.
"Ghetto Blaster" and "Self-Depricating Hip Hop" have already become addicting. Therefore rendering the two albums I've been listening to most as of late (Elliott Smith's "Figure 8" and the Jay-Z/Linkin Park collaboration - how about that for an eclectic mix?) temporarily useless to me.
It was a double music coup kind of day, as I also wound up with a copy of Gregory Douglass' latest. I've yet to give it a listen (for obvious reasons), but I figure I'll give it a shot - see if it helps me figure out why GD has yet to click with my usually-singer-songwriter-friendly self.
7.20.2005
Risky Business
When my flatmates return from their excursion to the mid-Atlantic, I know I'm likely to jump up from wherever I'm sitting and envelop them in hugs. It's going to be a bizarre week, as I'll be fully entrenched in Save for NY mode (i.e. I'm not likely to have a life so I can try to have too much of one), running (I've resumed taking on the world outdoors over the last several days. I still prefer indoors and treadmills, but a change of pace - er, view - can be nice. And I'm finally enjoying the endorphin rush!).
And I'm going to be busy thinking (and likely writing to myself) about How Much Fun That Weekend Will Be.
Which means it's probably a good thing I'm home alone. I know my flatmates either like me enough or love me (depending on which one one is thinking of), but I'm sure they'd be ready to send me off to the city signficantly earlier than I intend to go.
It felt strange, being at my apartment by myself last night. I found it too quiet and turned the television up louder than I normally would have. I played the new album at 11 p.m., just loud enough to keep me aware but quiet enough to ensure no complaints from the flat upstairs. I left my laundry in the dryer and went to sleep because I knew no one else would need the machine and I wasn't, therefore, bound to wait for the cycle to finish. But I almost missed the possibility of hearing someone ask through the door, "Hey, is that your stuff that's been sitting in there for over an hour?"
Having lived with roommates and having lived alone, I much more enjoy co-habitation. Despite the occasional bitten-back gripes that can arise when sharing space with others (She didn't wash the pot out right away, he left the seat up, she doesn't erase her DVRed recordings quickly enough), I'll happily take them over the stircrazy sense that comes with living strictly with oneself. Even hearing the faint chuckle in a phone conversation down the hall makes me feel better. I don't strictly have to entertain myself.
I lived on my own for the first five months after returning to Burlington. They were tense - I was waiting to get a full-time job, I was still in the "recovery" phase and I was adapting to a city I knew so well as a student, but felt completely foreign to me as a professional. I didn't know anyone, I didn't know what I was doing and I had plenty of time to stew over everything as I sat in my flat.
Independence be damned. I wanted someone to make me smile.
I thought of those evenings last night, as I sat on the same, pineapple-covered couch and looked at a different-colored wall in an entirely different place. I felt better being here and knowing that my flatmates would return with stories and dispatches from their excursions.
But it was fun, thinking that I have a few days to be able to catch up on the laundry. And, if I feel so inclined, slide across the hardwood floor in socks, sunglasses and a button-down.
And I'm going to be busy thinking (and likely writing to myself) about How Much Fun That Weekend Will Be.
Which means it's probably a good thing I'm home alone. I know my flatmates either like me enough or love me (depending on which one one is thinking of), but I'm sure they'd be ready to send me off to the city signficantly earlier than I intend to go.
It felt strange, being at my apartment by myself last night. I found it too quiet and turned the television up louder than I normally would have. I played the new album at 11 p.m., just loud enough to keep me aware but quiet enough to ensure no complaints from the flat upstairs. I left my laundry in the dryer and went to sleep because I knew no one else would need the machine and I wasn't, therefore, bound to wait for the cycle to finish. But I almost missed the possibility of hearing someone ask through the door, "Hey, is that your stuff that's been sitting in there for over an hour?"
Having lived with roommates and having lived alone, I much more enjoy co-habitation. Despite the occasional bitten-back gripes that can arise when sharing space with others (She didn't wash the pot out right away, he left the seat up, she doesn't erase her DVRed recordings quickly enough), I'll happily take them over the stircrazy sense that comes with living strictly with oneself. Even hearing the faint chuckle in a phone conversation down the hall makes me feel better. I don't strictly have to entertain myself.
I lived on my own for the first five months after returning to Burlington. They were tense - I was waiting to get a full-time job, I was still in the "recovery" phase and I was adapting to a city I knew so well as a student, but felt completely foreign to me as a professional. I didn't know anyone, I didn't know what I was doing and I had plenty of time to stew over everything as I sat in my flat.
Independence be damned. I wanted someone to make me smile.
I thought of those evenings last night, as I sat on the same, pineapple-covered couch and looked at a different-colored wall in an entirely different place. I felt better being here and knowing that my flatmates would return with stories and dispatches from their excursions.
But it was fun, thinking that I have a few days to be able to catch up on the laundry. And, if I feel so inclined, slide across the hardwood floor in socks, sunglasses and a button-down.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
