Blondes do have more fun.

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

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

My favorite player. Kevin Millar, ladies and gentlemen.

(Photo from ESPN.com)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I stepped outside into the haze.

The First Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Me Then:

Everything turns out pretty OK in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Me Now

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

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

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

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

No more, please.

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

I know. I didn't realize it either.

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

Who knew it was that easy?

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

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

Guster is for lovers.

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

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

THUNDERGOD IS COMING BACK TO BURLINGTON! YIPPEEEEE!

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

We're getting two...

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

It will be great to have Guster back in town.

I've spent much of the morning trying to get back in touch with my 10-year-old self.

I was surprised - and a little disappointed - that the plain white envelope had been set aside by my parents on Christmas morning. They handed it to me after I'd opened the cool presents, and I thought of it more as an afterthought than anything else. What amazingly awesome thing would fit into a little envelope?

I was confused when I opened it to find a New Kids on the Block sticker. I screamed when my parents told me what it signified.

My uncle was stationed at that point in Newport News, Virigina, and he was living on base with my aunt and two cousins - who were three and one years older than I was. NKOTB was playing in Richmond in March. They had bought me a ticket. All that stood between me and Joe (I refused to call him Joey or Joey Joe) McIntyre was a few months and about 600 miles.

When the appropriate amount of time crept by, my father and I climbed into the car and embarked on the trip. I could have slept and made the trip pass by faster, but I instead stared out the window at the scenes changing around me. The ride to Massachusetts was easy by this point, but this was four Massachusetts trips wrapped up into one. Twelve hours. And, because I didn't know at that point how tours worked, I wanted to be sure I could see the New Kids tour bus, should it amble by us on the highway.

A truck driver spotted on the Garden State Parkway traveled the same route into Virginia, and he began to wave to me each time he would see my inquisitive face peeking out the window. I got him to lay on the horn as we made our circut around D.C., and my dad laughed as I let off a peal of laughter.

Nina, Nikki and I were uncontrollable bundles of jitters the day of the show, and the adults tried to calm us with a trip to the mall. It might have worked, had we not discovered a huge collection of New Kids shirts on display at one of the stores. My father bought me a Joe shirt in all of its oversized glory - Joe's slightly blurred black and white face accented by squiggles of neon blue and pink. Ah, 1990 style. He asked if I was going to wear it to the show, and I very seriously replied that I would not. I was not going to show favortism against the other four; I was going to wear the shirt my grandfather had given me for Christmas.

I don't remember much about the trip to the actual show, although I did win the respect of those standing in line around me after I explained that I was from Vermont. I was the ultimate Blockhead - a nickname that amuses me all the more now. Those with four-hour return trips awaiting them glowered at me. I practically strutted into the venue.

I did not cry, although I wanted to, as we heard the "Let's give it up for the five hardest working kids in show biz...the N-N-N-New Kids oooooooooooon the Block!" The driving beat for "My Favorite Girl" kicked in and I was shouting, singing and dancing for a good solid two hours. I remember the sparkly jackets during "This One's For the Children," Joe's leather jacket with white music notes, the shouts of "Hey, hey, I feel alright, one time..." and Joe trying to belt out "Please Don't Go Girl" post-voice change.

I remember walking out with ringing ears and the biggest smile on my face I'd ever had; the drive back the next day was peppered with stories that began with, "And then Joe did THE CRAZIEST THING...And Donnie was INSANE...And Danny was BREAKDANCING during..."

I never entertained the notion that such stories would not leave someone absolutely amazed.

Which is why, although I know tonight's performer won't be able to come even remotely close to the experience I had courtesy of five guys from Boston, I'm ready for the post-show stories that will bubble out of my 12-year-old cousin this evening. I know she's riding with my parents (saints that they are to transport a pre-teen on such a venture) on the highway right now, probably looking out the window, willing for the time to pass by faster.

Because she's meeting up with my flatmate and I, and then we're going to see Clay (I won't add the usual expletive today) Aiken tonight. It's her first concert. I'm bringing my camera. Years from now, she'll laugh when she sees photos of her 12-year-old self, raptly singing along.

In Retrospect

I was trying to keep my brave face on, although everything was making me cry.

I'd gotten my new driver's license, a sharp new pair of glasses and a haircut. Most of my things were packed, although I would only be bringing four suitcases with me upon leaving. The rest would arrive when my family made the 10-hour car ride a few weeks later.

I'd done as much as I could to prepare for greeting new faces and sights; I was to spend the last couple of days saying goodbye to that which was familiar.

I spent the 28th laughing and ignoring the ticking clock. I was in Massachusetts, spending a day or two with M and her family - my adopted second family. We lounged about and chatted; they bolstered my apparently shaky confidence with assurances that I was going to have an amazing experience in the new city.

I tried to believe them. I was excited, to be sure, but scared to death. That I was in the Boston area - the runner-up in the "Where Is V Going To Start Out" pageant - made it easier and harder at the same time. I knew I wanted to be there ultimately - but would I discover later that I'd made the wrong decision, that I was supposed to be there now?

M and I drove to Cambridge in the evening, parking near the blue house that held inside it a venue I'd never been to before. I grinned upon seeing strong wooden beams and gleaming floorboards when we walked in. A litte dinner downstairs, then we climbed up the stairs to the performance space above. I felt as if I had stepped into some unknown barn as I looked up to the bare rafters and stepped across the wooden floor.

The crowd was larger than the other performance I'd attended, and it felt strange to have to jostle for a good vantage point. The audience members around me surprised me as they sang along to nearly ever song - I was happy to join in. The bright, excited smiles looking back at us from the stage made me realize how happy I was to be there. M laughed from her spot next to me; it was the perfect way to prepare for the new venture. I was going out with a song and a smile.

We waited when the show ended. I was hugged, we chatted and I tried to downplay the nervousness that I'd been able to forget for a couple of hours. It was starting to creep back in. I was introduced to several people and focused instead on keeping a polite, bright smile on my face.

I tried to blink back tears as we left. It was partly because I had no idea when I would again see someone I had just begun to get to know, but M knew the tears were less for him than for the process I was beginning to undertake.

That was my first official goodbye. And the hardest ones were still to come, and there would be a series of them within the following 24 hours. It had finally begun to hit me.

From back then:

and the colors are much brighter now
it's like they really want to tell the truth
we give our testimony to the end of the summer
it's the end of the summer,
you can spin the light to gold.
- dar williams (thanks beth)

Yin & Yang

The college kids have come back, so Burlington has been flooded by 12,000 youngsters looking for something - and someone - to do. I specifically avoided many of the places I've enjoyed during the brief summer respite. The first college weekend is craziness, and I am willing to give up my haunts for a short period of time. But next weekend? Oh, game on.

So I took to the places kids either don't know of or - much to my chagrin - the places they can't afford.

Not that I can, either, but I can fake it for the sake of sipping a Saturday night cocktail with friends in relative peace.

I was at such a place this evening, drinking a Stoli Raz and Sprite (a drink that brings back interesting college memories of my own, oddly enough) when an acquaintance of my friend switched subjects, unleashing one of the most unexpected, brilliant monologues I've ever heard. Even trying to recapture it won't do it justice.

We forget that we're adults, that we have control over our destinies. There's fear, there's skepticism, there's a sense that we're not going to be able to accomplish what we want to do, so we don't even try. It's too late, we say. But know what? Fuck that. It's never too fucking late. The majority of the people who make it in whatever they want to do? They didn't start out on this track and just keep shooting up. They realized that whatever they were doing wasn't something that satisfied them. They decided to turn things around and follow their passion. They worked. And they did it. And it doesn't matter if you're 28. 32. 40. Fuck it, if someone's 80 and they want to do it, they can do it. It's your mindset. It's not some fucking god-given right to be a success. You make your destiny. Not anyone else. And it's NEVER too late. There are NEVER factors beyond your control. Take those fucking factors and turn them around in your favor. And if they're tough, you work them until you beat them. And then you join the ranks of those who have made it. And you appreciate it. Seriously.

I proposed a toast, and the three of us clinked our glasses with determined gusto. That first sip afterwards - it tasted divine.
-----------
I was still thinking about what he said as I made the walk home. Up Church, over to Pearl, crossing the various side streets until I would ultimately reach my little domesticated spot. I tried to ignore the college kiddies running about with glee.

Hey, I remember how it was to return to Burlington ready to take on the classes, the parties and - by partway through senior year - the bars. Can't fault them for what I thought of doing myself, right?

Which is why we'd played along with the guys who tried telling us that the bar to which we were walking had closed. "Oh really? I mean, it does look a little dark, but the music sounds loud, did they forget to turn off the PA? Yeah, we might be here for a bit. Mmmmhmmm..."

So, as I made my way home, I ignored the first "Hey, beautiful. How you doin?"

I walked right past the "Hey, sexy thang."

I only rolled my eyes at the driveby, "Hiiiiiii there, little lady."

But I have to admit that I did burst into laughter after walking past a porch full of (really young-looking) guys, the most brazen of whom actually hooted. Like he was calling to a golden retriever. "Hooo! Baby girl! You! The one walking by! Hoooo!"

Honey.
That wouldn't have even worked on me when I was a co-ed.
And it won't get me to go out and buy you beer.
Sorry, sweetie.

It felt good, if not a little strange, to realize that I was happy to be a grownup.
-----------
Hospital update: My brother is fine. Well, it turns out that he does have strep, so it was good that he went to get it checked out. But he has antibiotics and has assured me that he's going to rest up and take care of himself so he's back and healthy as quickly as possible.

He told me he'd made a stop at the store earlier today, where he picked up necessary items for a low-key recovery night.

Ginger Ale.
Soft bread.
And the Luden's wild cherry cough drops.

Love it.
-----------
And finally, in news I would include (or not include) in a more witty, charismatic manner had I not partaken in previously mentioned cocktails, I had a fabulous day.

- Margaritas in the middle of the afternoon? Why not? It was hot out and there was an open outdoor table. Lovely.

- I partook in something in which I hadn't partaken in about five years. Memories of the Playhouse summer flooded back.

- My toes are now cute, adorable and accented with a lovely shade of corally orange. Pedicures are fun. Massage chairs are heavenly, although the kneeding conducted electronically on my back brought back memories of theater festival massages. A has finally been bumped down to the second hardest massage I've ever received. My birthday is in early November. Feel free to start pooling together funds to buy me a massage chair for a gift.

- I finally bought myself a copy of my second favorite book. If the weather forecasts for tomorrow are accurrate, "East of Eden" will be devoured (again) from a prime spot in the sunporch tomorrow (along with the latest issue of "Under the Radar"). Orange toes and Steinbeck? Life's pretty damn grand.

The Waiting Room

My brother is on his way to the emergency room.

I made him promise me that he would call me to keep me posted on what was going on. Then I made him put his girlfriend on the phone so she would promise to call me and keep me posted.

So now I sit and wait.

It's nothing super serious. He thinks he might have strep throat, and he spent the better part of an hour on the phone with me, each of us Googling symptoms and images of sore throats.

Love is willingly looking at images of throats that resemble something out of a "Friday the Thirteenth" movie. Mom and Dad apparently did something right with this whole parenting thing.

He wasn't sure whether to get it checked out. He was an accident-prone kid growing up, so he's been in emergency rooms before. But those were from cuts or concussions sustained playing in ball games. Not something with an unclear diagnosis. He didn't know whether this was strep. He, like I, never had any sore throats Luden's Wild Cherry coughdrops couldn't cure.

And as for his supposedly older and wiser sister? The only time I've been in a hospital since birth has been to visit ill relatives, console a friend who had been in a car accident and to take a single tai chi class. I try to steer clear of the medicine house, and it has politely steered clear of me.

So we were trying to figure out what was going on. He's in Massachusetts; I clearly am not. So I listened to cell-phone transmitted descriptions of the symptoms and tried matching them up against whatever IDoctor site I could find.

Finally, I told him I think he should have it checked out. "Better to know one way or the other so you can deal accordingly. And if it is strep, if the rapid test comes back positive, they can get you on drugs and you'll start to feel better. Drugs are good."

My brother is straight edge. But he agreed with me on this one.

So now he's on the way to the hospital. And I'm letting my cell phone charge so I can take the late night calls. I already called my mother (who had been worrying about him all day) to let her know what was going on. Because otherwise, she would have stayed up all night.

I made her promise me that she would go to sleep. I made her promise me that she wouldn't worry if she didn't hear from me, because I was going to call her before she left the house at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I made her promise that she wouldn't try calling him while he was getting checked out.

She promised on all counts, and then she thanked me. For what, I'm not sure. For being a bossy bitch?

As I prepared to hang up, she chuckled sleepily into the phone.

"It's fun, isn't it?"

"Isn't what?" I asked.

"Being a parent."

I had to laugh. I really was in Mom Mode.

"Oh yes. Tons of fun. Now go to sleep, honey."

Florez, a pretty incredible-sounding band out of Nashville, won the Battle for the Boat over at Icehouse.

The nominations for the Boston Music Awards came out today (or, at least, were in the newspapers today), and Averi earned four nominations. Tying with the Dropkick Murphys for the second highest total, one behind Ray LaMontagne.

Looking over the nominations, I'm psyched. A lot of talented and deserving people/bands earned nods...although it makes for some pretty strong competition in several categories.

My thoughts on several of the categories (those in which I feel knowledgable):

Act of the Year: The Dresden Dolls, Dropkick Murphys, Fountains of Wayne, Howie Day, Godsmack, Pet Metheny and Ray LaMontagne.

Dresden Dolls will have a strong showing in the vote count, and Dropkick Murphys will be able to ride the city love and the Red Sox championship (when you provide the anthem for a monumental experience, that's going to count for something big). Howie Day has been simmering in the Boston scene for years now, and "Collide" has the possibility of affecting the hometown crowd much like "The Remedy" and "You & I Both" did for Jason Mraz at the SDMAs the last couple of years. But Ray should get it. Incredible backstory, amazing voice and I'm sure there are countless people still thinking, like myself, of the awe-inspiring (and I don't use that term lightly) experience at Paradise in January. Ray gets the award, I predict.

Album of the Year (Major): Trouble (Ray LaMontagne), Broken World (Lost City Angels), Joe Perry (Joe Perry), The Way Up (Pat Metheny), Hearts on Parade (American Hi-Fi), The Forgotten Arm (Aimee Mann).

No question. Trouble.

Local Album of the Year: Drawn to Revolving Doors (Averi), Time for Biting (The Dents), A Weakness for Spirits (Darkbuster), Kiss the Culprit (Emergency Music), All I Ever Wanted Was Tonight (Dear Leader).

I keep hearing about Dear Leader and Emergency Music. They might make a showing. But I predict Averi takes this one.

Outstanding Pop/Rock Band: Dropkick Murphys, Fountains of Wayne, Guster, Mission of Burma, Staind, Godsmack, The Click 5.

I adore Guster. But, symphony shows aside, they haven't done much this year to warrant attention. Meanwhile, Dropkick played on the dugout at Fenway Park during the Red Sox pre-playoff rally. "Tessie" was blasted from speakers across the country after the final out was recorded. I'm ignoring the amusement I find that they're considered Pop/Rock. The only competition they face comes in the form of the nattily-dressed boys from The Click 5, who have just exploded over the last couple of months. I think DKM takes it home, but I won't be surprised if we see skinny ties when the award is being accepted.

Male Vocalist of the Year: Aaron Lewis (Staind), Brian Fair (Shadows Fall), Clint Conley (Mission of Burma), Howie Day, Ray LaMontagne, Sully Erna (Godsmack).

Howie Day could get a sympathy nod here. If everyone's awarding everything else to Ray or DKM, perhaps they would want to give him a few votes in this category. But I doubt it. Ray should easily win this one.

Song of the Year: Tessie (Dropkick Murphys), 1,2,3 (Bill Janovitz & Crown Victoria), Collide (Howie Day), Leave (Jojo), Just a Girl (The Click 5), Trouble (Ray LaMontagne).

Johnny Damon might go all caveman on voters if they don't give Tessie the award. For the sake of all Bostonians (actual and honorary), DKM should get this one.

Local Song of the Year: Raging Red (Dear Leader), Here I Am (The Explosion), In Defense of Dorchester (The Street Dogs), A Simple Plan (The Information), God is Going to Get Sick of Me (Aberdeen City), The Razor (The Perceptionists), For Better or Worse (Averi).

Averi should take this one home - and I think the guys will.

Local Male Vocalist: Ad Frank, Brett Rosenberg, Chad Perrone (Averi), Jake Brennan, John Powhida (The Rudds), Mike Gent (The Gentlemen), Reverend Glasseye, Ron Ragona (Lost City Angels).

OK. Nomination folk. Big problem here. You haven't even nominated one of the Boston area's best male voices. Was it because he was busy traveling all over the country this year? Did you just happen to forget he's a Boston musician? Where is Ryan Montbleau? Yeah, Montbleau. The guy whose album, "Stages," you all really dug? Glaring omission. That said, I think Chad Perrone should win this one. With the success Averi has had, in particular over the last 18 months, and the word that is starting to spread through his solo work, his name comes out on top.

Live Act: Darkbuster, Fluttr Effect, Jake Brennan and the Confidence Men, Much and the Mires, Robby Roadsteamer, The Dents, The Dresden Dolls, The Slip.

People are starting to really buzz about Fluttr Effect. And many love The Dresden Dolls. I don't know of the others. Yet.

Local Female Vocalist: Amanda Palmer (Dresden Dolls), Andrea Gillis, Emily Grogan, Grace Potter, Jen D'Angora, Laurie Sargent, Monique Ortiz, Sarah Borges.

Grace Potter. I'll be shocked if she doesn't get this one.

New Local Act: Andrea Gillis, Cyanide Valentine, Furvis, Turpentine Brothers, The Click 5, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, The Mittens.

Who I'd like to see get it? Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Who I think will get it? The Click 5.

Local Rock/Pop Band: Apollo Sunshine, Averi, Dear Leader, Emergency Music, The Dents, The Gentlemen, The Information, Waltham.

Averi. They're headling Avalon. Enough said.

Punk Band: Darkbuster, Dropkick Murphys, Lost City Angels, The Explosion, The Streetdogs, The Unseen.

DKM could take this, but as far as I'm concerned, Boston's punk scene is one that certainly doesn't need to have a band nominated for Rock/Pop also nominated for Punk. According to that which I have heard from my Boston punk operatives (OK, fine. My brother), The Unseen should get this.

Male Singer/Songwriter: Bill Janovitz, Ellis Paul, Jake Brennan, Joe Pernice, Josh Ritter, Peter Mulvey, Ray LaMontagne.

Damn. Josh Ritter was more on people's minds last year - and I have a hunch he'll be back next year. He's good, but with Ray and Ellis in the list, he shouldn't even be a consideration. Ray will get it, but I'd like to know there was a strong Ellis showing.

Female Singer/Songwriter: Catie Curtis, Juliana Hatfield, Lori McKenna, Melissa Ferrick, Mieka Pauley, Paula Kelley, Sarah Borges.

It's not quite Mieka Pauley's time yet, but keep your eyes on her. Melissa Ferrick is a perrenial nominee, and deserving, but Catie Curtis deserves this.

Blues Act: Eli "Paperboy" Reed, James Montgomery, Johnny A, Monster Mike Welch, David Maxwell, Susan Tedeschi, Ronnie Earl.

Susan Tedeschi. Although some people should cast ballots for Monster Mike Welch. Just for the, ahem, name.

Local Producer: Dave Minehan, Matthew Ellard, Mike Denneen, Paul Koledrie, Scott Reibling, Tom Polce.

Reibling.

Make it two, please. AND PandaCam

I woke this morning to a phone call. My mother, calling to say well done. Hearing "yours was better" led the way to consciousness much better than an alarm would have.

(As I'd dozed my way through several rounds with the snooze button at this point.)

It was a good start to the day.

It continued when the phone rang again, as I was brushing my teeth. Similarly worded sentiments by a similarly thoughtful person. "Way to go!"

Another as I approached the parking garage. "Hey, look at you!"

And one more, the most unexpected of all, as I logged into my email. "Nicely done."

I was proud. I'd expected to do well, but there were moments of frazzled doubt - and I'm a perfectionist when it comes to these kinds of things. The relief that washed over me felt incredible. I was ready to meet up with friends for drinks and Mexican in the early evening.

I was going to celebrate.

I sit here now, tired and cantankerous. The weight settled back onto my shoulders, due to something I can't directly influence.

I feel like a well-weathered cog.

At least the first hopeful glass of the evening's frozen margaritas will be needed to bolster my spirits.

Hopefully the second pitcher will celebrate my successes of the day.
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In other news. J is in big trouble, as she got me hooked on the PandaCam.

The National Zoo offers the service, but I'm watching from Animal Planet's mirror and I have no idea why I am so enthralled. The mother panda and her baby. OK. On camera. Pretty simple stuff.

But you start watching - or, actually, I start watching. And they're asleep. So I keep the window open while I do everything else I need to do. And just as I start to click on something else...

THE PANDAS MOVED! OH THEY'RE SO CUTE! OH LOOK AT THE BABY AS THE MOTHER LOOKS LIKE SHE'S GOING TO ROLL OVER ON TOP OF IT! OOOOOOOOH!

Silly of me to watch? Yes. But have I closed that window yet?

Hell no, they just moved to the mother sitting on a rock.

Can't turn away now!

BWOC

You know it's scary when I want to start a post with the written equivalent of belting out John Mayer. "I wanna RUN through the halls of my HIGH school, I wanna scream at the TOP OF MY LUNGS..."

"She was a BWOC."

M peered at the yearbook photo and the cryptic senior memories printed below. References to varsity teams, the after-school job, AP classes, Shakespeare, concerts, old boyfriends, crushes and best friends.

I glanced at her sideways. "BWOC?"

She chuckled and looked back at the bright smile surrounded by a thick mane of long, pale hair. "You were a Big Woman On Campus, dear."

R laughed as my face reddened. Amazing how dynamic one's high school years can look through yearbook pages and school plaques. So what if I felt like a wallflower all four years? I looked accomplished in retrospect. Thank you, Father Time!

The lockers were a different color. The maroon had been replaced by an inexplicable shade of mint green. The principal noticed my subtle double take and laughingly apologized. The switch was made before his time, he explained. I snickered and pointed out the locker that held my books and (oh God) varsity jacket senior year.

The smell was exactly the same, and the marble floors cast the same quixotic reflections. You couldn't tell if the light bounced off the shiny walls onto the shiny floor or vice versa. A triangulated glow of muted white light.

The gymnasium was dark. ALmost intimidating - a realization that surprised me. The number of evenings and Saturdays spent sprinting across the floor, the pep rallies, graduation...hell, our championship banner hung on the wall and my name was engraved on the marble soccer plaque in the gym lobby. I still knew to keep to the sidelines when walking across the varnished wood floor. "No street shoes on the court!"

As I waited in the hallway, I looked at a stained-glass window over the front door. A mural depicting my National Honor Society advisor, whose death had surprised me a few years earlier. I looked at her etched face before turning to face the wall and the brass-and-wood plaques above the lockers. My brother's name was up there - I had to smile.

The pay phone had been moved, but the rest was as I remembered it. Smaller, though, which would have seemed impossible as a high schooler. Each of the rooms contained just what I remembered, even many of the same teachers. Grayer, comparatively smaller versions of the figures I alternately feared, loathed and adored as a student.

They remembered me - asked how my parents were, inquired about my brother. Teased me about the Red Sox, conversed with me in German. One pointed out drawings that a classmate (and my high school crush) had created sophomore year - he had kept them taped to the door to the chemical room ever since because he loved them so much. I remembered when he first mounted them there - then I realized it had been nearly a decade since that day. I made a mental note to email that old friend and share the anecdote. He'd get a kick out of it.

I knew this place well. Spending nearly every day of six teenage years will do that. But as I tried to remember what was important to me then, I realized just how much had changed. When teachers' eyes widened as I explained my involvement in theater during college, I remembered being 16 and wanting to join the theater club - but being too intimidated to do so. As M described my "beautiful long, blonde hair," I remembered tossing it just right so it would look its best for the senior year soccer team picture.

Getting a good picture for the yearbook was one of the most important things around. The yearbook photo. Beating out my class rival for the top soccer award senior year. Winning the state softball championship. Getting straight As and a good score on the AP English exam. Quoting Shakespeare with C as we walked through the hallways. Trading senior portraits with my classmates. Leaving my mark on my high school.

These were the things that were important.

I wasn't a BWOC, dear teacher.

I was one hell of a dork.

12:31 a.m.

It had been a bizarre day.

Disjointed connections between past and present, spliced with inquiries about the future. My head spun. I felt 17 again. 24 during fleeting moments. Old beyond my years.

I jotted down some quick paragraphs as I curled up on the couch, trying to make sense of the day's events. Mostly failing in my attempts. I pulled my sweater back on and stepped outside.

I looked up and realized the clouds had cleared. Stars stared down at me, clearer than they'd been for nights.

I sat on the porch, pulled the hood over my head and lay back against the wooden planks. I stared back at the stars. Closed my eyes. Listened to the crickets engage in their regular nocturnal chirping.

I decided not to think for awhile. Just looked, listened and felt when I felt so inclined.

Ha!

I think this may be one of the best flyers I've ever had sent my way.

And it'll be a great show - one I'm disappointed I'll have to miss.

Why the next few months may kill me.

(OR: How I Learned To Stop Caring and Love the Concert Season)

Sept. 9 - SK & the Sixers/Carbon Leaf - Vermont
Sept. 10 - Hotel Cafe Tour - Boston
Sept. 15 - Ryan Montbleau Band - Vermont
Sept. 23 - Averi (maybe?) - New Hampshire
Oct. 2 - Red Sox/Yankees - Boston
Oct. 6 - Mraz - Canada
Oct. 8 - David Gray - Boston
Oct. 9 - Mraz - Boston
Oct. 12 - Blues Traveler - Vermont
Oct. 19 - Nathanson - Boston
Oct. 20 - Nathanson - Boston
Oct. 22 - Montbleau - Boston

SCENE 1. EXT. M'S CAR - SATURDAY. NIGHT.

M and V sit in the front of a Jeep, lit only by the glow of the dashboard and the intermittent flash of a passing streetlight. M drives, V sits in the passenger seat. The windows next to each are cracked, with the wind tugging at the stray strands of hair beyond the control of hair elastics.

M: What I find so amazing about Bill Murray is that he became famous and established by being the crazy, outlandish character. Yet this resurgange features such deadpan, almost morose men. And he just nails it.

V: I never thought, growing up, that I'd be able to see a film with him as a serious character and not think of him as a SNL character. But you just lose yourself in what he's doing. He's just so damn good.

M: Mmmhmmm.

M pulls up to a traffic light. It turns red as they approach. A Mercedes SUV pulls up to V's right.

V: I'm glad you liked it better than "Lost in Translation." I still can't believe you didn't like that movie.

M: Sophia! Ugh!

V and M laugh, then quiet down. Each are quietly contemplating "Broken Flowers," the film they had just seen at the Art Deco-inspired movie theater in Brookline. Each individually become aware of the radio broadcast audible from the Mercedes. Neither look at the other car, but both listen.

TALK SHOW HOST: Now keep in mind that the technique for making this wine varies depending on the grape being used and the desire intensity of the flavor. Red grapes will require less time boiling in the water than their green counterparts. White grapes require the least in order to keep that crisp, fresh flavor.

The light turns green.

TALK SHOW HOST: Without the need to concern oneself with fermentation...

The Mercedes driver drives away. His profile is never visible, save a glimpse of arm against the neon orange dashboard lights visible as he moves ahead of the Jeep. M and V pause for a moment and turn to face each other. They pause. Then laugh.

M: It never fails. Whenever I go to a really good movie, there will be some moment during the drive after that feels like it came right out of the movie. That was it.

END SCENE

What Was In the Cards

"Make sure to pick out a word for the day," M said as we stood in line at the checkout counter. She had decided to buy several of the buttons we'd laughed over, and had just noticed the small box filled with foil stickers.

I reached in, making sure not to peek, and pulled out a slip of paper. It was gold, with black letters.

Repeat.

Repeat what, precisely? Repeat getting a tarot reading conducted by a woman who shared my first name and astrological sign? Repeat the order for the perfect iced latte I'd picked up on my way from Beverly to Quincy earlier that morning? Repeat listening to Matt Nathanson's "All Been Said Before" as I found a parking spot outside the shop?

What am I supposed to think about repeating? I was getting annoyed, looking at the word. Because if the morning's reading had been any indication, I thought I knew what it was suggesting I do.

Repeat looking like an absolute idiot.

And I wasn't particularly keen on the idea.

I had settled into a wooden chair about twenty minutes earlier, in a partitioned cubicle with shoulder-high walls and a screened door. The reader settled into her seat and handed me a deck of large, purple cards. She asked me to shuffle before she spread the cards out and instructed me to pick out 16 of them, placing one on top of the other in the center of the table.

"Think about what you want to know about."

I wasn't sure what I wanted to know about. Besides, I was nervous. Fun as tarot can be - and long as it had been since I'd gone for my only other reading - I suddenly didn't know if I wanted to know what was supposedly in the cards. Whether I believed in tarot or not - and I wasn't sure which was the case.

I focused on picking out the cards and not losing count.

She took the pile, straightened it and began flipping the cards over - left to right, top to bottom, four groups of four. Her eyebrows rose at the first card, but she didn't say anything until the sixth.

"Are you in a relationship right now?"

Nope.

"No, I'm not."

She looked up. "You're not?"

Did I stutter?

"No."

"That's strange." She straightened the fourth card and looked down at the rest. "I'm seeing something and it's very much in the now. This isn't a future thing."

Well, I'm not.

But then she started to talk about me and things that had happened recently. Things I'd been pondering. She was good. I didn't know what I thought, but I knew I felt unsettled.

When she spoke about me, she was incredibly accurate. So when she spoke about someone else, I wanted to believe her. But she was telling me things that went against what I was seeing; against that which I had already decided to do.

"That's not really something I think I want to consider anymore."

She looked up quickly. "Don't give up on it," she said. "Don't. It's going to be good for you. Don't take what happened personally."

Had a friend or acquaintance told me to not take it personally, I probably would have fired an expletive back at them. Don't take it personally? I look and feel like an absolute moron. I WILL take that personally, thanks.

But I had already paid for the session and I still had a good ten minutes left, so I just nodded. Besides, it would have been bad karma to bitch out someone with the same first name and astrological sign as me. It would have felt like bitching myself out.

I changed the subject and decided to ask about my health. She answered that in about 45 seconds and segued it back to the previous topic. It was important, she said.

So after I thanked her, laughed over the odds of our chance meeting and carefully moved the screen so I could walk out, I found myself staring at a slip of paper with the word "Repeat" on it.

Repeat? I wished I'd just been told I'd come into a fortune someday instead.

During the car ride after, I popped in "When The Pawn..." and cued up Track 9.
-----------
I don't like bees.

I'm actually pretty terrified of them.

I've been known to run, shrieking in the opposite direction, when I've heard a bee buzzing nearby.

So why precisely I felt inclined to buy lip gloss promising the look and feel of "bee-stung lips" is beyond me.

Perhaps I wanted to take my lip propduct obsession to the next level.

Perhaps I was trying to do whatever I could to not decipher the Sephora makeover artists' somewhat backhanded observations about my facial features.

(And to think I was supposed to walk out of a makeover feeling like a million bucks...)

Or perhaps it was just that I wanted to know what it would feel like if a bee or three stung my mouth.

Whatever the reason, I bought it. And now I have a problem.

I really like this stuff.

My lips feel cool on the surface, on top of a layer of heat. It makes me think of eating Fireballs as a kid. If you took a Fireball and held it to your lips, it would feel like this lip gloss.

Which is particularly amusing, as I was one of those kids who used to enjoy eating Fireballs, but couldn't take the heat. In order to enjoy the sweet candy inside, I unwrapped the Fireball and put it in water. That way I didn't have to endure the red-faced spiciness.

Conquering childhood candy demons?

Hmm. Perhaps that's why.
-----------

-----------
T and I sat in the shade of a tree in the Common. He had forgotten his bike lock, and I wanted to be sure a stolen bike wasn't the price paid for a visit with me. It was slightly less broiling beneath the three, but I was happy I thought to get us cold bottled water.

We ran through the quick, "So how was your week?" exchange. I was telling him about my excursion to Southie for brunch, chatting with "the girls" over mimosas and the run-in with someone I hadn't seen in several years.

He tied a piece of grass into a knot. "Um, you're going to be mad at me after I share my next news."

"Hmm?" I finished my sip and cocked an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"It looks like I'm going to get to California before you."

"Bastard."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Where?"

"San Francisco."

"When?"

"Late September."

"OK. So. Send me a postcard, take a unique photograph of something quirky in the city for me and be sure to tell me about what you think of it. Deal?"

"Deal." He grinned. "That was easy. I was going to do all of that anyway. Goes without saying."
-----------
I have to laugh at myself when I attend a Tori show. I find that I sit with a straight back, hands folded in my lap, the image of proper. I don't know why, except the fact that I want to be able to lift my eyes to see as much as I can and maybe, just maybe, I subconsciously think that good behavior - and perfect posture - will be rewarded with a performance of "Gold Dust."

I'll have to be just as poised next time, as she did not dust the song off for Boston. But I was thrilled with those she did select - when she launches into the rest of the set (after the tour standard "Original Sinsuality") with "Caught A Lite Sneeze" and (hurrah!) "Amber Waves," a good night is all but promised. And then "Winter" pops up, and then "Cool On Your Island" and the cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" she's been promising for the last week or so of shows - and it's one of the best covers you've heard her do - and, oh wait, there's "Tear In Your Hand." At that point the show is fantastic. By the time she's wrapped up her four encore songs - including a cover of "Dream On" - with "1000 Oceans," the show reaches the rank of "This had better be one of the live shows she releases."

ASJgkjioagjizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Tori Amos show.
Trip to Boston.
Amazing seats.
Incredible setlist.
Outstanding show.
Early morning drive home.

This is developing into a pattern.

But as long as she keeps giving the Boston area great performances, I'll be more than willing to make the (rise at the break of dawn and drink coffee while blaring music to get back home in time) effort to do whatever I can to be there for it.

The weekend was grand. Very full, very grand. If I have the coherence to write about it, I shall do so soon. "Bee stung," tarot reading and mimosas, oh my!

(To see Tori's setlist and a couple of fan reviews, check out the show's page on The Dent by clicking here.)

Before I hit the highway.

Listen to Blue Merle's "Part of Your History."

Do it.

Sweet as salt

How do you know it's time to invest in an espresso machine?

Before you and your friend even approach the counter, the Starbucks employee grins. "Let me guess. Two grande iced caramel non-fat lattes?"
------
I made a special mix CD for this evening's Commonwealth venture. The Guilty Pleasure Mix will serve as soundtrack to my travels along the highways that stand between myself and Massachusetts.

That I will be traveling solo means I will be able to roll the windows down and unabashedly deliver god-awful car karaoke renditions of songs I never normally would even try singing.

If you're on the road and you happen to hear a cover of Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" that makes your ears want to bleed, just smile. Look straight ahead. Don't pay any attention.

I've spent enough of the week either working hard or feeling glum. I'm ready for some laughter.

I crack a window
And feel the cool air cleanse my every pore
As I pour my poor heart out
To a radio song that's patient and willing to listen
My volume drowns it out...
-------
And, finally. Three years ago tomorrow, I found, explored and secured my apartment in D.C.

Three years ago Sunday, I wrote the following:
i don't know about you, but i'm going to be living it up in the greater boston area one more time when averi rocks the hob cambridge. care to join me for one last night (at least for a little while) of new england drunken debauchery?

more tomorrow--all this trapsing around has exhausted me and i need to start sorting/packing in the a.m. now i reward myself with a viewing of "empire records" and the inevitable continuation of a rousing game of phone tag. ;)