OK, so perhaps standing out in the snowy cold of this weekend's Mardi Gras wasn't such a good idea. Particulary as I was just, you know, sick and all.
Ah, hindsight.
Yes, friends, I have managed to fall ill again this winter - another rip-roaringly good bout of general malaise and agitation. Whee! What fun!
I now alternate between sounding normal and sounding like Joan Rivers. I can't go running, which is probably the single most obnoxious part of all because I worry I'll lose all the progress I've made in that regard. I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm a little feverish and I've been hopped up on DayQuil and NyQuil for the past several days.
Good times. Indeed.
Fortunately, between the bouts of illness that have struck me (which occurred on the weekends of both the Olympics' opening and closing ceremonies. Coincidence or Olympic allergy? You be the judge), there've been some good things packed in. My whirlwind jaunt to Boston was strange. Mostly fun...but strange, nonetheless. Unexpectedly running into friends, catching up with loved ones, then seeing friends new and old share a stage for an evening was more than a little surreal...It was a good evening, though. Glad Tides was able to join in on the fun with Bushwalla and Todd...
Grace Potter & the Nocturnals are amazing live, so you should trust me and go see them...
I miss being able to use my digital camera to a ridiculous degree...
...and I'm just really tired...
2.28.2006
2.24.2006
2.21.2006
God, I've been lax as of late. My apologies.
Sooooooookay. When last we chatted, I left you with a promise to talk Montbleau. Well, really? I've sung his praises before - certainly sung the band's praises before, and I find that I've been parroting myself when talking about this most recent show. The words "consistency," "spark," and "jaw-droppingly goddamn good" have been popping up with not-so-surprising frequency.
So here is the thing about seeing RMB live: I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bear witness to an off night. The band actually seems incapable of having an off night. After seeing second-tier performances by almost all of my favorites over the years, I've grown accustomed to - and pretty accepting of - the occasional off night. It happens. It has to. It's unrealistic to think it doesn't.
But then there's the exception to the rule, and it doesn't make sense to me. The night after the biggest show the band has performed yet - the CD release at the Somerville Theater that I chose not to attend so I could instead drool over Ben Taylor (which, I assure you, I did) - and there's still more than three and a half hours of crazy intense music that packed the house and left my group of four dancing like mad right in front of the stage. Still incredible, still energetic, still focused...
...which is why there are two groups in my mind, when it comes to regional music: Ryan Montbleau Band and Everyone Else.
In other news. Shocking culinary turn of events to report here. Perhaps no more need for me to ever attempt the DIY Chipotle experience (although, let's face it, I will do on occasion because I'm good at it).
Why? Has Chipotle finally arrived? No. But Moe's has. And as I savored the close approximation to a beloved Chipotle CFB I loved so dearly during my DC days, I realized that this may just be enough to keep my Chipotle addiction satisfied until the real thing comes north.
At this time tomorrow, I'll be in Massachusetts. Which is great and weird at the same time. Weird that it feels weird, actually. I'll be ending my longest span of time without a Massachusetts fix in years - and I've been so busy here that the time passed surprisingly easily.
And, interestingly enough, I'll be back at a venue that occupied some of my hours last time I was in town. Another Thursday night at Felt...this time with some of my new favorite folks - Bushwalla and Todd Carey - teaming up with the Tides fellows.
I know. I'm greatly looking forward to it as well.
And the energy buzz that comes with impending journeys has come right back to me.
Or perhaps that's the homemade caramel Beth made for dessert this evening.
Hmm.
Sooooooookay. When last we chatted, I left you with a promise to talk Montbleau. Well, really? I've sung his praises before - certainly sung the band's praises before, and I find that I've been parroting myself when talking about this most recent show. The words "consistency," "spark," and "jaw-droppingly goddamn good" have been popping up with not-so-surprising frequency.
So here is the thing about seeing RMB live: I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bear witness to an off night. The band actually seems incapable of having an off night. After seeing second-tier performances by almost all of my favorites over the years, I've grown accustomed to - and pretty accepting of - the occasional off night. It happens. It has to. It's unrealistic to think it doesn't.
But then there's the exception to the rule, and it doesn't make sense to me. The night after the biggest show the band has performed yet - the CD release at the Somerville Theater that I chose not to attend so I could instead drool over Ben Taylor (which, I assure you, I did) - and there's still more than three and a half hours of crazy intense music that packed the house and left my group of four dancing like mad right in front of the stage. Still incredible, still energetic, still focused...
...which is why there are two groups in my mind, when it comes to regional music: Ryan Montbleau Band and Everyone Else.
In other news. Shocking culinary turn of events to report here. Perhaps no more need for me to ever attempt the DIY Chipotle experience (although, let's face it, I will do on occasion because I'm good at it).
Why? Has Chipotle finally arrived? No. But Moe's has. And as I savored the close approximation to a beloved Chipotle CFB I loved so dearly during my DC days, I realized that this may just be enough to keep my Chipotle addiction satisfied until the real thing comes north.
At this time tomorrow, I'll be in Massachusetts. Which is great and weird at the same time. Weird that it feels weird, actually. I'll be ending my longest span of time without a Massachusetts fix in years - and I've been so busy here that the time passed surprisingly easily.
And, interestingly enough, I'll be back at a venue that occupied some of my hours last time I was in town. Another Thursday night at Felt...this time with some of my new favorite folks - Bushwalla and Todd Carey - teaming up with the Tides fellows.
I know. I'm greatly looking forward to it as well.
And the energy buzz that comes with impending journeys has come right back to me.
Or perhaps that's the homemade caramel Beth made for dessert this evening.
Hmm.
2.19.2006
See? It's not entirely my fault. I'll only take as much of the blame as I deserve.
Here's the deal: I know that I may not be the most, say, realistic person some - fine, much - of the time when it comes to relationships. I know my expectations are exceedingly high, and I know I maintain illusions of grandeur that, well, let's face it, haven't exactly left me with a string of successful relationships.
(I know, I know. How can a string of relationships ever be considered successful, anyway? Neither the time nor place for such a philosophical debate. Let's file that away for some other time, shall we?)
But I ask you one thing: how can any woman be realistic, and I mean truly realistic, when one weekend includes the absolute aesthetic beauty of Ben Taylor, the musical decadence that is Ryan Montbleau and his band of musical merrymakers and, if those weren't enough, the speech delivered at the end of "Grey's Anatomy" by the single most endearing, adorable, lovable character on television?
Yes, of course I'm talking about George.
Can anyone honestly try to tell me that I'm not supposed to take all this in and hope for a little bit of something spectacular for myself?
I didn't think so.
A more comprehensive weekend roundup to follow, including an explanation as to why anyone hoping to succeed in the music business should begin to learn, adhere to and follow the work of the Montbleau band.
Here's the deal: I know that I may not be the most, say, realistic person some - fine, much - of the time when it comes to relationships. I know my expectations are exceedingly high, and I know I maintain illusions of grandeur that, well, let's face it, haven't exactly left me with a string of successful relationships.
(I know, I know. How can a string of relationships ever be considered successful, anyway? Neither the time nor place for such a philosophical debate. Let's file that away for some other time, shall we?)
But I ask you one thing: how can any woman be realistic, and I mean truly realistic, when one weekend includes the absolute aesthetic beauty of Ben Taylor, the musical decadence that is Ryan Montbleau and his band of musical merrymakers and, if those weren't enough, the speech delivered at the end of "Grey's Anatomy" by the single most endearing, adorable, lovable character on television?
Yes, of course I'm talking about George.
Can anyone honestly try to tell me that I'm not supposed to take all this in and hope for a little bit of something spectacular for myself?
I didn't think so.
A more comprehensive weekend roundup to follow, including an explanation as to why anyone hoping to succeed in the music business should begin to learn, adhere to and follow the work of the Montbleau band.
2.15.2006
I sat on the middle cushion of a couch, my left arm draped over the back of the empty seat next to me. I didn't usually sit in such a manner - my arms are generally kept in my lap or holding a drink - but for some reason, it felt particularly comfortable that night.
The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.
It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.
Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.
It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.
But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.
This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.
Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.
The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.
It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.
Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.
It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.
But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.
This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.
Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.
2.14.2006
When the time comes to actually jump into the lake, you don't really have the spare seconds that might make you want to back out. I think they plan it that way.
Of course, there's a moment or two as you're approaching the waterfront, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and the warmest coat you own, when you start to think yourself mad. After all, you're warm. The air around you is cold. You're holding a self-heating latte (thanks, Mom and Dad) to keep you warm until that last possible moment.
But when you sign up and get your number written on your hand, you sign away any time to second-guess. It's WHOOOSH - off to the changing room, where people around you are screaming and cheering and shouting with glee about what you're about to do. Then there are a few moments to laugh with your friends about the fact that you're actually about to do this when it's WHOOSH - off to the staging area, where you realize you're about to run into the water.
People are crazy. You're getting pats on the back from people you've never met before and will likewise never see again. You're laughing at people in Speedos or bikinis, and you're dancing around to the Beach Boys and any other song the organizers thought might somehow tie into a summer theme. It's almost like that traditional last weekend of college before finals, when everyone is such acting ridiculous because they can and they won't get in trouble for it.
And that's when it gets really weird. All of a sudden, surrounded by all these people who are doing the same thing you're about to do - and all in varying stages of inhebriation, might I add - it sounds great to run into icy cold water. Why wouldn't you want to do it? The people standing outside in the cold, without the luxury of a heated tend - those are the crazy people. They're missing out. You're about to do something that has your energy at its peak, your adrenaline racing through you and a serious case of the laughs running wild. You're dancing and you're jumping and you're cheering on a group of guys running around barechested.
And then WHOOSH - you're running. Out past people you may or, more likely, may not know, but it doesn't matter because you're going past them too quickly to identify any of them. The asphalt path moves straight forward, veers to one side or another a couple of times, and then it just dips down.
The water is right in front of you, and you just gun for it. In in in in SPLASH.
It's cold. Really, really, bone-jarringly cold. But when it hits you, your whole body suddenly heats up. Much like the days during late soccer season, when you'd run for the ball as your chest just burned from the cold air moving into and out of your lungs.
When I hit the water, I ran in a few steps and just let my body fall, so I could let as much of the water cover me as I could. Got up to just around my ears. The fact that it was cold went away, replaced instead by the fact that I was suddenly more awake than I've been in months.
The bottom of the lake was slippery, and my sneakers had difficulty gripping the rocks enough to pull me up. I don't remember feeling cold again until I stepped out of the water, reached for a towel and realized that my shirt and shorts were freezing cold, dripping freezing cold water against a freezing cold me. I, and everyone else in my group, awkwardly ran back up the path, past the mayor (who, frankly, should have been busy jumping into the water, instead of congratulating everyone as they jumped out) and back to the heating tent.
And that's it, really. That was the experience. You're prepped, you're sent, you're in the water and you're scrambling back for warm, dry gear. And you realize you're game with going through the whole thing the next time February rolls around.
Oh, and you get a hat. Which is nice.
My parents found us quickly, part of the parental cluster that somehow managed to form shortly after the jump. There were hugs when we emerged, bright-cheeked and laughing, from the dressing tent, and there were group photographs taken with the team members and the various visiting troubadors who had braved the cold to cheer us on. Which was really nice.
The group broke up, with promises to meet up later that evening, and I walked home with my parents, stopping - of course - for the required maple latte (which, P Squared, was much enjoyed) along the way.
What's funny is that I'm not at all a winter person. I keep bundled up whenever possible. But as we walked up the street in the direction of my apartment, it felt as if I might as well walk around without a jacket.
Don't get me wrong. I kept that sucker on.
But I think it was the warmest I've felt all season.
Of course, there's a moment or two as you're approaching the waterfront, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and the warmest coat you own, when you start to think yourself mad. After all, you're warm. The air around you is cold. You're holding a self-heating latte (thanks, Mom and Dad) to keep you warm until that last possible moment.
But when you sign up and get your number written on your hand, you sign away any time to second-guess. It's WHOOOSH - off to the changing room, where people around you are screaming and cheering and shouting with glee about what you're about to do. Then there are a few moments to laugh with your friends about the fact that you're actually about to do this when it's WHOOSH - off to the staging area, where you realize you're about to run into the water.
People are crazy. You're getting pats on the back from people you've never met before and will likewise never see again. You're laughing at people in Speedos or bikinis, and you're dancing around to the Beach Boys and any other song the organizers thought might somehow tie into a summer theme. It's almost like that traditional last weekend of college before finals, when everyone is such acting ridiculous because they can and they won't get in trouble for it.
And that's when it gets really weird. All of a sudden, surrounded by all these people who are doing the same thing you're about to do - and all in varying stages of inhebriation, might I add - it sounds great to run into icy cold water. Why wouldn't you want to do it? The people standing outside in the cold, without the luxury of a heated tend - those are the crazy people. They're missing out. You're about to do something that has your energy at its peak, your adrenaline racing through you and a serious case of the laughs running wild. You're dancing and you're jumping and you're cheering on a group of guys running around barechested.
And then WHOOSH - you're running. Out past people you may or, more likely, may not know, but it doesn't matter because you're going past them too quickly to identify any of them. The asphalt path moves straight forward, veers to one side or another a couple of times, and then it just dips down.
The water is right in front of you, and you just gun for it. In in in in SPLASH.
It's cold. Really, really, bone-jarringly cold. But when it hits you, your whole body suddenly heats up. Much like the days during late soccer season, when you'd run for the ball as your chest just burned from the cold air moving into and out of your lungs.
When I hit the water, I ran in a few steps and just let my body fall, so I could let as much of the water cover me as I could. Got up to just around my ears. The fact that it was cold went away, replaced instead by the fact that I was suddenly more awake than I've been in months.
The bottom of the lake was slippery, and my sneakers had difficulty gripping the rocks enough to pull me up. I don't remember feeling cold again until I stepped out of the water, reached for a towel and realized that my shirt and shorts were freezing cold, dripping freezing cold water against a freezing cold me. I, and everyone else in my group, awkwardly ran back up the path, past the mayor (who, frankly, should have been busy jumping into the water, instead of congratulating everyone as they jumped out) and back to the heating tent.
And that's it, really. That was the experience. You're prepped, you're sent, you're in the water and you're scrambling back for warm, dry gear. And you realize you're game with going through the whole thing the next time February rolls around.
Oh, and you get a hat. Which is nice.
My parents found us quickly, part of the parental cluster that somehow managed to form shortly after the jump. There were hugs when we emerged, bright-cheeked and laughing, from the dressing tent, and there were group photographs taken with the team members and the various visiting troubadors who had braved the cold to cheer us on. Which was really nice.
The group broke up, with promises to meet up later that evening, and I walked home with my parents, stopping - of course - for the required maple latte (which, P Squared, was much enjoyed) along the way.
What's funny is that I'm not at all a winter person. I keep bundled up whenever possible. But as we walked up the street in the direction of my apartment, it felt as if I might as well walk around without a jacket.
Don't get me wrong. I kept that sucker on.
But I think it was the warmest I've felt all season.
Let me get it out of the way right now: Happy Valentine's Day.
I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.
I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.
See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.
So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.
Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.
I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.
I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.
The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.
In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.
But have a very happy Valentine's Day.
I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.
I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.
See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.
So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.
Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.
I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.
I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.
The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.
In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.
But have a very happy Valentine's Day.
2.11.2006
2.10.2006
I have the faint outline of an old school boombox imprinted on the back of my left hand. I tried to wash the stamp ink away this morning, and actually smiled when I realized that the thing just wasn't going to come off in its intirety.
I've been marked. Ghetto blasted, if you will.
Yesterday gave me delicious night of live music. And I needed it - I've felt stressed, frustrated and disheartened the last couple of weeks. I've been slowly becoming a bottle rocket of pressure was bound to spark and explode.
Yes, that's still there. But at least I was given a reprieve - in the form of dance, laughter, collaboration, tongue-twisting singalong and positive energy. I haven't laughed that much in ages. I haven't felt the urge to dance like nobody's watching in even longer.
I just haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.
(And I haven't been called up on stage with friends to help rock the mic in, well, ever.)
In other, equally crazy news: I jump into the lake tomorrow. Beth and I realized earlier this week that neither of us have ever gone swimming in Lake Champlain before.
We will both take our first lake dips in February. Weather check? Today's current temperature: 9 degrees. Tomorrow's high: 25 degrees.
And the big one. Tomorrow's expected water temperature: 35 degrees.
I've been marked. Ghetto blasted, if you will.
Yesterday gave me delicious night of live music. And I needed it - I've felt stressed, frustrated and disheartened the last couple of weeks. I've been slowly becoming a bottle rocket of pressure was bound to spark and explode.
Yes, that's still there. But at least I was given a reprieve - in the form of dance, laughter, collaboration, tongue-twisting singalong and positive energy. I haven't laughed that much in ages. I haven't felt the urge to dance like nobody's watching in even longer.
I just haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.
(And I haven't been called up on stage with friends to help rock the mic in, well, ever.)
In other, equally crazy news: I jump into the lake tomorrow. Beth and I realized earlier this week that neither of us have ever gone swimming in Lake Champlain before.
We will both take our first lake dips in February. Weather check? Today's current temperature: 9 degrees. Tomorrow's high: 25 degrees.
And the big one. Tomorrow's expected water temperature: 35 degrees.
2.09.2006
2.08.2006
2.06.2006
I'm going to blink and realize that I'm on the other side of the next two weeks.
- My digital camera's battery charger is in Maine. My digital camera's battery is dead. In order to buy a new charger, I would need to contact the camera manufacturer. Boo. I am relying on others for photos of Saturday. Fear not. There will be countless cameras on hand.
- The stars have aligned in such a manner that this weekend is The Weekend To Be In My Town. To those who won't be? My sympathies, because they're going to be missing out...
- I'm determined to focus on laughing as I maneuver my way through the coming days. I started off the morning dancing around to LCS Soundsystem's "Disco Infiltrator," a song I'm mildly addicted to at the moment.
- Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will at Metronome on Thursday night. The Plunge on Saturday. And who knows what between now and Sunday...
- My digital camera's battery charger is in Maine. My digital camera's battery is dead. In order to buy a new charger, I would need to contact the camera manufacturer. Boo. I am relying on others for photos of Saturday. Fear not. There will be countless cameras on hand.
- The stars have aligned in such a manner that this weekend is The Weekend To Be In My Town. To those who won't be? My sympathies, because they're going to be missing out...
- I'm determined to focus on laughing as I maneuver my way through the coming days. I started off the morning dancing around to LCS Soundsystem's "Disco Infiltrator," a song I'm mildly addicted to at the moment.
- Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will at Metronome on Thursday night. The Plunge on Saturday. And who knows what between now and Sunday...
2.03.2006
Let's learn from the error of my ways, ok? I'm officially stating my two newest rules:
- No one who is single should ever, under ANY circumstances, watch "The Notebook." Because if you do, you wind up tapping into bitterness you never knew you were capable of.
- No one, single or not, should ever, EVER watch "The Notebook" when settling in for a much-needed, sought-out evening of solitude. EVER. We won't get into what happens when one does not heed this advice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Jimmy Fallon and the Red Sox.
It's recovery time.
- No one who is single should ever, under ANY circumstances, watch "The Notebook." Because if you do, you wind up tapping into bitterness you never knew you were capable of.
- No one, single or not, should ever, EVER watch "The Notebook" when settling in for a much-needed, sought-out evening of solitude. EVER. We won't get into what happens when one does not heed this advice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Jimmy Fallon and the Red Sox.
It's recovery time.
Earlier today:
V: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers are playing here tonight, but I'm not going. I can't bear to cough up more money to see a band opening for OAR. I can't again justify attenting an opening set and then leaving the moment OAR takes the stage. No, I don't like OAR. I used to think OAR was pretty OK in college...yeah. But the only reason I went to that Boston show was because Matt and Howie were opening. So tonight's a no go. Which rather sucks, because I'd really dig the chance to see SK again. But I'm just going to hope that they get into town sometime soon. They'd do great here on their own. And hey, everyone else is playing here, why not them?
Later today:
V: That was weird. Seriously. Did you visit HG's site? Newly announced. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers and the Pat McGee Band! I know! In April! How crazy is that? I haven't seen PMB in years. Yeah, since the Avalon show! And SK! Everyone really is playing here!
V: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers are playing here tonight, but I'm not going. I can't bear to cough up more money to see a band opening for OAR. I can't again justify attenting an opening set and then leaving the moment OAR takes the stage. No, I don't like OAR. I used to think OAR was pretty OK in college...yeah. But the only reason I went to that Boston show was because Matt and Howie were opening. So tonight's a no go. Which rather sucks, because I'd really dig the chance to see SK again. But I'm just going to hope that they get into town sometime soon. They'd do great here on their own. And hey, everyone else is playing here, why not them?
Later today:
V: That was weird. Seriously. Did you visit HG's site? Newly announced. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers and the Pat McGee Band! I know! In April! How crazy is that? I haven't seen PMB in years. Yeah, since the Avalon show! And SK! Everyone really is playing here!
2.02.2006
When I care about something - or, more appropriately these days, when I believe in something - I just find myself incapable of giving up on it.
It's maddening sometimes, and there are the countless instances in which I walk away shaking my head in confusion or outright disbelief. And it's tiring, frustrating on other occasions, when it's neither possible nor reasonable to do what I want to do, which is grab someone by the shoulders and give a shake to try rattling in some sense.
But I see something good there, something that could make others smile. Something that makes me smile despite my wish that someone would be able to grab my shoulders and shake some sense into me.
Which is why I find myself continuously setting aside the voice in my head, the one that's telling me that I'm an absolute idiot who should know better, and putting myself in the position I incessently find myself in.
The one that invariably ends with me saying to myself, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"
In other news, it's been six years since I saw a guy with funny hair and a funnier British accent playing guitar as I walked into my college's student center and eventually asked said funny-coiffed individual if I'd heard that last song on the radio, as it sounded pleasantly familiar to me and I'd really enjoyed it...
I need to find whatever journal I was writing in at that point to see what I wrote about that performance. I think it would be amusing to read now that I know I have heard it on the radio, time and time again...
It's maddening sometimes, and there are the countless instances in which I walk away shaking my head in confusion or outright disbelief. And it's tiring, frustrating on other occasions, when it's neither possible nor reasonable to do what I want to do, which is grab someone by the shoulders and give a shake to try rattling in some sense.
But I see something good there, something that could make others smile. Something that makes me smile despite my wish that someone would be able to grab my shoulders and shake some sense into me.
Which is why I find myself continuously setting aside the voice in my head, the one that's telling me that I'm an absolute idiot who should know better, and putting myself in the position I incessently find myself in.
The one that invariably ends with me saying to myself, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"
In other news, it's been six years since I saw a guy with funny hair and a funnier British accent playing guitar as I walked into my college's student center and eventually asked said funny-coiffed individual if I'd heard that last song on the radio, as it sounded pleasantly familiar to me and I'd really enjoyed it...
I need to find whatever journal I was writing in at that point to see what I wrote about that performance. I think it would be amusing to read now that I know I have heard it on the radio, time and time again...
I've settled into a practice of actually living in the city where I sleep.
I know.
It's a rather strange experience for me too.
I wish there was some uniquely V way of describing the way things have been going - the laughter shared during weekly jaunts to pub trivia, the jump-kick combo I executed several times earlier this week, each time I scored a strike with a hot pink bowling ball at a surprisingly hopping bowling alley. The feeling of fatigue laced with equal parts accomplishment and frustration that comes over me most nights as I prepare to go to sleep and the realization that it's been a month since I've been to Massachusetts.
That's got to be a recent record for me - and it appears that I'll be stretching that record a few weeks longer.
There's simply been a great deal happening here, and I've beeb having a lot of fun with it. And there's more coming up. Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will a week from today. The Plunge in nine days. A trifecta of shows the week following.
And then, the week after that, I make a brief Massachusetts appearance for the Bushwalla/Todd Carey show at Felt - which I'm now pleased to say will feature Tides as an opening act on the bill. I've been looking forward to the show for some time now, and the addition of Tides makes the trip all the more worthwhile...
I know.
It's a rather strange experience for me too.
I wish there was some uniquely V way of describing the way things have been going - the laughter shared during weekly jaunts to pub trivia, the jump-kick combo I executed several times earlier this week, each time I scored a strike with a hot pink bowling ball at a surprisingly hopping bowling alley. The feeling of fatigue laced with equal parts accomplishment and frustration that comes over me most nights as I prepare to go to sleep and the realization that it's been a month since I've been to Massachusetts.
That's got to be a recent record for me - and it appears that I'll be stretching that record a few weeks longer.
There's simply been a great deal happening here, and I've beeb having a lot of fun with it. And there's more coming up. Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will a week from today. The Plunge in nine days. A trifecta of shows the week following.
And then, the week after that, I make a brief Massachusetts appearance for the Bushwalla/Todd Carey show at Felt - which I'm now pleased to say will feature Tides as an opening act on the bill. I've been looking forward to the show for some time now, and the addition of Tides makes the trip all the more worthwhile...
1.30.2006
I'm not one to strictly quote song lyrics, but I heard this on "Grey's Anatomy" last night and was just stunned by it. With that, the episode's storylines and the fact that I've developed an absurd television character crush on George (then again, who hasn't?) I was done for the moment the episode started. This was the final kick in the ribs, if you will, at episode's end.
Kendall Payne
"Scratch"
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
And everyday I wish I was small
I've been counting on nothing
But he keeps giving me his word
And I am tired of hearing myself speak
Do you ever get weary?
Do you ever get weak?
How do you dream
When you can't fall asleep?
I've been wondering what you're thinking
And if you like my dress tonight?
Would you still say you love me
Under this ordinary moonlight?
I'm so afraid of what you'll say.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I used to think I was special
And only I have proved me wrong
I thought I could change
The world with a song
But I have ended up in India
With no lamp to guide me home.
The strangest place I think
I have ever been
And all this time
I thought that we were friends
My stubborn will is learning to bend.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
Kendall Payne
"Scratch"
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
And everyday I wish I was small
I've been counting on nothing
But he keeps giving me his word
And I am tired of hearing myself speak
Do you ever get weary?
Do you ever get weak?
How do you dream
When you can't fall asleep?
I've been wondering what you're thinking
And if you like my dress tonight?
Would you still say you love me
Under this ordinary moonlight?
I'm so afraid of what you'll say.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I used to think I was special
And only I have proved me wrong
I thought I could change
The world with a song
But I have ended up in India
With no lamp to guide me home.
The strangest place I think
I have ever been
And all this time
I thought that we were friends
My stubborn will is learning to bend.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
1.29.2006
Let's do the math, shall we?
3: Number of Red Sox Fenway Park games (at this moment) I will be attending this season, barring the opportunity to purchase Green Monster/Yankees tickets.
10: About how many hours my computer was logged into the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room.
30: Number of seconds that passes before the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshes.
1200: Number of times, using the previous two numbers, my spot in the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshed.
36,298: Number of people who can fit into Fenway Park (circa 2004).
And the kicker:
0: Number of ticket purchase opportunities provided to me for any of the Baltimore Orioles games at Fenway.
So, looking at the math, some loved ones and I decided to throw an X factor in. We created our own math, if you will.
1: Number of games at Baltimore's Camden Yards I will attend this season.
3: Number of days spent on late summer/early autumn baseball-prompted trip to Baltimore/D.C.
If Boston won't let me join the party when Millar rolls back into town, I'm going to be part of the Baltimore party when the Red Sox roll into town.
I'll update this with more explanation after my brunch and mimosas...
3: Number of Red Sox Fenway Park games (at this moment) I will be attending this season, barring the opportunity to purchase Green Monster/Yankees tickets.
10: About how many hours my computer was logged into the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room.
30: Number of seconds that passes before the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshes.
1200: Number of times, using the previous two numbers, my spot in the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshed.
36,298: Number of people who can fit into Fenway Park (circa 2004).
And the kicker:
0: Number of ticket purchase opportunities provided to me for any of the Baltimore Orioles games at Fenway.
So, looking at the math, some loved ones and I decided to throw an X factor in. We created our own math, if you will.
1: Number of games at Baltimore's Camden Yards I will attend this season.
3: Number of days spent on late summer/early autumn baseball-prompted trip to Baltimore/D.C.
If Boston won't let me join the party when Millar rolls back into town, I'm going to be part of the Baltimore party when the Red Sox roll into town.
I'll update this with more explanation after my brunch and mimosas...
1.27.2006
When you follow a baseball team - or any professional team, really - and you buy a specific player jersey or t-shirt, who you pick says a great deal about who you are.
Since I follow the Red Sox, I inevitably spend time at Fenway games examining the sociological nature of that particular team and its fans.
Tek, Trot or - tear - Mueller: you appreciate the hard-working, silent types. You're a fan of the ones who do their jobs and don't necessarily shy away from the spotlight when it's thrust upon them, but are most content focusing on the task at hand. You admire players who eat dirt on a daily basis, take the extra swings or fielding practice when it's available and grit their teeth when they're training on their own time. You know that hard work speaks for itself. You like your beer, you know your stats and you're the one likely to be calling out, "Tek. Buddy. I fuckin' love you, man!"
Schilling: you are the optimists. During the first half of the 2004 season, you were looking for something on which to focus your prayers, and you found it in the one man who promised you a miracle when he rolled into town. When the 2004 postseason rolled around, you were the ones crying happy tears into your beers (you like it, too) as you saw the bloody sock because you KNEW that there was no way this kind of sacrifice would go unrewarded. You also doubled in population after the World Series, but I hardly fault you for that. You may or may not be Republican. Just saying.
Ortiz: you note the importance and joy of a single swing, therefore you cherish the little moments in life. You cherish strength, and you adore it most when it's coupled with a face-breaking smile and what would certainly be bone-crushing hugs. You also, coincidentally, enjoy jumping up and down when you celebrate. Odds are good that you probably have a passion for spices, particularly when found in salsa.
Manny: you just want to win. You also can show passive-aggressive tendancies. You rail and complain with the rest when your player seems to shirk his duties, but you're the first to say "I told you so" when he steps back up to the plate, figuratively speaking. You tend to point a lot.
He-Who-Used-To-Be-Johnny-Damon/Bronson Arroyo: You are most likely female. You may, in fact, support your player with a shirt that features "Mrs." before his surname. You like pink, it seems, and may be most likely to sport the pale pink Red Sox hats that make me cringe every time I see them on your heads (sorry. True. Team colors are, if anything, red and blue. Accept it. Wear it. Move on). But most importantly, you enjoy the sparkle factor that baseball can provide. It's not all about winning to you - it's about being in the park or watching the game and focusing on the fun involved. Of course you want the team to win, but how can you keep your mind strictly on that when you have a slow motion shot of Damon's hair swaying as he runs, or that delicious ass so cruely kept from all but the bleacher or Monster Seat fans for so much of the game...yeah, you know what I mean. Haha. Yeah you do.
I mention this - in a mostly tongue in cheek manner - because tickets for most of Boston's season are going on sale tomorrow. And while I'd of course be overjoyed at the prospect of attending any game, I'm going to be waiting in the virtual waiting rooms of gloom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning with one particular game in mind, and a backup plan of two particular series.
Because, as I believe I've stated here before (only a million times or so), when I invested in my first (and thus far only) Red Sox player t-shirt, I went for the one who made me laugh. I cheered most loudly for the one who wasn't perfect, but who made his team stronger with his imperfections. Who played wherever Terry told him to play because he just wanted to be out there. The one who was on the proverbial chopping block for a huge portion of the season but still managed to pull out a two-home run evening because he cared so much. And who, until the very end, hoped with every bone in his body that he would be able to stay in the city - and with the team - he loved.
I bought a Millar shirt. And tickets for two out of the three Baltimore series go on sale tomorrow. I want to go to the first Baltimore game for which tickets are available (first series sold out before Millar was signed to the Orioles), and I want to wear my Millar jersey to Fenway one more time.
(And, for those who might be curious: Who will my favorite Red Sox player be this season? If I buy another player shirt, whose name will be on the back? I'll gladly toast a beer with the members of the first group I psychoanalyzed. O captain, my captain.)
Since I follow the Red Sox, I inevitably spend time at Fenway games examining the sociological nature of that particular team and its fans.
Tek, Trot or - tear - Mueller: you appreciate the hard-working, silent types. You're a fan of the ones who do their jobs and don't necessarily shy away from the spotlight when it's thrust upon them, but are most content focusing on the task at hand. You admire players who eat dirt on a daily basis, take the extra swings or fielding practice when it's available and grit their teeth when they're training on their own time. You know that hard work speaks for itself. You like your beer, you know your stats and you're the one likely to be calling out, "Tek. Buddy. I fuckin' love you, man!"
Schilling: you are the optimists. During the first half of the 2004 season, you were looking for something on which to focus your prayers, and you found it in the one man who promised you a miracle when he rolled into town. When the 2004 postseason rolled around, you were the ones crying happy tears into your beers (you like it, too) as you saw the bloody sock because you KNEW that there was no way this kind of sacrifice would go unrewarded. You also doubled in population after the World Series, but I hardly fault you for that. You may or may not be Republican. Just saying.
Ortiz: you note the importance and joy of a single swing, therefore you cherish the little moments in life. You cherish strength, and you adore it most when it's coupled with a face-breaking smile and what would certainly be bone-crushing hugs. You also, coincidentally, enjoy jumping up and down when you celebrate. Odds are good that you probably have a passion for spices, particularly when found in salsa.
Manny: you just want to win. You also can show passive-aggressive tendancies. You rail and complain with the rest when your player seems to shirk his duties, but you're the first to say "I told you so" when he steps back up to the plate, figuratively speaking. You tend to point a lot.
He-Who-Used-To-Be-Johnny-Damon/Bronson Arroyo: You are most likely female. You may, in fact, support your player with a shirt that features "Mrs." before his surname. You like pink, it seems, and may be most likely to sport the pale pink Red Sox hats that make me cringe every time I see them on your heads (sorry. True. Team colors are, if anything, red and blue. Accept it. Wear it. Move on). But most importantly, you enjoy the sparkle factor that baseball can provide. It's not all about winning to you - it's about being in the park or watching the game and focusing on the fun involved. Of course you want the team to win, but how can you keep your mind strictly on that when you have a slow motion shot of Damon's hair swaying as he runs, or that delicious ass so cruely kept from all but the bleacher or Monster Seat fans for so much of the game...yeah, you know what I mean. Haha. Yeah you do.
I mention this - in a mostly tongue in cheek manner - because tickets for most of Boston's season are going on sale tomorrow. And while I'd of course be overjoyed at the prospect of attending any game, I'm going to be waiting in the virtual waiting rooms of gloom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning with one particular game in mind, and a backup plan of two particular series.
Because, as I believe I've stated here before (only a million times or so), when I invested in my first (and thus far only) Red Sox player t-shirt, I went for the one who made me laugh. I cheered most loudly for the one who wasn't perfect, but who made his team stronger with his imperfections. Who played wherever Terry told him to play because he just wanted to be out there. The one who was on the proverbial chopping block for a huge portion of the season but still managed to pull out a two-home run evening because he cared so much. And who, until the very end, hoped with every bone in his body that he would be able to stay in the city - and with the team - he loved.
I bought a Millar shirt. And tickets for two out of the three Baltimore series go on sale tomorrow. I want to go to the first Baltimore game for which tickets are available (first series sold out before Millar was signed to the Orioles), and I want to wear my Millar jersey to Fenway one more time.
(And, for those who might be curious: Who will my favorite Red Sox player be this season? If I buy another player shirt, whose name will be on the back? I'll gladly toast a beer with the members of the first group I psychoanalyzed. O captain, my captain.)
We interrupt your Friday afternoon for an announcement of extraordinary importance:
I'm going to see Jenny Lewwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiisssss, Jenny Lllllleeeeewwwwwwwiiiiiissssss, the indie priiiiiiiiincesssssss, Jenny Lllllleeeewwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.
Longtime readers know of my longtime appreciation for Ms. Lewis and her little band that done blew up and got big, Rilo Kiley. And astute readers who took note of my emphatic recommendations (or, actually, anyone who reads magazines or music websites) will probably know that Lewis released a solo album this week with the Watson Twins, titled "Rabbit Fur Coat."
Admittedly, I've been somewhat lax and have yet to pick up the album, but am planning on doing so soon.
And, thanks to Massachusetts operatives (who shall remain nameless despite the fact that any astute reader would know precisely to whom I refer), I have a ticket with my name on it (figuratively speaking) for the March 17 show at The Somerville Theatre.
Which, the most astute of astute readers might realize, is the location at which I attended my first Rilo Kiley performance.
This, really, is worthy of a "Yay" and perhaps a quick clap of the hands. But since I've done a somewhat lousy job of updating this space over the last couple of weeks, I decided to provide a little more content.
Besides, Jenny's great. She's worth a little extra space.
I'm going to see Jenny Lewwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiisssss, Jenny Lllllleeeeewwwwwwwiiiiiissssss, the indie priiiiiiiiincesssssss, Jenny Lllllleeeewwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.
Longtime readers know of my longtime appreciation for Ms. Lewis and her little band that done blew up and got big, Rilo Kiley. And astute readers who took note of my emphatic recommendations (or, actually, anyone who reads magazines or music websites) will probably know that Lewis released a solo album this week with the Watson Twins, titled "Rabbit Fur Coat."
Admittedly, I've been somewhat lax and have yet to pick up the album, but am planning on doing so soon.
And, thanks to Massachusetts operatives (who shall remain nameless despite the fact that any astute reader would know precisely to whom I refer), I have a ticket with my name on it (figuratively speaking) for the March 17 show at The Somerville Theatre.
Which, the most astute of astute readers might realize, is the location at which I attended my first Rilo Kiley performance.
This, really, is worthy of a "Yay" and perhaps a quick clap of the hands. But since I've done a somewhat lousy job of updating this space over the last couple of weeks, I decided to provide a little more content.
Besides, Jenny's great. She's worth a little extra space.
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