John Mayer- Don’t Trust Myself
Just had to share a little more…for Pam. 🙂
BubbleGum II
Just had to share a little more…for Pam. 🙂
Category: Good
Just had to share a little more…for Pam. 🙂
Standing at a Distance
There is something about seeing someone on TV. There is something about that distance that dumbs them down, makes them less human. Untouchable. Unreal.
I think I was feeling that way about John Mayer. BubbleGum. KISA gives me presents in the form of tivo’ed programming. They have allowed me to Gum out again and again. He’ll patiently roll his eyes and gently say, “oh. him again. okay.” *sigh*
But, last night was in person. We had great seats and a cooperative crowd. My husband would not agree, but I enjoyed everyone sitting down. I’m short. I hate having to peer around heads and in between shoulders. Constantly shifting to catch glimpses. It makes for a long night.
If I had known my camera was allowed I would have snapped away…Next time. If there is one.
+ SET LIST
Vultures ( I called this as the opening song)
Good Love is On the Way (“Good love!” “Good love!”)
No Such Thing
I Don’t Trust Myself (With Loving You) BG sometimes introduces this song as “a song about being a bastard” but this time he said he was a “crazy lover.” Whatever.
I Don’t Need No Doctor (a John Scofield tune, introduced because the band is “bored.”)
Bigger Than My Body
The Heart of Life (“it’s all good”)
Belief
Waiting on the World to Change
Why Georgia
I’m Gonna Find Another You
— encore —
Wait Until Tomorrow (He fooled us with a little intro to another Jimi song. This was just as good, if not better.)
Your Body is a Wonderland (this is better live than it could ever be on the radio. Unfortunately, this was the song I had stuck in my head when I woke up.)
Gravity (I called this one, too).
My favorite parts? BubbleGumGuy being funny guy. The drums. Saying JJ’s name like it was something perverted (but, catching him smoke was even better). The drums. Taking the pop out of Heart of Life. The drums. Funky dance moves. KISA giving in to my teenage whims…. I got TWO shirts! 😉 …and did I mention the drums?
Excuse Me While I Get Giddy
Girly giddy. BoyBandGumSnappin’ Giddy. BubbleGum Giddy. Tonight is body-is-a-wonderland-bubble-gum-guy time.
I told my friend of 25 years I am at least 20 years too late for this kind of concert. She knows I didn’t grow up with a boy band to drool over. Oh, sure. I loved Duran Duran, but I loved/adored/worshipped from afar. Far across the ocean afar. Dad didn’t park outside the civic center, station wagon engine running as he didn’t run through the dos and don’ts driven by teenage angst. I didn’t sit there, toe tapping, heart palpitating, one hand on the door, waiting for his release. I’m behind when it comes to being a screaming lovestruck girly girl.
I want to buy a t-shirt. I heart JM. But, that would be wrong. That implies attraction and BubbleGum is not the adjective. He calls himself Chewbacca, as in the walking carpet from StarWars and yup, I agree. Scary. I wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley, tuxedo or not. Really scary with or without the monkey suit. No, I want to buy the shirt (I Heart JM, seriously) because it’s something I missed out on doing when I was 16.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’ll get sucked in when someone intrigues me. BubbleGum has that intrigue. It’s rumored that he knows Japanese. It’s fact he’s funny. It’s rumored he suffers from anxiety. It’s fact he is generous. It’s rumored he’s a family man. It’s fact he can play the guitar. Rumor & fact aside, I like him. I was the same way when I first met the members of sirsy. They were so down to earth, friendly and welcoming that it completely influenced how I heard their sound. That kind of thing mattered. It still does…with BubbleGum. So, excuse me while I get giddy.
ps~ Okay, I know I didn’t fool some of you with this blog. I’ll admit it…it’s JJ I’m giddy about! If only the heartbeat had his own t-shirt. *sigh*
Amy & Isabelle
Strout, Elizabeth. Amy & Isabelle. New York: Vintage Books, 1998.
By sending me a copy last year, my sister introduced Amy & Isabelle way before Nancy did. An advanced reader copy, in fact. This was a BookLust reread because I couldn’t remember how it ended (one of the book lust rules is remembering the story). I think I read it too fast the first time around. That always happens to me with the really good ones. I tear through words and pages and chapters because I need to know What Happens Next. And Next. And Next. I think I’ve said it before, but I sift through words, looking for phrases that catch my imagination, rattle my heart. I underline them to lay claim to them. My favorite from Amy & Isabelle is from page 232, “…and then roof of her life collapsed…” I also to admit I was excited to see the words ‘jesum crow’ (p.224). I spell it j-e-e-z-u-m but I think the phase is a Maine thing through and through. (Amy & Isabelle takes place in Maine.)
Isabelle and Amy are in a typical mother-daughter relationship. Amy is a coming-of-age 16 year old. This is the story of her alienation from her mother, thanks to an exploration of sexuality that her mother, Isabelle is not ready to admit her daughter is capable of, much less ready for. They live alone with each other and must deal with their love/hate struggles without the distraction or guidance or stability of a man to call husband or father. The psychology of this story runs pretty deep. When Amy gets her period for the first time her mother shoves pamphlets at her, thinking it’s better than how her mother handled it by not saying anything at all.
BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “It was a Dark & Stormy Novel” (p128).
Homeward Bound
Well. I should clarify. I’m bound by home but I’m not homeward bound…not yet, anyway. KISA & I have started the planning process. The date has been set, the house has been booked. So, we’re on a roll, so to speak. Figuring out when to go is half the battle.
I’m excited about this upcoming stay. We’ve rented a childhood’s friend’s childhood home. It will be like living in the house of childhood past. How much has it changed? What will I remember? Will I find the crayon scrawl I made behind the closet door? I can remember it like it was yesterday. Inspired by Harold I held a purple crayon. Hunkered down I drew a purple heart with a pounding heart. Will it still be there?
We asked friends to come with us. We always go through this process with trepidation. Will our friends “survive” the island? It’s always a crapshoot. No electricity. No Xbox. No cell phone. Who can take that kind of isolation without going crazy within the hour? When deciding who to ask we always throw around names and take bets. What are the odds? Does she blowdry her hair? Does he have to check his email all the time? Can they walk a mile? Live without Big Mac? To get the island is to get me.
Flowing Grace
I took a class last night at Now & Zen Yoga that was this side of unique. Live music. Different instructor. New moves. Lots more bodies. At first I was nervous. All around me people were bending and holding poses I could only imagine achieving. Poses I hope to achieve someday. I think it was that hope that helped me relax. There was time to have a conversation with me, myself and moi and we discovered a tight hamstring and a small tension in between the shoulder blades. We spent the rest of time before class working out the kinks and the insecurity.
When class finally started I forgot all about the hamstring. I barely noticed the back. Everything flowed in the fun. Some poses were brand new for me but I bravely tried every single one, even the binding ones I didn’t think I was ready for. I forgot about the neighbors, but never the music. It stayed with me, flowed through me. Pulses of beat, pulses of courage.
At the end of class the instructor asked us to think about our practice, to think about the goals we set for ourselves. I thought about how back in the beginning of January all I wanted was a daily practice. In that daily practice I had hoped to find three little things – relief, confidence and peace. Relief for my knee, confidence in my movements, and peace in everything else. Okay, so the peace thing isn’t exactly a “little” thing. I was asking a lot with the peace part. I wanted calm. I wanted patience. I needed Grace. Basic. Relaxation. In class I realized I had moved beyond wanting relief, confidence and peace. I could now add comfort to the mix. I am ready to embrace something for the soul. Stretch beyond the physical to the spiritual.
Love Like That
I am loved. KISA is out in the dying light trying to snow-blow the driveway. Make that drivewayS. Grandpa, parents, and of course us. We are all snowbound. He is a bundled up black head to toe snowman, home from a full day at work, trudging behind a loud machine. I know the kid in him enjoys throwing snow 30 feet into the air, but the adult hates the cold. I’ve put on hot water for mocha and I’ve cranked the thermostat (this is a big deal). Anything to alleviate some of my guilt for being inside and warm.
I am loved. Sometimes it takes me a looong time to accept that. Sometimes I take it for granted. Ms Me, Myself & Moi received two packages of love. I’m still trying to get over the goodness of the guys.
GN~ You are my favorite heartbeat. Your gift. It. Blew. Me. Away…seriously. I don’t know what else to say. Out of the blue. I’ve already submerged myself in a little Neil and a little more Carter. I am giddy over the “red sparkle kit” and “the analysis”. Okay, I love the analysis. I’ve always been a Dave fan…I don’t know how to repay You. Well, I do. I’m working on it. We’re working it. Blown Away. I can’t stop smiling thinking of all the good “noise” I have to watch and hear and love. Thank You. PS~ Can’t wait for Vol. II – will it be You? 🙂
SPB~ You crack me up. Did you remember I’m earthtones or was that a lucky guess? I love, love, love my new look. I’ll confess I went to work wearing the same DragoRossi I slept in. I got strange looks at the faculty meeting but at least I was comfortable. I don’t know what made you put me on your list, but I’m glad you did. If there is anyone who knows the benefit of soft clothing (besides Ruby) it’s you. I’m grateful for the spot in your heart even if I don’t deserve it.
Valentine’s Day is being reconsidered. I’m sorry for the cynical. Love works in mysterious ways. I won’t even try to figure it out. It makes me cry just attempting to sort it out. Just know that it’s there for you. Love. You. Thank. You.
Valentine’s Day Rethunk
KISA just sent me this link, asking me to check out tiger lily. If that’s the case screw the cactus. I’ll take a dozen tigers.
Love me if you dare.
Against the Grain
In the spirit of that day I bought my husband a ticket to see The Pink Floyd Experience. On the surface this looked like a bad gift of torture for my KISA. He hates cover bands and that’s exactly what PFE is. Obviously. Well, not so obvious. In college I was treated to a Pink Floyd “Light Show”. We sat slumped in a darkened auditorium, heads tilted back, watching the ceiling for strobe lights and laser beams in purple and green. They played the real deal – the entire Dark Side album. I had a stiff neck for days afterwards and walked around with my head tilted to one side as if I suffered from being constantly curious or confused. Those of us who stayed for the entire show (those who didn’t mutter, “this sucks” as they made for the nearest exit), all had the crooked look.
But, I digress. This Pink Floyd Experience was certainly an experience. Three rows back from the stage and dead center. I couldn’t have picked a better seat for myself. Right smack in front of the drummer. After the first deafening song (In the Flesh) KISA leaned over and stated matter-of-factly, “well, they don’t suck.” I have to tell you – that’s always good to hear in reference to a gift given.
As KISA & I furtively traded candies back and forth (one piece per song), the rest of the show was a mix of surprises. Starting with staring at the band members. All but one were old enough to be original members of Floyd. Water’s “character” looked like a metal rocker complete with long black hair, tight black pants and muscle tee. He kept pointing at things, showing off massive guns. I wanted to ask him which way to the gym just to see him flex. Several other members of the band looked like they belonged with the Dead. Again, we’re talking orginal line-up. The only guy who didn’t look like he stepped out of the late 60’s/early 70’s was the sax/cowbell dude. He had a metrosexual haircut and a pretty boy face. During his solos beams of light haloed his entire body, giving rock god status to an otherwise unassuming, slight figure. His coolest part was later when, umbrella in hand, he donned a suit of light bulbs ala The Delicate Sound of Thunder. So cool. In addition, we were treated to an amazing display of vocal range from Mr. Metal (my head still hurts from that), amazing bass solos, and there was even a flying pig.
The Setlist (thanks, Roadie Dude!):
1 –
- (Tigers Intro)
- In the Flesh
- Happiest Days of Our Lives
- Another Brick (pt 2)
- Shine On You Crazy Diamond #1-5 (one of my faves)
- Young Lust
- Sorrow (intro)/Have a Cigar/Sorrow (outtro)
- Sheep (I could have sworn they were going to bring out the pig at this point)
- One of These Days (video of military leaders, marching armies and war freaked me out)
2-
- Astronomy Domine
- Breathe/On the Run/Time/Breathe Reprise
- Great Gig in the Sky/Money (very green song)
- Us & Them/Any Color You Like
- Brain Damage/Eclipse
Encore
- Hey You
- Comfortably Numb
- Run Like Hell
Is There a Nutmeg in the House?
David, Elizabeth. Is There a Nutmeg in the House; Essays on Practical Cooking with More Than 150 Recipes. New York: Viking, 2001.
Elizabeth David writes with humor. She also writes about cooking. My kind of book. Sorta. In the rules of the Book Lust Challenge, I said that I wouldn’t read cookbooks from start to finish. I would read the intros and “skip” the recipes. I didn’t want to try every recipe; didn’t want to be David’s version of a Julia Child fanatic. Here’s the issue I have with Nutmeg. Essays run seamlessly into recipes and commentaries. I end up reading about how to make mayonnaise (my archenemy) step by step.
Nevertheless, I have learned interesting things such as:
*the potato is an aphrodisiac, capable of advancing a man’s “withered state” (p. 73). I kid you not.
*Nutmeg is underrated and people should carry graters with them to utilize this spice more often (p. 93).
*David hates garlic presses as much as I do (p.51).
Probably one of the best things I’ve learned from reading David’s Nutmeg isn’t really a lesson. It’s more of an affirmation – to “not to despair over rice” (p.139). While I don’t despair over any kind of rice per se thanks to Alton Brown and a whole episode dedicated to the grain, David’s words ring true with me on a deeper level, “Every amateur cook, however gifted and diligent, has some weak spot, some gap in her knowledge or experience which to anyone critical of her own achievements can be annoying and humiliating.” This statement even knocks the great ones down a notch. Ever seen Bobby lose a throw down? You get what I’m talking about.
BookLust Twist: Nancy Pearl adds this to her “Food for Thought” chapter in Book Lust (p.91) and goes on to say, “…Elizabeth David not only shares her love of food and cooking but writes so evocatively that you can smell and taste the ingredients and dishes as she describes them.”
Manchester Manic
We went to Manchester last night. Dinner ran late because of a dining dilemma. Fridays sorted it out and one of the best meals in ages was had. It’s nice not to be so manic about showing up on time to a show. Get there when we get there is cool by me. The music is getting better and better all the time, though. Drums are getting fuller and heavier. Guitar solos are becoming more complicated and achingly beautiful. Each song is developing more and more personality and deeper depth. To elaborate further would imply criticism of an earlier effort so I’ll leave it at that. My review of the heart. I said evolution and I meant it. I have decided I want to start a new Delicious trend involving the filler in the near end chorus.
The music is what gets me. Still. Always has, always will. I make no excuses for the love of the sound. I’ll continue to invite people to shows. I’ll still be disappointed when they don’t show. I’ll still buy every shirt and testify that thongs are all that. I’ll go the distance despite the fall from grace. I’ll admit, it’s terrible to be trapped under the weight of insecurity, or worse, isolation. Gone are the days of These Are Days. I convinced KISA to stay until the very end despite a headache and a long drive home. Still, I take the blame for him not hearing his favorite song. There is nothing I can do about it. It was my request. I’m at the end of my mania. There are no new listeners to reel in; no new three-day weekend roadtrips to take. I’m at a dead end and to some it looks like indifference. Life moves in mysterious ways. Priorities of promotion have appeased me. The choices we make aren’t necessarily the easier ways out. But. I’m still trying.
I want to thank B with all my heart. With the warm hug and beautiful smile I feel as if you were there just for me. One birthday drink and you were gone. Too soon, my friend. So, thanks for making me feel so special and I’ll see you in Danbury!
Time Out
I’m declaring tonight Time Out Time. I cleared the schedule, cancelled Boston and called in my favors. Tonight it’s time to recharge the batteries. No. That’s not it. I’m not run down or worn out. Okay, maybe I’m a little tired since Dot came to town, but that’s not the half of it. I need me. I miss me. By nature I’m a solitary girl. I like being alone-alone. Me, Myself & Moi all hanging out, talking to ourselves. I want to do the laundry from start to finish. Not a wash here, four hours later a dry there. Folding five days later. And forget about putting it away. I still have piles of laundry sitting on the floor outside my closet – From Monday. I have piles of paperwork, begging to be sorted. I’ve lost track of what bills are due and which my husband quietly paid while I wasn’t paying attention. 
Distracted. I have been too distracted by work and things are starting to fray. Don’t get me wrong – having dinner with friends has been awesome and the catching up was way overdue. Monday night was the bomb because of the bond. Okay, the cheesecake was boss, too. Even on the way home I thought of things to babble. If only my cell phone wasn’t trapped in the pocket blocked by the seatbelt! Wednesday night was all about VentVentVent. Bending the ear of someone who has no clue. Not involved in any way, shape or form. Probably the best way I know to get unbiased help on IM, Podcasting, Second Life, VoIp, Domain names…you name it. Nice to not have to call the director on the carpet, but rather sweep her under the rug. I can’t think about that anymore, either. Like I said, frayed.
I want to whip up a girly mudmask to combat the zip that’s been hanging out on my cheek all week. I want to spend an hour in restorative poses while Yungchen sings to me. I want to read a chapter from each of the five books I’m supposed to be reading. I still haven’t written thank you letters from Christmas – not to mention my birthday. I’m hugged in a maternity sweater from my-not-pregnant-anymore sister and she doesn’t even know I got it, let alone how much I appreciate her hysterical gifts. She’s right – I wouldn’t give up the lobster, either!
I just need to get back to me. I’m doing things halfassed lately. Yoga is a quick 5-15 minutes. Reading is a sentence here, a paragraph there. Knitting is a few rows, a few purls in between. Plants are drooping. Piles of laundry are growing. Taxes are lurking. I should get to them before I have to put out an APB on my W2.
To those of you I promised Boston to: Saturday. I will be where I said I would. Promise.
SoapBoxRant
It’s starting again. Those commercials and catalog “sales”. All getting ready for that day. Some people call it the Hallmark Holiday. Some people call it Emotional Blackmail or the TakeMeForAllI’mWorthBecauseIEnjoyBeingSuckedDry day. I call it the most annoying “holiday” from hell. I’m talking about Valentine’s Day. You know the one, always falls on February 14th. It’s the excuse of the lonely to whine about the state of their loneliness. It’s the prerogative of the newly in love to be even more PDA about their relationship. It’s the guilt-inducing, high-hoping, let-down day of the month that I (obviously) can’t stand.
When I first met my husband, back when he was barely even a potential date I ranted to him about VD. I’m sure he thought I was trying to impress him by not being “that chick” but I was serious. He sent me flowers. Two days before 2/14. The card said, “Happy Friday?” It was Friday. My kind of guy.
I hate the idea that people expect a gift on Valentine’s Day. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all about someone thinking of me, but not if it’s because the calendar said to. I don’t ever want someone to buy me flowers because “it’s the thing to do on 2/14.” Forget about chocolate – that’s just as bad. Is it so strange to want a cactus on January 12th? Is it odd for me to say, “give me something sour on All Souls Day”, or “surprise me with pickles and peanut butter next Tuesday”? I love roses, but not if I can predict not only their color, but their arrival date as well. Where is the fun in that? What’s worse is the thought of someone struggling to buy something just because 2/14 is the day to do it. Add the guilt of forgetting and it’s even worse. I hate, hate, hate it. I know I’m in the minority and that’s okay. There are legions of Love Day lovers out there. They’ve joined ranks with the I-Have-To-Have-A-Date-For-New-Years-Eve people (another ridiculous notion). My thinking is outnumbered by “Thinking of You” cards decorated with red and pink hearts. Shoot me now. Send me a cactus while you’re at it.
End SoapBoxRant. thank you.
Perfect Day
Glamour sent me a Happy Birthday email and asked me how I would describe my perfect day. I can’t really detail the days that haven’t happened, even those wildest fantasy days, so I drew on something from long ago. This was my perfect day.
We were best friends, you and I. Back before your cousin showed me his meaning of best friend. Back before life got in the way. Back before adulthood and responsibility. We were friends.
We would start the day, you and I, by foraging for breakfast. We’d shamelessly stand begging for donuts at TY’s door, then climb knotty crab apple trees to eat the fruit whole, crunching through worm holes, seeds and not ripe cores (and the occasional worm).
We’d roll down Store Hill coming to a jumbled stop in bunches of sweet wild clover; a midmorning snack. Never mind grass stains or stares.
We’d head to Arnie’s Beach for elusive milk of magnesia blue sea glass and Arnie. We’d slide down rocks, over the slimy-spit laden seaweed and into the ocean until our shorts were stained black and worn through in places. Turn over rocks hoping to catch a crabby crab. Stare into tide pools waiting for the minnows to dart by. Smash perriwinkles with rocks for a raw lunch.
Skip pebbles on the Ice Pond’s tranquil face and laugh about an earlier prank. Look for coins in illegal faerie houses and steal every penny without guilt. Roll over mossy logs to look for black and yellow salamanders and gray leggy potato bugs. Dirt clogging our fingernails and hair.
Climb the big chestnut tree in Lex’s yard, get lost in the leaves and yell lewd things at the tourists, “You have big boogers, lady!” Jump down to scare the city slickers. Hide in lobster cars if that wasn’t enough. Give them the wrong directions to Lobster Cove if we wanted more.
Penny candy at Zim’s: fireballs and Swedish fish, Bit o Honeys and Bazooka Joes.
Wander to the dock to lay flat on our bellies. Playing I-Spy with the harbor’s bottom. Peer through the rippled water; the toilet bowl was off-limits because it was always there.
Take the skiff out for a round-the-harbor row, trailing fingers and toes in the icy water’s wake.
Climb to lighthouse lawn and play lion, tying knots of tall grass over our heads for forts.
If there was time, drop in Treetops for mocha and markers. As the sun set over the water and the end of day was near we would head for home. You for dinner, I late for curfew as usual. We could tell by the bell. Covered with sweet dirt and sticky candy. We swore, you and I, we had a rubber band between us; a band that would stretch and stretch until we each got home. You’d yell “got it?” and I’d call back “yes”. Back and forth through the neighborhood until we couldn’t hear each others’ fading voices. We swear the band wouldn’t break until we got to our front doors safely. You and I. A perfect day. To this day I don’t see a rubber band and not think of you.
PS~ I never did meet Arnie.
High
I started last night not knowing where I was going. When you’re on a treadmill you never know where you are going to end up. We are all gerbils going nowhere, but the emotional, mental end of the journey is a different story. Luckily for me it ended up being my best run in nine months. I rediscovered the elusive runners’ high. I was drowning in the electric buzz for hours afterwards.
It started out like any other run. The Cage was busy so I had to exert energy just to block out the bad music overhead and the bad conversations overheard. My KISA to the left of me & some teenage boy to the right of me. I’m drawn to competition so I kept a lazy, easy eye on both boys (more on that later).
I’m trying something new with the warmup – instead of walking for a few minutes I’m immediately jogging at a gentle pace right out of the gate. Something just shy of speed walking (4.2 for you treadmill junkies). I find that it gets me in the right frame of mind that much sooner. I can get to a good runner’s pace that much easier. Before long I found myself chugging along at a 9.5 minute mile. Feeling no pain. At one point my KISA pointed out our comparative calories burned and competition kicked in again. I upped the incline and pressed on faster. He laughed and I gave up. But, here’s what I learned from this run: when I push myself beyond my limits I reach a mental ecstasy. There is a spreading warmth all over my body; a warmth that hugs me close and lasts for hours. I’m hugged by the high. I literally walk around in a haze, a protective bubble of buzz. I feel like I’m floating and well, euphoric. I can’t explain it any other way: the euphoric groove. I realize there is nothing wrong with treadmill running. The belt below me forces continuous motion from me, myself and moi. I can’t slow down, I can’t even think about quitting. But the thing is, I’m not chained to the gerbil cage. The wheel is not my only running place. It’s not my prison. I realize I have the open road, the great fresh-air outdoors. I am not a wimp. I am not a baby. I will not limit my run to the coddled comfort of indoor containment. There is nothing wrong with getting my butt outside to chase that elusive high. I want it back.
Bottom line: 3.48 miles
~*LunaSea*~ 
