Sep 14
Okay, so I took a slightly longer break than I said. I needed it. It’s been a crazy-busy time and while I wish I’d documented much of what happened, I don’t know when it would have happened.
If you’ve emailed me in that time and I haven’t responded, it’s because I don’t know which direction is up most days. But in a good way.
So, do you want the short version?
Apr 10
Hey World – I’m baaaaack! A week of allergy drugs and gentle stretching have done wonders for returning me to my usually-upright and awake self. Good thing, because I spent three days with Kristina, celebrating her birthday and impeding graduation.
Not everything’s 100% health-wise, though, and I blame Kristina. In the past, when Kristina would visit, musicians would die. She was at my house when Joe Strummer, Johnny Ramone, George Harrison, and the lead singer from Molly Hatchet died. She’s finally stopped killing, though. Instead, she’s implanted a critter that lives under my scalp and fights to escape in her presence. Last time I saw Kristina, back in Philly last December, the giant horn I’ve had on my head suddenly started spouting stuff. Since then, it’s been dormant, only to come to life as soon as she landed on Tuesday. This time, it was pissed. I spent all three days with what I think might be brain matter escaping. I’m afraid it’s the 10% of my brain that I use.
Kristina left yesterday and guess what. Brains are inside. Coincidence?
Feb 3
Did you listen to some Buddy Holly today? He died 50 years ago today, you know. Personally, I think the world would be a better place if everyone listened to at least one Buddy Holly song per day. This morning I awoke to a kid snoring next to me and NPR doing a story about the anniversary with snippets of Buddy’s best sprinkled throughout the story. I normally wake up Clara Jane gently, knowing how much I have always hated obnoxious wake-ups. Today, though, I couldn’t help myself. I woke her by singing along with the songs. By all accounts this should be grounds for requesting a new parent. But she woke up happy. Something about the pure joy conveyed in music made by a young Texan who died far too young a long time ago.
If this doesn’t pluck a chord in your heart, you probably don’t have one. What about this? Are you feeling it? It feels like being alive.
In honor of the day (or by sheer coincidence), I did something that made the music in my soul die a little.
That’s right. I bought tickets to see Morrissey this morning. The girl who could make a career out of making fun of Morrissey. (Invisible hoola-hoops! Morrissey’s biker gang! Quit humping those rocks! None of those lines are mine. Two were coined by Kristina and one by Beavis. Not that this stops me. The one that goes, “When he says he wants to go home, cry, and die, that’s a joke, right?” is all me.) I’m taking Kristina, who loooooves Morrissey to the show for her birthday/finishing her MLIS. I haven’t decided if part of the gift will involve me keeping my big mouth shut at the show, or laughing so hard I piss myself and get thrown out. Either way, it’ll be fun.
Speaking of concerts, I went to one on Saturday. Wanna see a bit of it?
Jan 16
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.
Jan 5
Dear Holidays: End, already!
You know that after Jan. 2, I reserve the right to remove your holiday decorations in any manner I see fit, right? Even though I dearly love the coffeehouse where I’m sitting, if I had a lighter I’d surely be burning the glittery gel stickers and plastics snowflakes off the window beside me. It’s over! Move on!
I had my final burst of spiritedness for the 2008 holiday season yesterday; I happened to be at Target when they brought out the 90% off signs for the Christmas crap. Finally, my Christmas miracle! Since our Christmas tree hit the ground three fucking times this season, most of our ornaments were either destroyed or injured. I spent $25 on new decorations. My reciept informed me that I saved over $190. I was covered in glitter for the rest of the night. 2009 will have a merry Christmas after all. Or, at least, a cheap and pretty one.
I’m so glad to return to normal. Clara Jane’s back in school. I’m at one of the coffeehouses. The Elvis people from Prettytown happened to be at this coffeehouse, even though it’s on the other side of the river. I’m being Elvis-stalked, but that’s a-ok.
Hey! I just had a thought. I think Elvis can help feed some people. I came to the MO side of the river today mainly to meet with Tom from LiveFeed. I’m officially writing for them now. Check out their blog (http://livefeed.org/blog.asp) later today for my first entry. Bookmark it. RSS it. Visit it often. It’s important stuff. Fun, important stuff. Feeding the hungry via live music in St. Louis. C’mon! Why don’t you go read the archives right now? Well, after you finish reading this, of course.
I’m thinking of ways to get local bands to cook and serve meals at local shelters. I can’t believe that while I was making a list of shelters to contact, I missed my opportunity to see if Elvis might cook.
I’m not off to a great start, am I? Ah well. I’ll stick to the word-crafting for now.
Dec 28
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.
Dec 18
Remember two weeks ago, when my dear friend Summer left two bags of puffy Cheetos (and possibly a midsized bottle of Absolut that might have been drunk) on my porch? She’s at it again. Today she showed up with Christmas gifts: two Vosges Mo’s Bacon Bars (that would be a high-end chocolate bar filled with bacon) and a ham.
Oh, not just any ham. It’s not in a can. Or deviled. Or deli sliced. This bad-ass meat chunk is a leg, bone included. It’s from Wenneman Meat Market.
You know it’s good ham when it comes from a place that uses “You can’t beat our meat” as their catch line. When I opened it and Clara Jane, beside herself with glee shrieked, “Oh! I wanna have that for dinner tonight!”, I almost threw it in the oven right then and there. It’s so big that dinner would have had to happen at 3 A.M., but still. I can eat ham at 3 A.M.
Geez. Give Summer a styrofoam cooler full of sausage for her birthday once and the pork just keeps coming.
(Really, I’m thrilled. This will most likely be my favorite gift this year because let me tell you, I really like ham. A lot. I also love that Summer doesn’t hesitate to leave Cheetos on my porch and give me a giant smoked pig leg for Christmas. That’s a person who truly gets what makes me tick.)
Now that I’ve got you all hungry, I’m going to bring on the guilt.
If you’ve been reading for any length of time, you know I’m a sucker for hunger relief organizations. While I will help my friends raise funds for their pet causes, when I’m deciding where to help, I always go for the hunger organizations. For one thing, if people aren’t getting their most basic human need met, well, something’s seriously fucked up. There’s absolutely, positively no reason why anyone should go hungry. Ever. Also, having gone through culinary school, run my own tiny catering company, taught people to cook, and written about food for a good chunk of the past decade, I feel obligated to help people get fed. Not just the ones who can afford catered events or wine-soaked classes on how to throw cocktail parties, either.
Dec 13
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.
Dec 12
Must be quick.
In Philadelphia, after much kerfluffle and angst. Lovely hotel. Pat’s Cheesesteak rocks. Can’t get over the parking spaces in the middle of busy city streets. Kristina’s here. Got a date with Neil Young, Wilco, and a few more of those cheesesteaks.
Too bad I forgot my camera cord; I could have padded this non-entry with a shot of a cheesesteak with a cherry on top.
Dec 6
Are you familiar with Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings? If not, for the love of humanity please click here and familiarize yourself!
Last night Courtney and I took ourselves to The Pageant to shake our asses to Ms. Jones and her royal associates. Due to The Pageant doing things backwards from their usual methods, I wound up in the bar while Courtney was waiting for me in the venue, holding perfect front row center seats. I didn’t know this until after I bought a pint of pale ale, so I downed it. Looks like the start of a fun night!
Within minutes of the opening band, Menahan Street Band taking the stage, we abandoned the primo seats for the previously-mentioned ass-shaking. Looking behind me from our spot in front of the stage, I saw one of the most diverse crowds I’ve seen at any show. Had we stayed at our seats to shake our asses, a table of people my parents’ ages would have had an ass-eye view of me. Frankly, I have more respect from my elders than to do that.
