Sleeping at the Oakdale

We went to see Trey Friday night. Last time we saw him at the Palace Theater two years ago (the Palace happens to be one of my all time favorite venues – right up there with the Calvin – but we decided to see T. somewhere different this time). The Oakdale would be on the top of my list if the Connecticut crowd was a little more alive and with it. Their lack of energy dragged us down – but more on that later.

It was supposed to be a 7:30pm show without an opener, but Trey true to form made us wait. I didn’t mind the hanging out part. People watching is always at a premium at anything hippie related. Plus, the Oakdale has some sort of texting entertainment going on. We could watch video screens of text messages – stuff like “wave your arms if you like so and so.” No one did.
There were a mix of ages and personalities roaming the aisles. Your standard Phish friendly hippies with hemp clothing and masses of dreadlocks, Remember-When Deadheads with tie dye tee shirts and corduroy overalls, College preps with baseball caps on backwards and baggy jeans, flowing dresses, bandannas and beads. Some lady lost her rock in the seats behind us. It got me wondering where I fit into all this. Maybe I have that peace-love-happiness hippie philosophy at heart when I prefer to be barefoot, refuse to wear a bra or comb my hair, but I’m not so sure.

Finally, Trey graced us with his presence and the crowd settled down, way down. His voice definitely sounded better than when we saw him last. And while the band wasn’t as big (no horns) they definitely put out some great sound. Except. Except the crowd seemed asleep on their feet. Clapping was polite, cheering was at a minimum. Even I didn’t really dance. I couldn’t spin in the aisles for fear of falling on my ass. I wasn’t stable in my row of seats. Rooted to the spot I was content to sway tree-like, occasionally pounding the hip that started to ache. Here’s what we heard:

Set I

  • Drifting
  • Tuesday
  • Sand
  • Peggy
  • Dark & Down
  • Money Love and Change
  • Sweet Dreams Melinda
  • Push on Through the Day

Set II

  • Light
  • Gotta Jiboo
  • Alaska
  • Shine
  • Windora Bug

Then we left. Yup. Maybe it was the lack of energy in the crowd. Maybe it was because we put in a long week at work. Maybe we’re just old…Here’s what we missed:

  • Burlap Sack & Pumps
  • Case of Ice & Snow (B’s crack cocaine song)
  • Dragonfly (the only song I wanted to hear & expected to hear)

Encore:

  • Water in the Sky
  • Waste (the song I really, really wanted to hear but didn’t expect to)
  • First Tube (Farmhouse!)

Cask of Amontillado

Poe, Edgar Allan. The Cask of Amontillado. Mahwah: Troll Publications, 1982.

Okay, okay. I admit it. The version I read of Edgar Allan Poe’s Cask of Amontillado was from my library’s Education Curriculum Library – a kids version. Only 32 pages long and brightly illustrated, it was a pleasure to read… in about five minutes. But, that’s not to say I haven’t read it before in it’s original text. And…I reread it online again thanks to the Gutenberg project.

The Cask of Amontillado is a psychological, creepy thriller. Perfect for October. Montressor has had his ego wounded badly by Fortunato. Looking for revenge Montressor waits until Fortunato is well in the drink and can be lured away to his death. The entire story is a study in human failings.
Montressor is able to convince Fortunato to come with him because Fortunato cannot bear the idea of another man playing the expert in identifying Montressor’s Amontillado wine. Montressor uses this jealousy to spur Fortunato deeper into the catacombs. At the same time Montressor showers Fortunato with concerns for his health in an effort to steer Fortunato away from suspicion. For Fortunato cannot suspect a trap if he is the one insistent on continuing deeper into Montressor’s underground chambers.
The reader never does find out what insults Montressor has suffered at the hands of Fortunato. The wrong doing is certainly not as important as the revenge.

Favorite scene: Fortunato questions Montressor’s membership as a brother, a mason. Montressor unveils his trowel as a sign but Fortunato never questions why he would have such a thing with him at that moment.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Horror for Sissies” (p 119).

Mums the Word

Dear You,

I haven’t known how to write this letter. I haven’t known exactly what to say. It wouldn’t really matter because, knowing me, once it was all said and written I wouldn’t have sent it anyway. Excuse the grammar but it’s true. You wouldn’t have gotten whatever it was that I wanted to say, in more ways than one. Instead, I am tempted to be like a politician and say what you want to hear all the while not really saying anything at all. This is how we get along best, am I right? I don’t tell you what I really feel and you don’t spill anything worth a thing either way. Polite as polite can be except with a bite of caustic. That’s us.

You told a story over a meal and I wanted to throw up. What you didn’t say was so telling. What you meant was so obvious it made my stomach roll. I realize I have always been the stronger one. There was never a need to protect me. I acted like nothing could pierce my armor or hurt my pride. My heart was unbreakable and my soul, unreachable. Cold as an Ice Queen in the heart of January. I accept that image. I am comfortable with the chill of uncaring. But, here I am, waiting. I wait for glass half full comments; signs of compliment. They never come. Condescending, accusing, critical, not a single good thing to say. With each utterance I slide away. Closing myself off from wanting to be anywhere near your mouth. If you don’t have anything nice to say…. I played a game in my head. For every criticism it’s one less month here. When I got to three years I gave up knowing I could never stick to my story and stay away for that long. There are too many other things I would miss. Even you. Eventually. I don’t care that I’m not worth worrying about. I don’t care that I’ve never been a cause for real concern. Blame it on the drugs. Blame it on the maladjustment period (or whatever they call it these days). Blame it on the rain. I don’t care.

So, I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Mums the word.

But I feel better.

Off the Run and All Over the Place

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On Tuesday I put in a quiet 3.7 mile run on the treadmill. No gerbil jokes, no blogging about it, no fanfare. Just a quiet run for quiet me. I was feeling good enough to almost put in another one on Wednesday but the presidential (and final) debate was on and I was feeling political. How could I not be after the last debaucle – errr, debate? Have you ever seen such one-sided moderating in your life? Sheesh!

Anyway, I ignored the run thinking Thursday would be better. I argued with me and myself saying, the body needs a day of rest in between runs; the mind needs a day of rest in between worries. A day of rest would do us all some good. What I didn’t count on was putting in a 12 hour day at my work and then hanging out at Kisa’s work for another four. We left home around 6am and didn’t see our doorstep until well after 11pm. I’m sure poor Indiana thought we were putting her up for adoption. She certainly could claim abandonment these days!
I think of my mother. “Can’t you find someone else to push the buttons?” she says through the phone to my husband who is miles away, and “Geeze, they must not be doing a very good job if things keep breaking!” she mutters to me, right next to her. She sounds 97, all piss and vingar without a good thing to say. It’s no use arguing, trying to defend the technology I don’t understand. With a sigh I admit, “I don’t know, Ma. It’s television.” But, what I want to say is this, “It’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place; that tireless get-it-done work ethic. That commitment to working his azz off when everyone else has given up and gone home.”

So, I am happy to give up the run for another night. I’ll call it another day of rest even though it was work that kept me off the run.

Crime Novels

Polito, Robert. Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s. New York: Library of America, 1997.

Something scary for Halloween. Six different stories about crime. Three of them are novels already on my list. Go figure.

  1. The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain
  2. They Shoot Horses Don’t They? by Horace McCoy
  3. The Big Clock by Kenneth Fearing

and three others:

  • Thieves Like Us by Edward Anderson
  • Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham
  • I Married a Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich

From The Postman Always Rings Twice~ I have always wanted to know what this story was all about. Written in 1934 it tells the sexy, gritty tale of Frank Chambers, a drifter who finds himself grounded by Cora Papadakis, a married woman. Cora’s beauty and instant mutual attraction leads to Frank’s uncharacteristic staying put. Soon the adulterous couple is contemplating murder. The plot is timeless. Desire has led them to the devil’s doorstep.
Favorite lines: “I kissed her. Her eyes were shining up at me like two blue stars. It was like being in church” (p13).
“Then the devil went to bed with us, and believe you me, kid, he sleeps pretty good” (p 70).
What Nancy had to say about : “…filled with desperate, scheming men and women…” (Pearl, Nancy. Book Lust, p66).

From They Shoot Horses Don’t They?: This was a bizarre, psychological tale about two kids with very different dreams. Robert is looking to be a film producer and Gloria wants to be an actress. They pair up and enter a Hollywood dance contest knowing Hollywood bigwigs would be in attendance. The contest is all about making money, working the contestants like racehorses, making bigger and better stunts to attract sponsors and a bigger audience. Analogies to horse racing are abundant. From the title of the book it is obvious what happens in the end, but it’s a fascinating read just the same.
What Nancy had to say, “…wonderfully grungy dance-marathon nightmare novel” (Book Lust p 67).

From Thieves Like Us ~ : I found this to be a very slow moving, almost methodical story. Written in 1937 it tells the tale of three bank robbers: Elmo Mobley, T.W. Masefeld and Bowie A. Bowers. While the story of these thieves as fugitives on the run is interesting, what makes the entire piece come alive is the vivid imagery used to describe the landscape these men hide in. Across Texas and Oklahoma’s back country there are many farmhouses and hideaways to keep the story moving. Favorite lines: Oddly enough, the dedication caught my eye: “To my cousin and my wife, because there I was with an empty gun and you, Roy, supplied the ammunition and you, Anne, directed my aim” (p 216). Here’s where my sick mind went with this: Roy (the cousin) had an affair with Anne (the wife). Don’t mind me.
Second favorite line: “The moon hung in the heavens like a shred of fingernail” (p 224). There have been a lot of interesting moon descriptions, but I liked this one a lot.

The Big Clock by Kenneth Fearing started out slow. George Stroud works for a conglomerate of magazines in their Crimeways department. He is a simple family man with a wife and daughter, but his dreams and ambitious are big. When he has an affair with his boss’s girlfriend and she winds up bludgeoned to death things get a little tricky. It’s a story of conspiracy and cat and mouse. George must prove his innocence when everything points to the contrary. Once it gets going it’s fascinating!
From The Big Clock: “The eye saw nothing but innocence, to the instincts she was undiluted sex, the brain said here was a perfect hell” (p 383), “He said how nice Georgette was looking which was true, how she always reminded him of carnivals and Hallowe’en” (p 385) and “I could feel the laborious steps her reasoning took before she reached a tentative, spoken conclusion” (p 393).
What Nancy Pearl had to say, “…edgy corporate-as-hell thriller” (Book Lust p 66).

Nightmare Alley was intriguing on many different levels. It was the ultimate “what goes around comes around” story. The lives of carnival entertainers serves as the backdrop for Stanton Carlise’s rise and fall. He joins the carnival and soon picks of the tricks of Zeena, the Seer. Once Stan the Great learns the craft (an inadvertently commits murder) he leaves the carny and sets out on his own as a Mentalist, becoming greedier and greedier for taking the sucker’s buck. Soon he passes himself off as a priest with the capability of bringing loved ones back from the dead. Constantly running from troubles in his own life Stan gets himself deeper and deeper until no one is trustworthy.

I Married a Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich was probably my favorite. You don’t know much about Helen Georgesson before she assumes the identity of Patrice Hazzard. The facts are Helen is a pregnant girl, riding the rails with 17 cents to her name. A chance encounter and a terrible accident leave Helen with a case of mistaken identity. For the opportunity to start life anew and give her baby a better life Helen accepts Patrice’s identity as her own. Living the life of luxury doesn’t come easy when Helen’s past comes to town and threatens to unveil her true self.

BookLust Twist: Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s can be found in Book Lust in the chapter, “Les Crimes Noir” (p 65).

Destroying Stupid Part I

I had saved all of my other ramblings from ThatSpace. Kept them in a book for some odd reason. Yesterday, I started rereading them. Today I started destroying them. Yesterday they meant something. Today they are stupid. In between the lines I found a few words worth saving, but for the most part I enjoyed destroying stupid.

  • It is not what was said that has cut into my self respect. It’s the justification that followed. I am walking anger. ~ March 13, 2006
  • There is no drama in my marriage, no Jezebel moments. ~March 28, 2006
  • I have faith in 11/06/06. ~ April 6th, 2006.
  • I am ten steps away from my black cloud. ~ April 26th, 2006
  • I make no apologies for choosing not to streak so naked through my rant with reckless, yet vulnerable abandon. ~ July 25, 2006

It’s funny. I think I hold onto all these statements because I remember the moments that prompted them. Isn’t that always the way? You hang onto a hurt because of the way it makes you hate. Well, hate’s a really strong word. I’ll take that one back. And…not all of these favorite quotes come from wanting to bash someone’s head in. April 6th was the day I decided to say something about my sister’s pregnancy. November 6th was the due date. I was hoping for Halloween, but spooky didn’t cooperate. April 26th quote was a bout of melancholy that had nothing to do with madness. *sigh*

These are the days I will remember. For the rest there’s destroying stupid.

You Are My Sunshine

There comes a time when you have to let down your guard. Relax. You have to give up the devices that keep you from being your true self, such as you really are. Really. There comes a time when I can no longer understand you as you think you are. I cannot pretend. Yes, you with the ego so fragile you have to come across as bragging and boisterous. I really do not understand your lack of humility or modesty. Is it a game?Why do you have to let everyone know you think you are the greatest? Do you need to yell to drown out the doubting voices in your head? Always looking to make sure you were heard, you were noticed. Looking for the compliment, begging for the praise. What a good dog. Please don’t. I’m begging you. Don’t. Your constant jokes. Your constant need to be smart. Pathetic. Please relax. You are loved the way you are. Really.

From There You Are Not

I take pieces of you home with me. Little by little, piece by piece. Do you feel yourself diminishing? Do you sense yourself growing smaller? Stealing from home to make a home away from home home. Scouring shorelines for colors of sea tossed glass, speckled, inexplicably beautiful rocks, broken buoys of red and gold. Like a song about romance I steal them all home with me. Vain attempt to bring me back to where I am not.

I cannot bottle the heavy salt air. I cannot take the earthy decay of fallen leaves. I have to leave the sunsets of gold behind. So, instead I take the glass, the rocks, the shells. Bottled and bowled I keep them, cherish them in my home away from home.

Artemis Fowl

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Colfer, Eion. Artemis Fowl. New York: Talk Miramax Books, 2001.

Another book that I finished in a day. I suppose it helped that it’s a book for young adults so it was a breeze to read. The real reason was it was a fun read.

Meet Artemis Fowl. Only 12 years old but already a millionaire – a criminally brilliant millionaire. When we first meet Artemis we learn he is out to kidnap a fairy. Let the games begin! From the very beginning Artemis Fowl is full of folklore. Besides fairies there are goblins, dwarfs, gnomes, a centaur, trolls and the ever tantalizing hoard of gold. Artemis, though only 12, has devised a plan to rid the fairies of their riches by using their own powers against them. For being a childrens’ book it is pretty fast paced and violent.

Favorite lines: “…A ragged apron does not a waiter make” (p 4), and “Holly unhooked a set of wings from their bracket. They were double ovals, with a clunky motor. She moaned. Dragonflies. She hated that model….now the Hummingbird Z&, that was transport” (p50). Can you just see it? Fairies don’t have wings! They have strap-ons! The idea that Holly was “stuck” with Dragonflies rather than her preferred Hummingbirds cracked me up.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, ”

ps~ From what I understand Artemis Fowl was made into a movie. This is one to put on the NetFlix list!

Special thank youuuuu to Kisa Too Cool for posting…

Generation Gap

Me: I still can’t believe my blog has 77 hits today.

Much Older You: Hits? What does that mean?

Me: It means my blog was looked at 77 times.

You: Doesn’t that worry you, having 77 people look at your stuff?

Me: Well, it could also be one person going back 77 different times.

You: Oh. Well. That’s much better. That must mean they like you.

Me: ??? Um. Errr…If you say so…

Special thanks to the Love of my life for posting…

Big If

Costello, Mark. Big If: a Novel. New York: W. W. Norton, 2002.

I love it when everything about a book comes together. Meaning, when the plot is exciting and moves along like a river after a good hard rain and characters are detailed and dynamic and even the small stuff is interesting. When all these things come together I can’t put a book down. I read this over the weekend. that should tell you something.

Jens and Vi Asplund are adult siblings with very different lives. Jens lives in New Hampshire with his real estate wife and toddler son. He spends his days as a computer programmer writing programs for violent video games his patriotic father never approved of. His sister, Violet is Secret Service bodyguard sworn to protect the life of the Vice President of the United States during an election campaign. She has nothing that resembles a social life, a love life, or even a home life. If she is lonely she would never admit it.

Big If  takes you inside the creative and neurotic genius of software programmers. Simultaneously, you are drawn into every potential threat made to high powered public officials, as well as reliving old threats-come-true like the assassination attempt on President Reagan. Jens and Vi couldn’t have different lives and seem worlds apart…until they collide.

Favorite line: “This was another Rocky trick, fukc this legalistic sh!t, talk to crazy people in the crazy people language” (p36).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “New England Novels” (p 177).

Special thanks to the Hot One for posting…

Same Old Song

Funny. I wrote this on October 5th, 2006. Listen to it as October 10th 2008 and ask yourself – what, if anything, has changed?

We will rise before the sun and face the day with the thought that today will be different from the day before. Much different. We will look towards coffee as the great motivator but really, in our heart of hearts, it will be the open road. We will stop for alcohol and then when we can drive no more, stop for the sea. When we reach the ocean we will know we can go no further. We will ride the waves and smell the salt. I can’t speak for her but I will breathe. Breathe in and out. Breathe like I haven’t in days. We will spot my mother and gossip all the way up the hill. We will finally drop our bags in sighing relief and a great sense of freedom. We will call our husbands while drinking wine and staring out over the ocean. Distracted. What we won’t do is talk about work because we promised. We will (try to) keep that promise. For love and sanity, we will.

I came across this…as I was packing. How perfect is that? Nothing has changed. I could have written this yesterday. Or next year. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Talking to Myself Again


I am very used to talking to myself while driving; having full conversations while cooking alone; debating the issues with me and moi in the shower. It’s all been said before – to myself. What I’m not used to is talking to myself when I *think* someone else is supposed to be listening; getting the message, and responding. It’s been happening a lot and I think it’s driving me crazy.

The first time was when I was on the phone with mum. Blah blah blah. We can talk for hours. That’s my fault. I call once a month or less. We have a lot of catching up to do. The last time I was going on and on about something – not important because even I can’t remember what it was – when all of a sudden my mother is asking hello? hello? like I had hung up on her. How long had I been blathering? More importantly, how long had I been talking to myself? How much did she didn’t get? Sighing and ignoring my husband’s bemused look with raised eyebrow, I started from the beginning.

Then there’s the small incident with texting. I was deep in conversation when all of a sudden I noticed my last three texts had gone unanswered. Was I texting to myself? Was I a disconnected dork? Feeling a little put out I shut off my phone and buried it under a bag.

Most recently there was FaceBook. I have to admit I think there is a conspiracy afoot. FB and Google have me good. My problem is I am too rushed to notice if my email is a Facebook message or a real, honest-to-goodness email. Lately, I am assuming the latter and write back these big long, dramatic, here’s everything that has been going on with me emails. I pour out my trials and tribulations leaving no detail untyped. With great satisfaction and a feeling of connectedness I click send on my communication….only to have message delivery failure message pop up because the message I thought I was responding to wasn’t actually an email.

I don’t think there is a moral to the story. I don’t think there is a cure for what ails me. I will always talk to myself in some fashion. Waiting for someone to respond is just part of the game, I guess. In the meantime, I guess I should log onto FaceBook and answer some messages or walls or whatever!

Accidental Tourist ~with spoiler

Tyler, Anne. The Accidental Tourist. New York: Berkley, 1985.

This was a reread. I couldn’t remember anything about it and rules are rules: if I don’t remember the plot, I don’t remember the main characters or, I don’t remember how it ended I read it again. This one was a cinch. I reread it in a day.

Macon Leary is a man stuck in his ways. He’s so eccentric I almost disliked him in the beginning…until I met his family. They’re all the same way. Macon is the author of unique travel books centered around business travel. The problem is Macon doesn’t like to travel, doesn’t like meeting new people, doesn’t like being in unfamiliar places. Upon separating from his wife Macon’s whole life turns upside down. He learns how to feel emotions, to see the world as if through the eyes of a completely different person. The Accidental Tourist takes you on a journey of awakening and growth.

Lines that hooked me: “Could you really drive a car without reversing?” (p 18). Okay, not the most poetic of lines, but here’s the story: Kisa has a coworker who consistently parks in the turn around instead of using the lot – the huge lot. We used to complain about it until we found out his car couldn’t reverse!
“”She always seemed about to fall over the brink of something” (p 63). Love the imagery!
“Macon got out Miss MacIntosh just for something to pin his mind to” (318). It was at this moment that I knew Macon loved Muriel and would return to her. Don’t ask me why.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Real Characters” (p 197). Incidentally, The Accidental Tourist was made into a movie. I’m thinking if Nancy Pearl ever writes another Lust book she should include books made into movies (worth seeing). I’m betting she would include this one.