I knew I should have gone out tonight. There was a LiveFeed show I wanted to catch (Japanese Bat Bomb), but it’s frigid. And I have a cold. And I’m tired. I could probably still get there in time, but that weird bump thing on my head is making a weird noise, so I should probably stay home. Besides, someone has to be here to wake up Brian an hour after he falls asleep while putting Clara Jane to bed, and the dogs suck at it.

I’ve spent my evening knitting cupcakes, eating M&Ms one at a time, and watching a two-hour thing on History Channel about cults. They’re not even trying anymore; I’m sure I’d seen all of the footage in other programs about cults.

I’m bored. Knowing myself, I make great strides to not get bored, because when I get bored I get into trouble.

Today, I spent some time researching the address of a local Christian men’s organization that’s requesting a boycott of Hallmark because they’re selling cards geared for gay couples. Thought it would be a good idea to concoct a plan to encourage people to buy said cards and mail them to said organization. My research was useless, as the organization included the address in their press release.

When boredom isn’t making me do stupid things, it tends to get me overexcited to the point where I miss the really obvious.

I spent two days this week sneezing. Clara Jane woke up doing the same this morning, so going out to buy said cards wasn’t an option. That’s probably just as well.

Maybe tomorrow will be more entertaining. There’s a chance I might hang out with two people from my childhood. Well, sort of. One of them lived in my hometown, was a grade ahead of me, went to a different elementary school, and moved before we would have went to the same middle school. I don’t think we’ve actually met in person. We got acquainted on Ravelry last year while she was living in Japan.  The other person was in her fourth grade class, and we played on our high school tennis team together for two years. We’ve reconnected on Facebook, which is making me actually want a high school reunion. I’ve never wanted a high school reunion, but I’m finding that a lot of people I didn’t know very well back then have turned out pretty cool. Anyway, we might have a little get-together tomorrow.

I hope so, although by then I might be so stir-crazy that I might suggest road tripping to the hometown for a Guberburger and some wine coolers at The Ruins.

I’m blogging solely because I’m bored. Not because I have anything to say other than, bored. Hating weather extremes that stifle my mobility and creativity. The highlight of my day? While listening to my umpteenth hour of Little Steven’s Underground Garage, I discovered my new theme song: “Rock n’ Roller Girl” by The Mooney Suzuki. Ah, a tale of an aging rock chick. “You may be growing older/But you’ll never be older than/dinosaur bones./And you’ll never be/older than The Ramones.” I’ll bet the girl in the song gets bored and would do stupid stuff, if she had the energy. Pure genius, that song.

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Yesterday morning, Chloe the basset hound pulled down the Christmas tree. When Brian righted it, rather precariously, Romi the feline knocked it down. Assuming they weren’t the culprits of the original tree-felling two weeks ago, that means every animal in this house has knocked over the tree, which means Christmas is officially over. The end. Burn that motherfucker. Let’s see if my little pack of morons will try to pull the charred remains from the fireplace. I wouldn’t put it past them.

In celebration of the end of this skewed holiday, Brian and I hit the final in a series of 15th anniversary shows by The Bottle Rockets. You might remember our last BRox experience, when we took Clara Jane to see their in-store at Euclid Records a few months ago in hopes that she’d stop making me play “Radar Gun” for her 30 times a day. Not that I minded. I’ll take 30 Bottle Rockets repeats over 30 Laurie Berkner repeats any day.

This time we went sans kid, since it was an over 21 show. Good thing, too, because although my kid can boogie, she probably would have been pretty cranky after three hours of booty-shaking that ended at 1 a.m. I also don’t like it when people slosh beer on my kid, but I kind of like it when it happens to me.

It’s probably been around 15 years since I went to my first Bottle Rockets show. Ah, back in my college days, and all those Uncle Tupelo, Pale Divine (who are having a reunion show tomorrow night and I find myself completely nonplussed), early Wilco and the BRox. I remember seeing them in October, 1994, opening for Wilco about a week before my birthday. I’d probably piss my drawers to get a chance to see that again.

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I love whirlwind trips. Just enough time to get away and have some fun, not enough time to get bored, homesick, or frustrated. I’ve made a lot of visits to a lot of cities that lasted around 24 hours. This weekend’s jaunt to Philly was no exception. On a plane by 10:55 A.M. Central time. On the ground in Philly by 2 P.M. Eastern time. Cheesesteak virginity lost by 4 P.M. Rocking out to some live Wilco by 8:30 P.M. Closing down a bar at 2 A.M. Awake by 9:30 A.M. Lunch at a respectable noon. Back on a plane at 3 P.M. On the ground in St. Louis by 4:30 P.M. Central. Home by 6.

We could have seen Wilco opening for Neil Young in Detroit, which is a smidge closer to us and Kristina, who joined us from Akron. I’ve been to Detroit so many times, and I’ve never been to Philly. It cost the same to fly to either, so Philly it was. For the first few hours I was really wishing I’d stuck with good ol’ Motown, but then I met Pat.

I’d sworn that during the brief Philly jaunt, I was going to keep it cheap by consuming nothing but cheese steak and Yuengling. When Kristina’s flight landed, she informed me that she was going to gnaw off her own arm post-haste if she didn’t get fed, so off we went to South Philly (which was actually north of where we were staying) to start the Pat’s vs. Geno’s game.

In case you haven’t watched 248,480 hours of Food TV in your lifetime, as I have, let me explain: Pat’s and Geno’s are rival cheesesteak stands, located across the street from each other. Both are open 24 hours a day. Both insist that orders be given in English. Both insist that you say “wit” instead of “with”, which makes me wonder why they’re such sticklers for the language. Both feature an arm’s length of white bread stuffed with meat and cheese.

We went to Pat’s, because we didn’t know if we could walk the extra feet to Geno’s without severing limbs.

You know how stuff that gets slapped with the “Philly cheesesteak” label elsewhere in the country is generally a pile of greasy bell peppers, onions, and mozzarella? I ask you, how did that devolve from the pristine beauty of this:

That’s a steak wit Wiz, which means a cheesesteak sandwich with onions and Cheez Wiz. Shut up. Unless you’ve had the Wiz on this sandwich, you don’t know what Wiz is. Wit or witout onions.

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I get that question a lot, as do most parents of only children: am I going to have a second one? In the past I’ve often answered, “I labored 32 hours with this one. That’s enough for three kids. I’m done, but thanks for asking!”. I now have a new answer after yesterday’s field trip with Clara Jane’s class.

My new answer when asked if I’m going to have more children will be, “I can’t have more kids because when I’m left in charge of more than one, I lose them.”

Yesterday was Clara Jane’s first field trip – a morning of apple-picking and farm animals. Seeing as I’m lucky enough to be able to participate in things like field trips, class parties and such, no way was I going to miss this. As I mentioned awhile back, this is a rather affluent school district. I heard a mother from another school joking yesterday about “those _______ __________ Grade School snobs”. This is the kind of school where most of the moms are of the stay-at-home variety; I think we had more chaperons than kids, which is not a bad was to do it.

This is where I refrain from saying bad things about some of the moms. Most of them, I adore. A few of them, I wonder. But isn’t that the case with any group of people? That is all.

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I’ve obviously gotten off-track with NaBloPoMo. The thing about it is, sometimes I’d prefer to live some life instead of gazing at my navel about finding words to describe the experience.

Last night my pal Julie and I went to see The Apples in Stereo to celebrate her birthday, and much fun was had. Good opening acts, too, for once: Big Fish from Lexington, Kentucky, and The Poison Control Center of Ames, Iowa.

Despite the fun and bouncing and good time and good company, I would like to register a complaint. Nay, a lesson in etiquette to concert-goers. I guess having made amends with the last concert-goers I pissed off with my complaints, it’s time to alienate an all-new batch of folks.

1. It’s kind of okay if you push your way to the stage because you’re really excited about the music and want to connect with the artists and the tunes. It’s another entirely if you push your way to the stage so you can talk, text, or make trip after trip and trip to the bar.
2. Do not pretend the people are around you are invisible. If you do this, be prepared for that person to pretend you are invisible. If that means stomping on your strappy-sandaled feet with my One Stars, well, I didn’t see you there. Just like you didn’t see me. Right?
3. If you are a member of one of the opening acts. Say, The Poison Control Center from Ames, Iowa, I understand that perhaps you’re not in a position to hire someone to inform you how to act right, particularly when it comes to winning fans and selling CDs. Let me give you some free advice: don’t fucking pretend a member of the audience who thoroughly enjoyed your set isn’t there when you shove her out of the way to make your way to the front of the stage to chat up the chick who will have bruised feet before the night is through. I understand that perhaps the two free beers from the venue and the pussy may, indeed, got you dizzay. However, that’s not an excuse for being shitty to the people who could perhaps help your career proceed. Those of us who buy a lot of music and go to a hell of a lot of shows. Can’t say your band is one I care to see again, after having seen the back of the lead singer’s head through a portion of the act I paid to see.

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I’m at a coffeehouse in Clarksville, Tennessee, that appears to be of the fundamentalist Christian variety. I’m waiting to receive a massive electrical shock the first time I type the word “fuck” on their Wifi.

Hey. Didn’t happen. I’m slightly disappointed.

I should be driving to get back to St. Louis right now, since I’ve only made it an hour past Nashville. I needed to stop and get my head in order, though. The past few days have been such a whirlwind of crazy fun that thinking about it was starting to affect my driving ability. So I figured I’d get it out of my system while getting a coffee and some soul-saving, apparently.

Tuesday night – My friend Maggie arrived from upstate New York. She’s an English professor, and she’s spending her summer vacation trying to catch as many Nels Cline Singers shows as humanly possible.  I coerced her into driving 14 hours to come with Brian and me to see them in Columbia, Missouri.

Wednesday – Columbia. Deposited child with my parents. Went to the show at one of my favorite clubs. A whopping 37 people showed up. Still, the band played like they were at a huge jazz festival. Mind-blowing. Noisy. Incredible. After the show, while Maggie was being admonished by Nels for buying a ticket instead of letting them put her on The List, I encountered someone I’d had a spat with on the Wilco geek board regarding her behavior at one of the St. Louis shows. It’s in the blog archives if you care to dig it up. I don’t, because it’s water under … something. She recognized me, apologized, I think I apologized, and then we proceeded to talk for so long that I eventually lost my voice. Which is probably why Maggie coerced me into going to Nashville with me. Because a road trip with me when I can’t talk is actually bearable.

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The Nels Cline Singers show in Columbia tonight? Amazing and fantastic. How much so? Tomorrow I’m going to Nashville to see them. Perhaps I’ll tell you about it later. Maybe. If you’re interested.

It’s still Tuesday to me, as I’m still in my clothes.

Last time I did NaBloPoMo, on day fifteen The Cuz and I went to my favorite bar. Tonight, my friend Maggie and I went to the same bar. Now, lest you think I’m a barfly, I don’t get to go to my favorite bar very often. Nothing’s changed. The cooler’s still dead and they’re serving beer out of picnic coolers. Fine with me. Because when you’ve got an evening with a friend who’s driven 14 hours to hang out and go to a concert, bottles of PBR from a picnic cooler, a jukebox loaded with classic Stones, a mutt named Ruby, and a bunch of good ol’ boys watching “Sex and the City” you know you’re going to have a great time.

Tomorrow night, we stalk guitar gods.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me. -Woody Guthrie

When I learned “This Land is Your Land” in elementary school music class, the last three verses were omitted. I heard them for the first time when I was in eighth grade, thanks to my beloved Mr. Springsteen. I didn’t know their significance until well into adulthood, when I started taking an interest in Woody Guthrie. Since he inspired so many of the musicians I love – particularly Bruce Springsteen and Jeff Tweedy – it seemed like I should understand more about Woody than the few verses I’d learned in Miss Ray’s second grade music class.

My primary education in the meaning of “This Land is Your Land” came from the version on Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Live: 1975-85 (3CD) in which Bruce discussed the song as a rebel song for the people, essentially Guthrie giving the finger to Capitalism run amok. I’ve been engrossed in this article today, which expounds on those ideas. I mean, they’re pretty obvious, when you consider the last verses that are so often ignored.

These ideas have been at the forefront of my thoughts about this country for the past year for a lot of reasons. It’s no secret that I’m a liberal with a rebellious streak when it comes to government, and I’ve always believed America to be a country founded by rebels who created a system that encourages citizens to rebel when the government oversteps its bounds.

I’m a fan of the signs that say nothing.

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Holy crap, I’m tire, in spite of falling asleep promptly when Brian arrived home from work. So deep my sleep, I’m told I was barely awake when Clara Jane decided to sit on my head. I vaguely recollect screaming about my hair.

Why so tired? Because last night Brian, Summer, her husband J., Brian’s hetero life partner (otherwise known as Mike), and Mike’s other hetero life partner (Chris) attended a show by the delightful Raconteurs. You kids who dig the live rock and roll and the guitars should by all means catch them if they visit your city, as they will melt your fucking face right off your skull.

I mean, shit! Check them out at Coachella a few months ago. Prepare to catch the goo that once was your face in a proper receptacle. Then multiply that shaky video by 50, and add cups of Schlafly Pale Ale magically appearing in front of you all night and damn, it makes for a good night.

Last time I saw Jack White perform at the Pageant, I was with Kristina, pregnant, overheated, nauseous, and I sort of punched/shoved a guy in his face because he was using my shoulders as a springboard. I blame my hormones, and having spent two nights standing through Miss Pussycat’s fucking opening act puppet shows. How bad was it? Well, this isn’t the puppet show my pregnant ass stood through twice. This is about 1/20th shorter than what I witnessed, and doesn’t feature a main character named Marshall Tucker, but it serves its purpose of illustrating an important fact – puppets at rock shows make me punch people.

While I didn’t particularly go ballistic over last night’s opening act – the Fiery Furnaces – at least they didn’t have puppets. Just a faux Patti Smith who got on my nerves after awhile. But there was the magically-appearing beer, so I didn’t mind that much. Summer’s husband’s yells for more of the “Fiery Infernos” and the “Blazing Furnaces” helped, too.

(After the fact, I’m liking their recorded stuff. Live, I just didn’t get it.)

Anyway, awesome show. Magically-appearing beer. Fabulous company. It wasn’t quite as thrilling as three nights of three-hour Wilco shows, but it was indeed a hell of a good time.

Clara Jane spent the evening at my friend Jill’s house. You know this kid has rarely been babysat, and this was by far the latest we’ve left her with anyone except my parents. When we came rolling into Jill’s at midnight, Clara Jane was in her jammies, clutching her stuffed frog and raccoon, out cold as she had been for several hours. She barely woke up when Brian lifted her from the couch and carried her to the truck. She slept during the few minutes it took us to drive home. And when we got inside the house and headed for bed? Well, that’s when the fiery furnace that is the anger portion of my daughter’s brain opened up and burned us like as if we were Satan’s picnic kebobs.

For the first hour we were home, this child howled for … everything. She wanted to sleep in our bed. She wanted to watch a show. She wanted a drink. But not in that cup. She wanted her stuffed frog and didn’t believe me when I tried to explain to her that she was already clutching said frog to her chest. She wanted world peace, new parents, and for the lead singer of Fiery Furnaces to quit wearing skin-tight 1980s designer jeans and plaid blouses in an ironic manner.

At this point, I’m afraid I might have told my child that she was harshing my mellow.

Today, Brian went to work after three hours of sleep. Clara Jane and I didn’t get out of our pajamas. I slept through having my head sat on and, I’m told, numerous attempts to rouse me for food.

Rocking out is hard work. Shuffling? Only slightly easier.

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