April 18, 2007

Music is Fun

You read Fluid Pudding, right? Of course you do, which means that you know what I did last night: I spent the evening with Angela at the Andrew Bird show.

Let me preface this by saying, for all my music geekness and musician worship, I've got problems with approching famous people on the rare occasions that I see them. Well, maybe "famous" is too strong a word, since most "famous" people who send me into a tizz aren't famous beyond a handful of like-minded nerds.

Here are my "famous" musician encounters, in chornological order:

1. March, 1993. I met Joan Baez and had an instant excuse to talk to her: she was a customer in the art gallery where I was working. Since none of my sorority girl co-workers knew who she was, and I was in a puddle behind the counter, biting my fist to keep from squealing, they gladly agreed that I should be the one to help her. She was so sweet, and funny, and within a minute or two I really wanted to leave work and hang out at the nearby coffeehouse with her for the rest of my life. She bought a frog sculpture and some earrings, gave me an autograph and a hug, and was ever-so-gracious when I burbled on and on about what a wonderful human being she is. The sorority girls laughed at me. Fuck 'em. I got a hug from someone who headlined at Woodmotherfuckingstock. I win.

2. July, 1996. With the same friend who joined me in the fool-hearty task of stalking Courtney Love a year earlier, we repeated with Paul Westerberg, formerly of The Replacements, one of my all-time favorite very best bands of all time. We loitered outside his tour bus, where he happily signed autographs and talked to fans. I managed to maintain my cool while he signed my ticket and a poster I'd gotten by flirting with one of the guys who was also standing in line. I thanked him for years of music that had touched my soul like few artists had. He, like Ms. Baez, was most gracious. It was my friend who went all apeshit fan-crazy. And the sad thing is, I had drug her to the show because she had insisted on dragging me to see the Goo Goo Dolls, probably the worst Replacements rip-off band of all time. So impressed was my friend by Paul that she rambled on and on and on about how she got to know his music by hearing it blasting from my room when we were roommates. I physically removed her.

4. November, 2001. A quintuple whammy: while standing on the floor, waiting for U2 to take the stage, Kristina realized that, direcetly behind us, were three members of Weezer (minus Rivers Cuomo, who we later learned was in disguise a few rows behind us) and both members of Tenacious D. Jack Black, People. Do you know how much I love Jack Black? A lot. And there he was, not five feet behind me, but I didn't join the people who had gathered around him. 1) I didn't want to bother, and 2) I didn't want someone stealing my spot close to the stage. This was just a few weeks after the release of Jack's homage to fat girls, Shallow Hal. I settled for making sleazy come-hither faces in his direction. He looked like he might call security, so I stopped.

5. May, 2002. I stood in the rain with some friends after a show in hopes of meeting Martha and Rufus Wainwright. Martha was little more than a back-up singer then, but has since found a bit more much-deserved success. Very sweet gal. As for Rufus, I didn't have to worry about coming up with something non-stupid to say to him. He beat me to the task. We were still quite a way back in the crowd, waiting for autographs and photos, when Rufus pointed at me and started screaming, "Oh my GOD! That shirt! I LOVE your shirt!"

That's right. I managed to impress a man who is not only gay, but also in the music industry, with my wardrobe choice. Granted, in such a situation, it's hard to go wrong with a snug black t-shirt with a bedazzled photo of Marilyn Monroe with a guitar.

6. April, 2007. Angela and I were dining at Thai Cafe prior to the Andrew Bird show. We were waiting ... and waiting and waiting and waiting ... for our check to arrive when a teeny little man with a pointy face, floppy hair and dark denim jacket walked past. Angela was in position to get the first look at his face, while I glimpsed him through the exterior window. We realized simultaneously that - holy shit! - Andrew Bird was having dinner two tables from us! Damn, we missed our chance to talk to him. Oh well.

About fifteen minutes later, while still waiting for our check, he came back.

He came back! We watched him walk into the restaurant and rejoin his bandmates two tables away from us.

And there we sat, heads together, desperately trying to come up with something, anything to give us reason to stop by the table.

How many hundreds, possibly thousands, of people come to Fluid Pudding and Poppymom daily because we're just so damn witty, charming and have such a je'nes ce quas with words? Well, you'll all be disappointed to know that we couldn't come up with a single goddamn thing to say that didn't sound totally stupid.

I sort of wish I'd been wearing Mom jeans, Keds, and had more of a suburban mom vibe about me. Then I could have went to his table and went all apeshit about seeing the real-life Dr. Stringz! Right there in Thai Cafe! Would you mind singing the Dr. Stringz song to my three-year-old on my cell phone? At least that would be funny in a humiliating, ironic way.

Funny thing, late in the show several people called out requests for his Dr. Stringz song, but he declined for fear that Viacom would come shut him down. Then he muttered the first line under his breath and I fell in little in love.

As is always the case, we were flooded with things we could have said to him much after the fact. Like, during the horrendous opening act, I considered storming back to Thai Cafe, marching right up to his table and yelling, "Do you have any idea what's happening on your stage? Do you? It's horrible, I tell you! Make her stop!"

I don't even know what her name is. I don't want to know because if I know, the urge to send hate mail will certainly be stronger than me. Angela nailed it by describing her as "crestfallen Cocteau Twins meets down in the dumps Edie Brickell meets really below standard My Bloody Valentine." I thought she was a lot like Morrissey, but without the joy and talent.

She made me laugh, and I don't think she meant to.

Her synthesizer player kept laying on the note that makes people inadvertantly lose control of their bowels. I feared for my pants, and I noticed a lot of people jumping from the seats and running away.

She played a teeny tiny little white keyboard. No good ever comes from that.

She drove me to drink. I was going to just have one beer, but after that set I sat with my credit card in hand so I could fling it at the first server to walk past me while screaming, "Beer! I need beer! Or a fifth of vodka! Anything that will kill the brain cells damaged by that set! You've got to help me erase her from my brain!" Which made me realize why so many opening acts are so utterly awful: it's good business for the bar.

Had I known he wasn't going to do Fake Palindromes during the show, I certainly would have lifted my rule about making requests at concerts: "The musician is not a jukebox. Leave him alone," and I would have said please, please, "Fake Palindromes"? Please? I have red lipstick, an old death kit I've been meaning to use, and see? I've got blood. Blood in my eyes for you. I'll let you swap my blood with formaldehyde if you do."

On second thought, it's just as well I didn't do that because it almost certainly would have been another security near-miss.

He told a tale about a raccoon getting into his chicken coop and creating great carnage. Had we known that, Angela could have empathized with her rodent problems. Are raccoons rodents? If so, are pandas rodents? This is why I have blood in my eyes, from entertaining thoughts like this.

The show, after the whiny, shrieky lady with the Casio? Stupendous. Mind-blowing. I'm going to echo Angela and say stunning. Instead of describing the show, go watch his network television debut from Letterman last week. During last night's show he mentioned that they had tons of equipment failure on Letterman, as they only had a few minutes to set up, so you won't get to see the double-grammophone spinning, or get to hear the brilliant Doppler sound effect it creates on the violin loops. Just imagine it, okay?

And if you happen to see Mr. Bird somewhere, please ask him what he had for dinner last night. Because that's what I always want to know - what people eat.

Posted by Robin at 03:50 PM | Comments (6)

January 14, 2007

Hail! Hail! Music Geek!

Yesterday afternoon, I did something I've been meaning to do for the better part of two decades: I finally watched Chuck Berry: Hail! Hail! Rock 'n' Roll!. For the uninitiated, it's a documentary/concert film from 1986. For Mr. Berry's 60th birthday, Keith Richards assembled one hell of a band - George Harrison, Robert Cray, Eric Clapton, Etta James, Linda Ronstadt - to perform with Chuck at the Fox Theater in St. Louis.

If you love music, you must, must, must watch this. It's on Sundance Channel tomorrow, and a 4-disc DVD set was released last summer. It's a must-see for the music, of course. The concert footage is once-in-a-lifetime stuff. Etta and Chuck doing "Rock 'n' Roll Music"? Holy God. If that doesn't make you shake your ass, your ass must surely be broken. But it's also worthwhile watching to see the flaws in our pop culture gods.

I'm not a fan of the cult of celebrity that exists in our society, the constant scrutiny to catch famous people in the act of horribleness. We set these people to such a high standard, then we purposefully shake the pedastal. I don't understand it at all. But then again, I've always viewed my pop culture heros as being above human. I guess this started when I was a kid, when I couldn't even imagine that the musicians, actors and writers I loved did something has horrid as take a poop. Sex? Out of the question, as were drugs and alcohol.

I have no idea where I got these ideas, but they lasted for a long time. Now, I think it's interesting how artistic genius seems to go hand-in-hand with large doses of human failability. While watching the documentary, and seeing Chuck and Keith spar over the proper way to tune an amplifier, it really struck me. For one thing, listening to two of the greatest guitar players ever, argue about amp tunage? Yes, I'm a geek, but I enjoyed that, just as I enjoyed watching Chuck correct Eric Clapton's playing technique. But even moreso, consider their histories. Clapton's had his share of drug and alcohol problems. I don't even have to tell you about Keith Richards' history; you've heard all the jokes, I'm sure. Chuck Berry's had more than his own share of issues. He's done time in jail and prison. There have been lawsuits and rumors about his unorthodox sexual proliclivities, as well as his legendary arrogance.

So he's an asshole. So what? How many nice, normal people invent stuff like this?

I don't know what I'm getting at, other than I think it's sad that we expect such perfection from people in the public eye. Not that they should be excused from bad behavior. No, I don't know where the line. I just think there needs to be more respect for eccentricity, because that's so often the root of invention and genius.

Watching the documentary and concert filled me with an uncalled-for amount of pride. I'm not from St. Louis originally, but Chuck is. We're both from Missouri, and I hold a degree of civic pride for my fellow Missourians that borders on mental illness.

This is how close I've come to Chuck Berry. My grandfather's name is Charles Berry. The only time he's gone by Chuck has been in recent years when my in-laws started calling him by that name instead of his usual Charles or Charlie. The switch to Chuck also might have been brought on by this incident.

A few years ago, my grandparents got a late-night phone call. My grandmother answered, and on the other end of the phone was an old man, looking for Chuck Berry. Not my grandpa. He was looking for Chuck Berry, and was calling all the numbers he could find for Charles/Charlie/Chuck Berrys in Missouri. My grandmother talked to him for a bit, and learned that the man had once played in Chuck's band years and year before. He was at the end of his life and was tying up loose ends, including ones with the other Chuck Berry.

No one in my family had ever made that connection before, that our Charlie is Chuck Berry from Missouri. Grandpa Chuck just happens to be two years and five days older than the other Chuck. And white. And he doesn't play guitar like a ringing a bell. Or duckwalk. I've heard rumors that he can sing, though. Maybe we can talk him into a verse of "Maybelleine" at Granny's birthday party next month.

Chuck (the famous one) is 80 years old, and he still plays at least one show a month in St. Louis at Blueberry Hill. In the eight years I've lived here, I've only seen him once, in 2003. I'm generally not a fan of seeing performers far past their prime, as it's usually embarrassing, a fact illustrated to its full extent at the Loretta Lynn spectacle I witnessed in 2005. But I think seeing Chuck is a part of living in St. Louis, just like acknowledging the Gateway Arch whenever it happens to be in view. If you don't acknowledge the history in your own backyard, then pretty soon every backyard in the country's going to look exactly the same.

When I was in school, I got so sick of having Mark Twain shoved down my gullet in every English and history class. It wasn't until I went to college with people who didn't spend their early education being flogged with a copy of "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" did I realize that not everyone got the Twain education us Missouri kids got, and just how lucky we were to get such first-hand knowledge of one of the greatest writers of all time.

I grew up less than a mile from The Maple Leaf Club, where Scott Joplin composed his most influential pieces of music. Again, I didn't realize how important this was until I took an American music class in college that pointed out Joplin was the first to cross color lines, taking influence from both upper-class white music and traditional slave spirituals. Had he not crossed that line, which eventually led to blues, jazz, and rock 'n' roll, then what?

Chuck Berry did the same. He took "race" music and added an element of the hillbilly music that was popular in St. Louis at the time. Had he not done that, who would have inspired John Lennon, Keith Richards, and Eric Clapton to pick up their guitars and learn?

Where would I be if none of that had happened? I'm sure I'd be here, and there would be something else that reaches me the way music does, but I can't fathom what it would be. I don't want anything different than what I've got.

There was a song by The Rainmaker, a band out of Kansas City in the 1980s, that created one of my favorite scenarios: what would it be like to float down the Mississippi in a rowboat with three of the most important Missourians in history - Mark Twain, Harry Truman, and Chuck Berry? Listen for yourself.

This is what I'm going to miss when we move across the river to Illinois. I'm going to miss being a Missourian. I guess I'll just need to find out more about that Illinois Lincoln fella.

Posted by Robin at 03:17 PM | Comments (3)

December 04, 2006

Toxic Milkshake

I've been wanting to write about music for the past few days, but every time I sit down to do it, I clam up. What I want to write is pure nerd-rambling. Trying to organize my thoughts bores even me.

How nerdy is this? I've been taking notes while listening to my iPod. That's completely uncalled for.

My delimma - I really don't want to write this post because it's silly and boring, even to me, but I can't get it out of my head. So, I'm going to compromise. I'm going to just expound a bit on the notes, instead of trying to tie it all together into something that seems profound as I'm writing it, but is really just goofy.

I've listened to "Hey Ya" by Outkast approximately 387 times since Friday. Three years after the song's release, it's becoming obvious just how amazing and unique it really is.

I'm a firm believer that music needs to be able to stand the test of time before it can be decided what's good and what isn't. Think of all the truly horrible songs that enjoyed a high degree of popularity at one time or another. If this wasn't the case, VH1 never would have compiled a list of the worst songs of all time several years ago, would they? Granted, this is the same network that allows Flavor Flav into America's living rooms, but still. You know I've got fairly decent taste in music, but there's 20 songs on that list I've owned at one point or another. And no, I'm not going to tell you which ones. Suffice it to say that I haven't listened to any of them on purpose in a long time. But at one point in time, I deemed them good enough to reside in my home until it became clear that they were just lousy bums hiding behind catchy hooks.

Three years ago, when everyone was hooked on "Hey Ya", I remember wondering if it was as good as we all thought, or if we'd look back in a few years and equate it with "I Wanna Sex U Up". Considering I don't think I've ever had a one single instance where "Hey Ya" has come on and I've thought, "Again? God. Change it!", I think it's safe to say the song is in the clear.

Winter of 2003/2004 was a weird time for me, musically. I was in the last trimester of my pregnancy, and seriously wondered how my new baby would affect my music geekdom. At the same time, I wasn't sleeping much. Not only was I massive and being constantly kicked, but I had acid reflux attacks at promptly 4 AM every single night for three months. I'd get up and since I was too dog-tired to read, I'd lay on the couch and watch TV. The pickings are pretty slim at 4 AM, so I usually parked it on TV Land or whichever video music channel actually happened to be playing music videos.

Every night, I could count on seeing the same videos at least twice before nodding off: Outkast's Hey Ya, The Darkness' I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Toxic by Britney Spears and Milkshake by Kelis.

Let me tell you, when you're sleep-deprived, hormonal, and it's the middle of the night and your esophogus has burst into flames, any one of those videos will feel like a fever dream. All four of them, repeated, will convince you that that baby has eaten your brain. And yet, I craved all four of those songs the same way I craved double cheeseburgers with pickles, onions, lettuce and mustard at the time. There was some comfort in knowing that I'd see and hear the exact same thing every single night, and it would take me out of feeling miserable and scared.

It wasn't even that I liked the songs. Well, I liked "Hey Ya". I knew that. The Darkness video always made me laugh, since it fits my sense of humor. Britney was good for some eye-rolling and righteous indignation. "Milkshake" just seemed appropriately ironic, considering the mammary horrofest that was occuring under my pajama top at the time. Each song provided me with something I needed at the time. The one big thing they all provided was distraction, which is woefully underrated sometimes.

They all also had at least one unforgettable hook: the screeching four beats repeated throughout "Toxic", the staticky, equally screeching beat in "Milkshake" followed by that earwig of a chorus, the falsetto chorus of "I Believe in a Thing Called Love", and damn near every single line and beat in "Hey Ya".

With the exception of "Hey Ya", I've heard little of any of these songs since Clara Jane was born. In the past few days, though, I've sought them out. I still can't get enough of "Hey Ya". "Toxic" and "I Believe in a Thing Called Love"? Eh. I'm over it. As for "Milkshake", I went so far as to purchase it from iTunes on Saturday night.

I want my 99 cents back.

I can tolerate a bad song. I can tolerate a sexist song if it has other redeeming factors. Like "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC. The lyrics make the feminist in want to put on some testicle-kicking boots, but the first minute of that song? Pure rock and roll perfection. That lick, that beat, Brian Johnson's growl, "Knocking me out with those American thighs" ... that's their truth, and it's powerful enough to make damn near anyone stop what they're doing and listen. Even if it is stupid and sexist, it's powerful and listenable.

What I can't tolerate is a boring song. As much of an indie nerd as I can be at times, I've found it nearly impossible to embrace bands like Belle & Sebastian, Yo La Tengo, and such because I find them so damn dull. Likewise, there's some silly pop I really enjoy - songs like "Hollaback Girl" (which makes absolutely no sense at all and I'll give you a quarter if you can explain it to me) - just because they sound different, primal, and catchy. I'm a whore for a good hook.

"Milkshake" might possibly be the most stupefyingly, coma-inducing, drool-drippingly boring song in the history of the world. Having listened to it in its entirity once since purchasing it, I can honestly say that the entire three minutes and eleven seconds would have been better had it been nothing but the song's reprehensible hook - My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard/and they're like, 'It's better than yours'/damn right, it's better than yours/I can teach you but I'll have to charge - repeated ad nauseum.

That's the thing. If you look at that list of 50 bad songs, they definitely suck. All of them. But there's not a boring one in the bunch. Even the list's Michael Bolton offering, which has every excuse to be just as narcolepsy-inducing as everything else he's ever done, is interesting because of it's oog factor. Michael Bolton wants to touch me, where? Oh my God! No! I can spend hours laughing about that, which gives a really awful, unlistenable song a bit of validation. Because let me tell you, there is nothing funnier than a really, really horrible song. If it's got a great hook, even better, because then it's suited for the best thing ever in the history of the world: bad dancing to shitty music, which completely explains the success of "Achy Breaky Heart".

Speaking of Michael Bolton, when I was in college one of my roommates snagged a huge Michael Bolton promotional poster from the trash at a record store. We hung it in our living room and when we were stressed, we would take it out on the poster via artwork. I can't remember everything we drew on that poster, I only remember my favorite thing: the large family of baby spiders, marching across Michael's vast, prairie-like forehead. We also enjoyed changing the lyrics to his remake of the Bee Gees' You Don't Know What It's Like to be about different venereal diseases. "You don't know what it's like/to love somebody/with The Clap". But I digress.

I guess the point I'm making is that boring music makes absolutely no contribution to the word, while there's plenty of horrible music that makes the world a better place simply by being interesting. And if you've made it this far, I have rewards for you:

Hey Ya, holidayfied.

The worst remake of one of the greatest songs in rock history, as well as one of the most abhorant music videos ever made. But interesting because 1) stellar guitar work by one of the greats, and 2) trainwreck!

The second worst video ever made. But again, interesting because of it's hooks (of course it's hooky - it's even in the band's name, for God's sake!), and the fact that the lady with the ass is being pursude by a cowboy-pirate.

Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (7)

December 03, 2006

What Every Mother Wants to Hear

Upon awakening Saturday morning Clara Jane said, "I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was playing guitar."

Just as long as it wasn't for some crappy emo band, more power to you, Kiddo.

Posted by Robin at 05:15 PM | Comments (7)

November 27, 2006

Day Twenty-Seven - Phoning in Some Dots

Yeah, I know the content has been sketchy at best. Busy weekend, busy day, and not a lot of energy. I've managed to catch my 8th (or thereabout) coldish-type malady of the season. Nothing bad, just enough to make me want to lie on the couch and do nothing. But I'll be damned if I give up on NaBloPoMo with less than a week to go.

1. Storm Coming - Gnarls Barkley
2. Glad Girls - Guided by Voices
3. Hot Dog (Watch Me Eat) - Detroit Cobras
4. Car Carrier Blues - Leo Kottke and Mike Gordon
5. Your Little Hoodrat Friend - The Hold Steady (who are quickly becoming one of my favorite groups)
6. Bad Reputation - Joan Jett
7. Kick Me to the Curb - The Dollyrots
8. Harder to Ignore - The Features
9. Adventure - Be Your Own Pet
10. This Sentence Will Ruin/Save Your Life - Born Ruffians
11. Fire Sign - The Gossip
12. London's Burning - The Clash
13. Don't Speak (I Came to Make a Bang!) - Eagles of Death Metal
14. If You Have to Ask - Red Hot Chili Peppers
15. The New Seeker - Clinic
16. That Teenage Feeling - Neko Case
17. Fired - Ben Folds
18. Is That the Thanks I Get? - Jeff Tweedy
19. Why Drunky? - The Blacks
20. They're Blind - Kelly Willis
21. Glitter in Their Eyes - Patti Smith

Posted by Robin at 03:04 PM | Comments (2)

November 24, 2006

Day Twenty-Four - Trussing up Loose Ends Like a Turkey

Seriously. If I eat anything else for the rest of my life, I'll die. I'm sure of it. I think my spleen has been forced out of my body by the 3.8 pounds of cornbread stuffing I've consumed in the past 24 hours. However, I promised to tell you about some stuff, and I intend to do so, hopefully before my fingers expand to a size too large to be accomodated by a standard keyboard.

Sadly, I will not be poking fun at Two-Finger Bill and the Harmonica Man. Today we had a big family lunch at the cafe where they hang out. It was just Two-Finger Bill, and he was crying. Nothing breaks my heart quite like someone sad, all alone in a restaurant. I overheard the server consoling him, and it was obvious someone died. No word on whether it was Harmonica Man or not. Regardless, I can't make fun of someone when they've been all human like that.

I can, however, make fun of my family.

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit this, but in my family, when dinner's complete, everyone under the age of 50 disappears, leaving clean-up duty to the moms and old ladies. I know. I know. We're terrible human beings and need to be horse-whipped. Wait here and I'll go get the whip for you.

I blame this on the fact that, before Clara Jane was born, the last baby born in our family arrived in 1981. This lack of children has allowed us, the last generation of children, to remain as such well into adulthood. Either that, or we're just a bunch of lazy assholes content to let our mothers, grandmother, and great-aunt all the hard work.

Really, I'd like you to smack me.

Yesterday, my mom informed B., my cousin Travis, The Cuz and I that we were going to be on clean-up duty. First we tried to convince her that we all had pressing engagements to attend at 12:30. When that didn't work, we tried our usual tactic of lying on the couch while our overfed carcasses bloated. Not exactly a good tactic, but we really couldn't muster the energy to do much else. We were shooed into the kitchen, and rightfully so.

We restrained ourselves for a full five minutes before food started being flung:

Dear Jesus: I'm so thankful for the abundance you've granted me. I'm especially thankful that you've blessed us with so many dinner rolls that we can freely whip them at my cousin's face. Thank you.
Clean-up duty

We found a good home for the rolls that were spared from being whipped at Travis' face:

Then Travis found an efficient way to wash the pots:
Washing dishes

Not only will we never have to clean up again, I'm pretty sure none of us will be invited back. Shut up, Mom.

After clean-up, the weather was so gorgeous that we all went outside to watch the horses.

Chloe had her Thanksgiving feast: horse shit.
A Thanksgiving feast
It was almost as abundant as dinner rolls to be whipped at Travis' face. My parents have the best naturally-fertilized yard ever.

While sitting outside in the horse latrine, my granny - the sweet Pentecostal granny who never says anything bad - was talking about circus peanuts. Only it came out as "circuit penis". Wendy died a little inside at that moment:
Wendy's dying inside
I was starting to worry that this might be a sign of Granny's advancing age. Because one of my biggest skills is spotting signs of impending death and/or decreption and then panicking about them. You might recall back in October when Granny had a similar verbal slip-up involving erection-shooting. But my mom told me that when she was little, Granny once told the minister, "Maxine (my mom) likes to chew the tits off of bobby pins," so apparently she's lived a life full of accidental verbal porn. Who knew?

We didn't actually put paper plates in the dishwasher, but after our clean-up, we realized we should have, just to guarantee that we wouldn't be asked back.

After the family left, my parents, B., Clara Jane and I headed downtown. Every Thanksgiving night, they light up the restored old hotel, followed with fireworks set to "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy".

I destroyed my back and got my glasses snatched right off my face:

This lighting/fireworks business is pretty new. As in, this isn't something that we always did after Thanksgiving. For most of the time I lived in my hometown, the hotel was a rat-trap flophouse. A few years ago it was fully restored to its Jazz Age splendor. B. and I spent our wedding night there. It's rather astounding to see the transformation of my little town.
Downtown Sedalia, Missouri

I was also amazed that I only recognized one person in the crowd. I had assumed that I would see people I knew, and would be recognized by people from my past. I neglected to remember that I lived here for 18 years, but I've lived elsewhere for over 15 years. My mark in my hometown is mostly gone. It's a different place now, one that shoots fireworks off the roof of an 80-year-old building. And that's fine with me.


Posted by Robin at 08:11 PM | Comments (11)

November 12, 2006

Day Twelve - Lazy Day Dots

This is the first day of NaBloPoMo that I haven't been chomping at the bit to post. Why? Laziness. I didn't have the best night's sleep last night, and I've wanted nothing more than to have a lazy, do-nothing day. But I committed to post, and post I must. But what's there to say on a lazy, do-nothing day?

Posted by Robin at 05:21 PM | Comments (10)

October 25, 2006

This Entry is Gonna Suck

You've been warned. I've been wanting to write this for two days, and it's totally unimportant and not terribly interesting. I've been feeling lazy and unmotivated on all fronts since I got home. Clara Jane's down for a nap, but I think I can hear her fighting it. And I'm watching yesterday's Oprah about people who have gastric bypass surgery and wind up transferring food addictions to other addictions, and it's pissing me off. Carnie Wilson is on and she just said, "When I see overweight people, I feel responsible for them. I don't know, is that crazy? I feel like I want to help them!" To which I want to say, 1) yes, that's crazy, and 2) I don't want your damn help, you media-whorin' fool.

Anyway, I'm still thinking about music after my weekend with Wilco and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. No surprise. I was amazed on Monday to learn that it was the fifth anniversary of the introduction of the iPod. I can't believe it's been that long, and I can't believe I waited four and a half years to get one. Actually, that's not true. I'm still rather surprised that I bought one. It's rare for me to spend more than $40 on any single item. Spending ten times that amount on a single item is unheard of, for me at least. House and vehicle aside, I think the only comperable purchase I've made was the black suede peacoat I bought for $100 nearly six years ago that I'm still wearing. And it doesn't have a weak battery pack that's going to croak someday.

I waited on the iPod, because I wanted them to work some of the bugs out of the system, and because I wanted one that would hold my entire music collection and leave room for more, which meant I didn't even entertain thoughts of an iPod until the 60GB models were introduced. I'm that much of a snob, and I'm just lazy enough to not want to be bothered in whittling down my collection.

I really enjoyed Farhad Manjoo's review of Steven Levy's new book, "The Perfect Thing: How the iPod Shuffles Commerce, Culture and Coolness". And if I loved the review so much, surely I'll pee my pants with glee when I finally get my hands on the book. Manjoo emphasizes that while the iPod is a wonderful, perfect little chunk of technolgical glory, it does have its problems, and not just technical ones. It's changing the way we listen to music, and I'm not 100% crazy about this.

What follows is pure music nerdiness. I apologize.

On my post about last weekend's visit to music geek nerdvnana, my old friend Kara Joy left the coolest comment. In case you missed it:

you know i couldn't help but think of all of those sundays that we spent listening to kasey kasem, writing down every song in the order it was played until we'd get to the number one song - guessing what it might be. while my top 40 days of liking most music are long gone, i know that it was our ritual that set music so firmly in me.

When KJ and I were but wee ones - fourth and fifth grade - we spent a lot of Saturday nights at each others' houses. On Sunday morning we'd tune into the local radio station that played American Top 40. We'd spend four hours glued to the radio, writing down what Casey Kasem deemed the most popular songs of the week. There was often dancing and injuries involved, too. Were we listening to "American Top 40" the morning we were wrestling and I accidentally pushed her foot through the window? Probably, because I'm sure that was a Sunday morning. Sorry about that, Kara.

I love that I have the ability to carry 8794 songs in my pocket at all times. Actually, I can carry more than that; that just happens to be the number of songs on my iPod. I love that, when my plane hit turbulence on Thursday night, I could immediately zip to whatever song I wanted to be the last song I heard during my mortal existance. Funny that the song that was playing suited me just fine.

If I'd had my iPod when Clara Jane was born, I could have saved B. a 2 AM trip across the hospital and across the rainy parking lot to retrieve a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD I had to have at that exact moment.

Around the same time Kara and I were fixated on Casey Kasem, I remember going camping with my family, and trying to figure out a feasable way to take my turntable and 45s with me. Not a problem now. I take my entire music collection with me when I run to the grocery store a mile up the street.

For years I hauled cassettes (which I switched to after my failure in finding a workable turntable/vinyl transporation method) and CDs with me everywhere. I used to take a shoebox or two of tapes to the front porch with me, along with my Walkman, just so I'd have whatever song I wanted at the ready in the days when I'd sit on that porch for hours, doing nothing but listening to music.

What made me decide to finally purchase an iPod? I was fed up with all the damn CDs in my truck. I started using my computer as my primary music delivery devise in the house several years ago, which means the CDs gradually migrated to my truck. If I needed extra cash, I probably could have set up shop in a vacant parking lot downtown and made a small fortune.

All my life, I've found ways to keep up with my perpetual music jones. Now that the most perfect devise for music transporation is in my possession, I've got some problems.

I miss hanging around with my friends, waiting for that perfect song to come on the radio or MTV. I've become spoiled, and just like any other spoiling scenario, the wealth of goods in my possession sometimes leaves a bit of a hole in my soul.

Again, back in those KJ/Casey Kasem days, I often got in trouble for watching MTV and listening to the radio at the same time in hopes of hearing the perfect song. What song? It changed. It was whatever song was stuck in my brain, usually something that wasn't played very often. Top 40 was fine, but even back then, I would zero in on something obscure that I didn't get to hear on a regular basis. Hearing those songs was like Christmas.

Some of those songs, which I could listen to at this very moment if I wanted, since I put them on my iPod at the first opportunity:

This list could go on for hours and days. So many songs that could send me rocketing out of my seat, dancing not just from the music but from the sheer, unexpected joy of hearing the song.

The surprise factor - that's what I miss. Don't get me wrong, I love and am grateful that I have these songs at the ready. But it's not the same.

Manjoo's review also touches on the laziness and ADHD the new technology breeds:

You put on something that you've been wanting to listen to all day. Lucinda Williams' "Car Wheels on a Gravel Road" album, say. But you're three-quarters of the way through the first track, and even though you're really digging it, something about the scratchiness of Williams' voice reminds of something else entirely -- the Carter Family. And, hey, don't you have a copy of "Wildwood Flower" on here? Why, yes, you do. So you switch. But of course, putting on the Carter Family is going to remind you of Johnny Cash. And you have the feeling that you must, just this minute, play Cash's version of "In My Life" now. So you switch again. But you're a minute into Johnny and you start to wonder about the Beatles' original version of the track...

A glaring example that occured mere hours before I read this article on Monday: I had a hankering for some Loretta Lynn and went directly to "Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man", one of her great duets with Conway Twitty. It's two minutes and thirty-two seconds long; you'd think I could make it through the whole thing. By the time Loretta's losing her mind because she's got to have Conway's loving all of the time, about two minutes in, I started thinking about how those classic Loretta and Conway duets might compare to "Portland, Oregon", the duet she recorded with Jack White almost three years ago.

Switch!

It was great to listen to the two songs together, to compare the differences in her voice over 25 years, refreshing to hear that she hasn't lost her bravado and spunk as she's gotten older. It was interesting to compare Jack and Conway, who couldn't seem more different on the surface, but who actually have a lot in common with the shared Loretta denominator. But by the time Jack's moving in fast and Loretta's taking it slow, I was thinking about The Raconteurs, and how Jack's guitrar work from "Portland, Oregon" might compare with his work on "Broken Boy Soldiers".

Switch!

And partway through that song, I started thinking about how Jack's dynamic is different in a band of men than it is with his White Stripes partner, Meg White, so I'm off to "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine".

Switch!

And then I start thinking about how their sound evolved, so I switched to "Astro" from their first CD.

Switch!

Boy, I really do love that bare-bones nouveau Detroit garage rock. Soledad Brothers! "Shaky Pudding!"

Switch!

Ten minutes and five songs later, I felt like my brain had been playing a schizophrenic game of Musical Chairs. I was a bit rattled, wholely unsatisfied, and more than a little disgusted with myself and my inability to just get lost in a song, acknowledge whatever song wanders into my mind while I'm listening. "Hello, 'Broken Boy Soldiers'. I'm in Portland right now. I'll be with you in just a moment," finish the first song that I just had to listen to before moving on to the next.

I haven't made a mix CD in well over six months. In other words, I haven't made a mix CD in the time since I bought my iPod. Mixes used to be one of my great creative outlets, and I've let it go. Why spend a few hours making a mix when I can just put it on Shuffle and let the machine do it for me?

I've also gotten woefully behind on discovering new music. Why go to the effort of getting to know a new song, new album, new artist when I can listen to "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" for the fifth time this week?

A list of albums sitting on my iPod that I've yet to listen to:

Sadly, there are more. In the past, when I got a highly-anticipated CD, I'd make time to listen to it uninterrupted. I'd turn off the phone and just listen, maybe read the liner notes. I've only done that once since I got my iPod, when Springsteen released "The Seeger Sessions" in April.

These are growing pains, for sure. I need to find a new way to listen to my music. I've got more music and more access to my music now than I ever had in my life. I've got exactly what I dreamed of as a 10-year-old music nerd. I love it. I'm grateful. I'm so lucky to live in this time, and to have this problem, which really isn't a problem at all. I just need to adjust my brain so that I'm not taking it for granted.

Posted by Robin at 01:20 PM | Comments (9)

October 21, 2006

This is a Public Service Announcement - With Guitars!

I don't even know where to begin. I wrote a rough sketch of my adventure on the flight home this afternoon, and yet I still don't know.

Thursday afternoon, I decided I really didn't want to go, even though I'd been looking forward to seeing Kristina, Wilco and opening day of The Clash: Revolution Rock at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Completely stupid, I know because shit: Kristina, Wilco, The Clash, my place of worship, all on my birthday weekend? What the hell is unsavory about that scenario? Not a goddamn thing, proving that I went temporarily stupid on Thursday when, two hours before my flight was due to leave, I was sitting at my desk, bawling, and reading the airline's policies on ticket cancellation.

Yes, you read that right. I almost cancelled. I think I got it in my head that I simply couldn't handle the iternary of the trip, which went something like this:

Thursday
7:10 PM - Leave St. Louis on a plane.
9:30 PM - Arrive in Cleveland.
11:00 PM - Arrive in Akron and possibly sleep.

Friday
11:00 AM - Eat huge piles of awesome Middle Eastern food chased with great, tub-like quantities of ice cream.
2:00 PM - Hit road with Kristina's brother for three-hour trek to Latrobe, Pennsylvania
7:00 PM - Wilco
11:00ish PM - Hit road for the three-hour trek back to Kristina's moms house in Clevelandish area.
2:00 AM - Pass out.

Saturday
9:00 AM - Valiantly fight against that dark night and wake up, already.
10:00 AM - Hit the road to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
1:30 PM - Drag me, kicking and screaming from my personal Mecca and get my ass to the airport.
3:30 PM -Fly home.

After having a busy, cranky week, on the verge of this trip, it all seemed too daunting. Suddenly, staying home in my yoga pants and iPod sounded like pure heaven.

But I went, and boy howdy, am I glad, although before arriving in Cleveland, I had the sickening feeling that my previous hysteria wasn't just my garden-variety hysteria, but might have been intuition. About halfway through the flight, I was snuggled in with my iPod, engrossed in Wilco's Ashes of American Flags, and just as Jeff issues his final, "All my lies are only wishes/I know I would die if I could come back new", the plane plummeted, dropping hard and fast enough to cause most of us passengers to scream. The plane continued to drop and twist in the turbulence as the song dissentigrated into vaccumous noise. I was mostly convinced that I was listening to the beginning of my own death. Ironic, because I credit "Ashes of American Flags" for saving my life at one point in my life that I'm not going to discuss tonight.

On the bright side, as the plane rocked and the album progressed, I realized that if I was going to die, I'd certainly be content to have Heavy Metal Drummer be the last song I ever heard. You could do a hell of a lot worse. How's that for technology: thanks to iPods and other MP3 devices, we can now choose what songs we hear as we plummet to our deaths from the skies!

Okay, maybe I really should have stayed home.

But it all worked out, obviously. Cleveland. Kristina. Akron. Her sweet little tripod dog, Nesta. Sleep. Friday progressed as planned, too, for the most part.

Until we were on the way to pick up Kristina's brother, that is. We took a scenic little sidetrip. I was telling her about The Cuz's recent rear-ending, caused when a driver didn't notice the red light and the line of cars waiting for it. Not ten minutes later, Kristina and I were sitting at a four-way stop with several cars in front of us. Our turn came, and as Kristina shifted into gear, the car jolted. At first I thought the transmission died, but quickly realized we'd been hit.

Our situation was much, much better than The Cuz's. No damage and no injuries. But the woman who hit us ... "Well, you stopped so suddenly!" she said. No Bitch, we didn't stop suddenly. We were moving. Did she apologize for hitting us or ask if we were okay? No.

For those of you keeping track at home, this is the second vehicular mishap that has occured within 48 hours of my date of birth.

But you didn't come here to read about fender-not-so-benders, plane panic or my whiny-ass anxities. You're probably here to read about the rocking, aren't you?

Ladies and Gentlemen, Wilco is here to play your prom!

This was, without question, the weirdest venue I've ever rocked. The show was in the "student center" of St. Vincent College. And by "student center", what I really mean is "slightly oversized gymnasium. Even weirder were the restrictions placed on the crowd: no purses were allowed. Shane, Kristina's brother, was a dear, and obviously very comfortable with his masculinity, as he offered to return our purses to the car. "What happens if a woman needs a little monthly protection?" Kristina wondered. "Are we supposed to just tuck a tampom behind an ear?"

In the lobby, there was a set-up of cups and beverage coolers. I got really excited, thinking it was punch and cookies, just like at prom, but it was just free water.

The crowd was exceptionally irritating. I've learned that in my advanced age, I no longer have much patience for college kids. I could go on, but it's just whining. Funny whining, but unimportant. I'll just say that the guy in the chocolate brown blazer and fuscia boulce' knit scarf, who stood directly in front of me and alternated between sticking his tongue down his rather boyish girlfriend's throat and taking close-up photos of her profile while she watched the show? I give her three weeks before she realizes he's psycho, and three years before he realizes he's gay. This boy had something to prove.

About eight songs into the set, I got tired of being crushed and not being able to see the band, so I retreated to the bleachers. I climbed to the top, towards the back of the gym. Only a few other people were nearby, so I stretched out and took in Wilco from a totally different vantage - I was high enough that I could see the entire stage with nary a head in my way, but close enough that I could still see facial expressions. I leaned back, alone, and drank in the rest of the show.

Three moments stood out:


  • Airline to Heaven, which I've always loved. It hit me hard on Friday, though, because while they played it, I realized that it was the fifteenth anniversary of the last time I saw my grandmother alive. It was a Sunday. I was a freshman in college and had come home for the weekend, partially for my birthday and partially because we knew the end was near. We went to the nursing home on our way out of town, and she was barely there. Her organs had already started failing. Most of the visit was spent watching the rabbits in the courtyard from a window across from her room.

    Around twelve hours later, it ended. The next day, I turned 19. The day after that, we buried her.

    Them's got ears, let them hear
    Them's got eyes, let them see
    Turn your eyes to the lord of the skies

    Take this airline plane
    It'll take you home again
    To your home behind the skies

  • "Heavy Metal Drummer" hit me hard, I think because this was the first time I've seen Wilco away from our shared home turf. All the other shows have been in Columbia, Missouri or St. Louis. It's certainly different seeing them away from St. Louis, and I missed the vibe of the local shows, when everyone in the crowd knows exactly what he's talking about when he talks about the heavy metal bands that used to play on the Landing in the summer.

  • After the main set ended, while everyone stomped and screamed for the encore, I sat on my perch and thought about what would make the perfect encore birthday gift. If I could pick one song to hear tonight, on the eve of my 34th birthday, that would have me saying, "Shit! I heard Wilco do _____________________ that night and it was perfect!", what would that song be? I was at a bit of a loss.

    The band wasn't, though. The first encore opened with Sunken Treasure.

    For all the leaves will burn In autumn fires and then return
    For all the fires we burn
    All will return

    Music is my savior
    I was maimed by rock and roll
    I was maimed by rock and roll
    I was tamed by rock and roll
    I got my name from rock and roll

    I have nothing to say, as that, right there, was the perfect birthday gift from the band. I couldn't have asked for anything better.

    Okay, it might have been slightly more perfect if my Kleenex weren't in my purse and I hadn't been relegated to wiping tears and snot on my sleeve.

    (The full set list is here.)

    I dropped into bed at 3:30 AM, got up six hours later, and we were off to church. You know what place I'm talking about.

    I had my moment, of course, walking up to the building, the moment after I snapped that photo, where I announced, "I'm at the Rock & Roll Hall of fame on my birthday to see The Clash." I stopped short of stating the obvious: my life is fucking awesome!

    The whole time we were there, I couldn't stop smiling. I think I could have lost a foot in an escalator accident, I would have kept right on grinning.

    The first time I heard The Clash: late winter, 1983. I was ten years old, and the song was Rock the Casbah, which was pretty much the extent of punk rock in my hometown. I didn't get the song, but I knew that there was something about it I loved. In the years that followed, I occasionally saw their videos on "120 Minutes". I knew I needed these songs, but I had no idea why. I don't think I fully understood why until today.

    You might not know why something grabs your soul, but it can come to you decades later. A ten-year-old kid, riding her bike on an unseasonably warm February evening, singing "Rock the Casbah" to herself might hold the pieces to a puzzle that she'll finally put together the day before she turns 34, teary-eyed and grinning like a loon, Joe Strummer's hand-scrawled lyrics to London Calling beneath the glass under her fingers.

    What does the puzzle say?

    We're made up of little chips of different things. My chips are songs and the moments when I hear them. "Music is my savior. I was maimed by rock and roll. I was tamed by rock and roll. I was named from rock and roll," while sitting by myself in the bleachers.

    The moment in Chicago I heard Bono sing, "I’ve seen you walk unafraid/I’ve seen you in the clothes you made/Can you see the beauty inside of me?/What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?" and I knew I had to find that beauty I once had within me that seemed so long gone. I knew I wanted to live.

    Wallowing in the misery of one panic attack after another after another, convinced my life would never be anything but fear, and hearing Jeff Tweedy sing, " I'm down on my hands and knees/Every time the doorbell rings/I shake like a toothache/When I hear myself sing," and I knew my misery had been articulated, and I wasn't alone.

    A few days later when I heard him sing, "You have to lose/You have to learn how to die/If you want to want to be alive/Okay?", and I knew. I knew.

    Bruce Springsteen in my headphones when I was 13 years old, "For the ones who had a notion/A notion deep inside/That it ain't no sin/to be glad you're alive." Hearing those lyrics again 15 years later, finally at my first Springsteen concert with 30,000 other people screaming those words with me and knowing they are the truest words ever uttered.

    "I want to run/I want to hide/I want to tear down these walls that hold me inside" as I felt my baby rolicking inside me, rolling and kicking, punching as the music built, her heartbeat an accelerating line on a piece of paper.

    "God, what a mess/on the ladder of success/when you take one step and miss the whole first rung/Dreams unfulfilled/graduate unskilled/it beats picking cotton and waiting to be forgotten" when I was floundering my way through college, trying to figure out where I went so wrong. But I wasn't alone in it.

    Some of these moments were loud. Others were building in volume over 24 years. When I was 22 and living the lyrics of that last song, the volume on The Clash got bumped from two to five.

    Around the time I turned 30 in the shadow of 9/11 and the looming spector of Iraq on the horizon, they blasted to eight or nine.

    On the verge of 34, in this world with this child, looking at Joe's handwritten, stained lyrics to Clampdown, reading his words from his hand while hearing his voice, the volume's so loud that I can't hear anything else. And I'm glad for this.

    Sad and furious, too, that what The Clash articulated 25-30 years ago is still so fucking relavent.

    Wouldn't it be grand if we could nostalgically talk about all the young punks back in the day, in their combat boots and Mohawks? Wouldn't it be great if the lyrics on damn near every song on London Calling couldn't directly be applied to current events?

    What the hell have we spent the past 28 years doing?

    I'm so bored with the U.S.A.

    I miss the innocence I've known. Playing KISS covers, beautiful and stoned.

    Punk is supposed to be the epitome of youth music, so why is it, the older I get, the more sense punk makes to me?

    Emersing myself in The Clash for a few hours before turning 34, on the anniversary of two negative, life-changing events (my grandmother's death, and a car accident 19 years ago today), has changed me. I don't know how yet. That might be a puzzle that takes me a few more decades to solve. All I know is, I'm different than I was a 9 AM this morning.

    One of Joe Strummer's last works before his untimely passing in 2002 changed me three years ago. I was eight months pregnant, listening to one of Kristina's mix CDs while driving home from a doctor's appointment, the first time I heard "Long Shadow". The tears hit hard, like they can only do when my soul gets completely rattled.

    Well I’ll tell you one thing that I know
    You don’t face your demons down
    You got to grapple them, Jack
    Bend them to the ground

    The devil may care – And maybe God he won’t
    You better make sure you check on the do’s and the don’ts
    Crawl up the mountain reach where the eagles fly
    Sure you can glimpse from the mountain top
    Where the soul of the muse might rise

    And if you put it all together
    You won’t have to look around
    You know you cast a long shadow on the ground

    Then one day I could tell my tracks
    About the holes of the soles of my shoes
    And that’s the day I said
    I gonna make the news
    And falling back in the garden
    Of days so long ago
    Somewhere in the memory
    The sun shines on you, boy

    Playing in the Arroyos
    Where the american rivers flow
    From the Appalachians
    Down to the delta roads

    A man can think so long
    His brains could well explode
    There’s trains runnin’ thru junctions
    King Kongs down the road

    And if you put it all together
    You won’t have to look around
    You know you cast a long shadow on the ground

    Listen to the country – the night jar and the bell
    Listen to the night streamliner
    Sounding like the wolves of Hell
    Head for the water – The water of the cleansing spell
    It was always our destination
    On the express of the never do wells

    And we rock thru Madison City
    Man, we didn’t even know she was there
    And when we hit the buffees in Memphis
    Beale Street didn’t have no prayers

    And I hear punks talk of anarchy
    I hear hobos on the railroad
    I hear mutterings on the chain-gangs
    It was those men who built the roads

    And if you put it all together
    You didn't even once relent
    You cast a long shadow
    And that is your testament
    Somewhere in my soul
    There's always Rock and Roll
    Yeah

    Amen.

    Even though it's my birthday in, oh, 48 minutes or so, you're the ones getting the present: An MP3 of "Long Shadow". Do me a favor and listen to it today. Really listen to it.

    I started writing this entry while B. was giving Clara Jane her bath. I was listening to "Clampdown" and writing when she came tearing out of the bathroom, naked, stopping to hear the song for the very first time. Her arms went up, her feet stomped, and she yelled, "I love this! Dance with me, Mommy!" Before it was all said and done, B., Clara Jane and I danced in the kitchen to "Clampdown", "London Calling" and I'm so Bored with the U.S.A.. And that just about makes up for all those birthdays where cars have crashed, friends and family have fought, and people have died.

    Posted by Robin at 07:49 PM | Comments (15)

    July 01, 2006

    How to Party, Poppymom-Style

    It's quarter after one on Saturday morning. I just got home from a fabulous night out*. What shall I do to maintain my hardcore self while I wait for the bedding to finish its spin through the wash?** Why, a meme, of course!

    I'm so fucking out of control right now, it's not even funny. Katya and Kristina are also out of control, but what would you expect from a pair of librarians?

    The Rules, as demanded by meme creator Bookhart:Put up to three answers to any question. But no more. One answer is OK, two answers is OK, three answers is OK. Four is not OK, and five is right out. Unless otherwise indicated, you can only choose songs, and be specific--putting "anything by Madonna" doesn't count.

    *Meat was involved.
    **No, the late-night bedding laundering didn't have anything to do with the wildness of our night. It was simply a poor laundry decision.

    Song(s) That I Loathe to the Core of My Being:
    1. That Toby Keith song about putting boots in asses ... I can't remember its name.
    2. Sailing - Styx
    3. Horse with No Name - America

    Artist(s) That I Loathe to the Core of My Being:
    Neil Diamond
    That guy from Creed
    Toby Keith

    Rolling Stones Song(s) I Love:
    Ruby Tuesday
    Dead Flowers
    Miss You

    Beatles Song(s) I Love:
    Come Together
    Here Comes the Sun
    A Day in the Life

    Who Song(s) I Love:
    Can't Explain
    Baba O'Riely

    Reggae Song(s) I Love:
    Redemption Song
    Get Up, Stand Up

    Country Song(s) I Love:
    Tennesse Mountain Home - Dolly Parton
    Sunday Morning Coming Down - Johnny Cash
    City of New Orleans - Willie Nelson

    Movie Soundtrack(s) I Love:
    Pulp Fiction

    Musical soundtrack(s) I Love:
    Cabaret
    West Side Story
    Rent

    Cover Song(s) I Love:
    Red Hot Chili peppers' cover of Ohio Players' "Love Rollercoaster"
    Ben Folds Five's cover of The Buggles' "Video Killed the Radio Star"
    Johnny Cash's version of "Personal Jesus"

    Contemporary Top-40 Artist(s) I Secretly Love:
    That word "secretly" makes this one tough. I've got a thing for the new American Idol, Taylor Hicks.

    Song(s) That Bring Me to Tears:
    Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen/Rufus Wainwright/k.d. lang/anonymous coffeehouse boys, as documented last week
    Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen
    Tender - Blur (listened to it/used it as a mantra when I was in labor)

    Song(s) That Make Me Shake My Ass:
    Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill
    Give it Away - Red Hot Chili Peppers

    Classical Composer(s) I Love:
    Debussy

    Rap/Hip-Hop Song(s) I Love:
    No Sleep Til Brooklyn - Beastie Boys
    Jesus Walks - Kanye West (Bet you weren't expecting that.)

    70s Disco Song(s) I Love:
    Shake Your Groove Thing - Peaches & Herb
    Don't Leave Me This Way - Thelma Houston

    70s Supergroup Song(s) I Love:
    Define "supergroup". Umm ... "Freebird" - Lynyrd Skynyrd

    Metal Song(s) I Love:
    Welcome to the Jungle - Guns & Roses
    Rock of Ages - Def Leppard
    Highway to Hell - ACDC

    New Wave Song(s) I Love:
    Blue Monday - New Order
    Atomic - Blondie
    I Don't Like Mondays - Boomtown Rats

    Soul/R&B Song(s) I Love:
    Since You Been Gone (Sweet Sweet Baby) - Aretha Franklin
    Take Me to the River - Al Green
    Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell

    Power Ballad(s) I Love:
    The only ones I can think of are ones I hate. Not a favorite genre of mine ... Let's pretend I love "Home Sweet Home" by Motley Crue, okay?


    Pre 1950s Song(s) I Love:
    KoKo - Charlie Parker

    Punk Song(s) I Love:
    Know Your Rights - The Clash
    Rise Above - Black Flag
    Rockaway Beach - The Ramones

    Singer/Songwriter Song(s) I Love:
    Where You Lead - Carole King
    Anticipation - Carly Simon
    Loves Me Like a Rock - Paul Simon

    MTV Video(s) I Love:
    Sabotage - Beastie Boys
    Fell in Love with a Girl - White Stripes
    Beautiful Day - U2

    Songs To Have Sex To:
    Hmmm ... Whisper - Morphine

    Guilty Pleasures:
    Since You Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
    Yesterday I drove through Frontenac, the toniest part of St. Louis, with the windows of my truck rolled down, blasting Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman".

    Yes, I have "Redneck Woman" on my iPod.

    Shut the hell up. Why aren't you in bed?

    Posted by Robin at 01:18 AM | Comments (6)

    March 25, 2006

    In Which My Lovely Weekend Plans are Foiled by Snot

    I'm so disappointed.

    This weekend was going to be great. A friend of mine that I haven't seen in nearly four years is in town, and last night a gaggle of us headed to the Cowboy Mouth show. I'd been feeling a little off-kilter all day, but once inside the smokey, airless club it hit me. Snot. A massive, giant headful of snot, seeping into my ears and every other available pathway out of my head. It was like the snot all showed up for some huge Lollapalooza-like festival in my head, only to find out that Yanni was the headlining act, thus leading to a mass exodus and, well, I think that's enough of that similie.

    I bailed out of the show, and what would have been a lovely night with my pals in a lovely hotel, because the snot wanted to go home, drink hot tea, and sleep. I tried to ignore it, but the snot rioted like a bunch of drunk frat boys fed up with paying $5/bottle for water.

    I'm not sure where the snot-as-music-festival similies are coming from. I blame the snot. And the lack of oxygen to my brain caused by the snot. The handful of ibuprofen, multiple forms of Zicam, mentholated cough drops and mass amounts of sugared tea probably aren't doing my coherency skills any favors, either.

    I've been sick all winter, and I'm fed the fuck up. I'm sick of having a headful of snot. I'm sick of wiping snot off my child. I'm sick of listening to B. hork snot. And I'm really sick of typing the word snot, so I'm just going to stop. Now.

    Snot.

    GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE MUCUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    There. I feel better. Although in rereading that, I should be glad that I just have plain ol' head thatwordi'mnotsayingagain instead of asshole mucus. Right. Stopping now.

    Cold drugs are fun, especially when mixed. I've got sort of a Zicam casserole roasting away in my system. And while I'm still stuffed up, I'm gradually becoming so loopy that I just don't give a shit anymore. Who needs breathing when you're packing such a sweet buzz?

    Before the slime attack, my pals and I were hanging out at my place yesterday afternoon. One of them mentioned something that I agreed with whole-heartedly: She told us about a conversation she had with a co-worker about pet peeves. Co-worker said something to the extent of, "I'm bothered by people who have no ability to rally." Word. As my friend put it, "If you're out with me and at 10:30 you're whining about being tired and needing to go home, well, you better get over it because I'm not done having a good time and you're going with me."

    Last night, I was unable to rally. Not even beer could save me. Not. Even. Beer.

    So today, I'm preparing to rally. I've slept. Not as much as I would have liked, but more than I have in awhile. I've medicated. Extensively. I'm working on accepting the underwater-floating feeling in my ears, the pressure behind my eyes, the lack of alertness. People pay good money to feel like this, and I'm getting the luxury of feeling this way for free!!! And without all the potential damage to my DNA to boot. B. and Clara Jane are out, fetching me chicken soup from Pumpernickle's. Rally. I'm going to rally. I'm going to do this. There may not be another concert tonight, but there's still time to hang with my friends. Rally! Rally! Rally!

    I was talking to another friend (Yes, all my friends are nameless, since none of the ones I'm talking about have blogs. Besides, I can't remember any of their names right now anyway.) earlier this week about getting old, and how we just can't go like we did when we were in our 20s. I had bronchitis for all of winter semester when I was a freshman in college. But damn if I let that stop me. Granted, with all the Robitussin I had in my system, it generally just took one alcoholic beverage to land me snoring on the floor. Sleep is good for you when you're sick. Even if it's sleep on a stinky frat house couch, which probably explains why I was so sick for so long.

    At this point I figure, I feel like hell anyway. I can either feel like hell in my sweatpants on the couch, or I can feel like hell at a bar with my friends. I'm opting for the latter, as I've had plenty of the former in recent weeks. Don't worry - I'll have someone in the group write down what happens because even if I don't drink, I'm sure I won't remember.

    Rally! Rally! Rally! Rally 'round the Zicam! Rally 'round the Robitussin! Rally 'round the big snoring heap on the floor!

    Snot.

    Posted by Robin at 11:48 AM | Comments (14)

    March 20, 2006

    The Best Life Never Leaves Your Lungs

    After a much-too-long hiatus, you people get to read some concert-related drivel from me! It's been three months since I last set foot in a concert venue. But you'll hear about that later. First there's the last bit of in-law mess to clean up.

    Despite the snarky nature of these visits, I've never had an argument with my in-laws. They don't argue. Ask B. He's never seen them fight. They have two methods of dealing: 1) they pretend they don't hear dissent, or 2) they respond to dissent as passive-aggressively as they can.

    That being said, we came closer to blows on Sunday than we have ever come. We get a little closer each visit, and at the rate we're going, we might actually have a real-life argument sometime around September of 2018.

    We had a good plan for Sunday morning. A really, really good plan. Since their hotel was halfway between our house and my beloved coffeehouse, we were going to pick them up and go to breakfast. Afterwards, when we drove by the hotel, we'd drop them off. They would check out and join us at our house for the rest of the afternoon. Convenient and energy-conservative, no?

    B. got in touch with them before we left the house. Slight change of plans. They wanted B. and his dad to ride in their car, while MIL would join Clara Jane and me in the truck.

    That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Wasteful and completely unnecessary. Nevermind that, if left alone with my MIL, I'm bound to either say nothing at all, or say everything. I'm not ready to participate in either option.

    Did I mention that this is ridiculous? All of this fuss and plan-changing for a five-minute car ride. Just get in the truck and shut the hell up.

    B. did not appreciate my distaste for this idea, but as we left the house, he said he'd deal with it.

    Remember the lavishing of praise I gave B. on Saturday night? Well, because of the actions I'm about to describe, I can safely say that Steak and a BJ Day will never be an issue in this house. I've decided we're going vegetarian. Some of us are going very, very vegetarian.

    B.'s method of "dealing with the situation" involved getting out of the truck and into his parents' car, but not before holding the door open so his mother could join me.

    It had occured to me that perhaps MIL wanted to get me alone so we could have a talk about the shaky state of our "relationship". Honestly, I would have preferred that. I would love the opportunity to say, "Yeah, I don't get you, and I know you don't get me. Let's quit pretending that we do and at least show that we can appreciate our differences instead of acting like they don't exist." Not that case. Instead, I got what I knew I would get: my MIL, sitting in the passenger seat, staring at me, blank smile on her face, waiting.

    Waiting, for what? Entertainment? Do you want me to do a trick? No, I know what you want. You want me to talk. You want me to start a conversation because you're too emotionally chicken shit to risk opening your mouth and revealing anything about yourself.

    In my recent angsty moments, I've bitched a lot about being sick to death of being the person in many of my relationships who's expected to do the stuff that the other person deems too scary or hard. Being that person has worn me out, and I'm trying to not do that. I promised myself that, with this in-law visit, I wasn't going to be that person. If she wants to talk to me, let her talk. I'll participate. But I'm not going to be the one who racks her brain for something to talk about, maintains the conversation, and is expected to give of herself while the other person takes it all in. No more.

    So after hello, I initiated no conversation. MIL's conversational contribution consisted of, "I really like Clara Jane's sippy cup. Life was so hard raising kids 30 years ago without them."

    By the time arrived at the coffeehouse, I was so mad I would have gladly poured scalding-hot espresso into my husband's pants. This rage was exasperated by his lack of attention to the table arrangements, which left me sitting at a little table with Clara Jane, all by ourselves.

    Granted, everyone was probably happier that way.

    For the ride home, we returned to our respective vehicles. B. had informed him mom that he should ride with me because we were "bickering". "I don't complain about your parents!" he said, to which I replied, "That's because my parents think you hung the moon and stars. When have my parents ever criticized you for anything? Have they criticized your housekeeping? Your roll in our household? Your weight? Did my parents tell you, when you were eight months pregnant with their grandchild, that you should go on the Atkin diet?" The list goes on and on. The fact is, my parents have taken the time to get to know B. They appreciate him for who he is, even though they don't have much in common with him. They've made an emotional investment in him. He doesn't complain about my parents because how do you complain about people who treat you like that?

    Needless to say, the next few hours at hour house aren't at risk of being labeled Party of the Year. I mentioned on Saturday that Clara Jane makes a great buffer, but I'm going to retract that. It would be different if they'd play with her, interact with her. But they don't. At least, not much. They might show her how to make a little snake with Play-Doh, or move a few of her dolls around, but otherwise, they just stand back and stare, waiting for her to entertain them. Maybe if they get too close, interact too much, they might get too emotionally attached. Emotions are hard.

    I don't want my daughter to carry the emotional load of her relationship with her grandparents. That's not fair to her. But it might explain why she sobbed like her heart was breaking Saturday night when she pooped in the potty for the first time, terrified that she'd done something wrong. And why she had a repeat performance a few hours later when she stepped on the dog's foot. And the next day when she was brushing the cat, who hissed at her. Clara Jane tends to be a little emotionally sensitive, but this weekend, it was in overdrive.

    The in-laws left at Clara Jane's naptime. In parting MIL said, "Clara needs a nap break. B. needs a break, too. And Robin needs an in-law break," all said with a tooth-grinding smile, knowing full well that I wouldn't react as she was walking out the door.

    I had no idea how I was going to coordinate my Wilco committment with the in-law committment, whether I'd be skating in at the last minute because they either wouldn't let me get away, or because I'd thrown myself under a moving truck, or if I'd be so desperate for escape that I'd show up insanely early. It was the latter, which is good. I got there at 5:30 - I normally get to shows at this venue at 6:30 and always wind up with great seats. The crowd was so big that the bar was already full, relegating me to standing in line outside. And let me tell you, I have never been so excited at the prospect of being on my feet, by myself in a crowd, in 45-degree temperatures. Pure bliss! I popped in my earbuds, cranked the iPod to Kicking Television and went to my happy place.

    Despite the crowd, I managed to nab pretty good seats. Allison caught up with me shortly thereafter. Are you reading her blog? You need to be reading her blog. Instead of the usual blog-fodder, she's posting entries from her junior high diary, circa 1987. Anyway, there was good company, good beer, and a good opening act whose name escapes me. They were the fourth band I've seen in a year with only two members - White Stripes, Black Keys, and Death From Above 1979 being the others. The guitar-and-drums thing has really taken off, and I'm continually surprised at how many different sounds can come from such a scant combination.

    Wilco. Oh, Wilco. You take my angst and anger and rage and turn it into something lovely and pure. I could go all music geek on you and extoll the rarities they played last night, but I'll spare you, since I know many of you either 1) don't like Wilco (blasphem!), or 2) have no idea who in the hell I'm talking about. If you don't fall into those categories and want more show-related details, drop me a line. I think I've gotten most of the post-show bliss out of my system with my similarly-inclined nerds. One of them even coined the term "I just puked from jealousy" in regards to the show. It was just that good.

    I do have to mention a few highlights, though. They performed Kingpin, which was a wonderful surprise. However, these lyrics -

    I wanna be your kingpin
    Living in Pekin
    I wanna be your bigwig
    Living in Pekin

    I got the flu and away I flew
    NYC, pediate blue
    Dimetapp and spinal tap
    City maps and hand claps

    now and forever will remind me of that time when Clara Jane covered me, herself, the cart, and the floor of the Pekin, Illinois Walmart Supercenter meat department in vomit. Therefore, I laughed through the whole song. While I would love for Jeff to be my kingpin, there's no way we can live in Pekin, because I'm pretty sure they won't let me or my vile child back into the Wal-Mart. These are the thoughts I entertain after a beer and a half and two days with my in-laws.

    The first song of the first encore got me, too: Passenger Side, from their first album. Very unexpected, and it sent me hurtling back to my last year of college, when it came out. Back then, Wilco was just this twangy little band from Belleville with that guy from Uncle Tupelo, who spent a lot of time playing shows in my town. Boy, has that band changed. Have I changed. This band has grown up with me. I treasure what we were in 1995, but damn, I love where we've all ended up.

    From there, an even bigger surprise: New Madrid, from Jeff's Uncle Tupelo days, a song I never thought I'd see him perform live again. Once again, the nostalgia hit. The song talks about Dr. Iben Browning's prediction that a catastrophic earthquake would occur in southern Missouri on December 3, 1990. I remember the day well. I was a senior in high school, and spent the day at a debate tournament in Kansas City. Tournaments usually had a theme that dictated decorations and such, and that particular school had an earthquake theme.

    Beyond that, I love the image of walking to the fountain, hand-in-arm while the world falls apart. The fountain referenced is located in Jeff's hometown of Belleville, Illinois, and it's located near the neighborhood B. and I plan to call "home" by this time next year. As I stood there last night, stupid grin plastered across my face, a question popped into my head that's been popping in since we started talking about moving to Belleville last spring: am I so stupid that I want to move to a town because one of my favorite musicians is from there?

    No, I know I'm not. I want to move there because it's a small town near St. Louis with Metrolink train access to the city. It has a thriving little downtown, lots of independent businesses, a great annual art show, fabulous old houses that cost 1/3 of what comparable houses cost on this side of the Mississippi, a good school system, and all those other reasons that make a town desirable. It's just an added perk that the town Clara Jane will consider her hometown has such a good song written about it, with images of the landmarks that'll populate her childhood. The songs about her current hometown leave a bit to be desired.

    After a weekend of spent with people - myself included - who spent most of their energy surpressing their emotions, it was great to be at a show where so many people were just plain happy. Wilco puts on a hell of a hometown show, and the audience was thrilled. I got a kick out of the college boys in front of us. At first I feared they'd be the usual band of dorks, showing up at the "in" show just to get drunk and say they were there. Not the case. They knew the words to every song, new and old. When the collective roar went up at the beginning of California Stars, these boys squealed like little girls and hugged each other, like they were welcoming an old friend back to the fold. Once they settled down, they stood in a row with arms either linked, or slung over the shoulders of their buddies, swaying and singing, not concerned with being embarrassed or getting hurt. They let the moment touch their hearts, and they gloriously and publically revelled in it.

    The world might be a better place if we all did that a little more often.

    Posted by Robin at 03:14 PM | Comments (9)

    March 14, 2006

    Emotional Housekeeping

    Here was my horoscope for today:

    Your emotions are stretched as far as they can go and your thoughts are running helter-skelter all over the map. Still, you hold on to your enthusiasm, even if you haven't reached your destination. However, there is no payoff in being overly self-critical. Even if the possibilities are overwhelming, cautiously set another round of goals.

    Darn tootin'.

    Clara Jane's back home from her visit to Tornado Alley. I have never in my life been so happy to see her, except for that time, when I was in labor for 32 hours and she was whisked off to NICU for, oh, six hours, without me. While I was nervous on Sunday, the full force of it hit me once she was back. I've forced myself to stay busy tonight to spare her from being smothered by the sudden overprotectiveness that has come over me.

    I'm still doing some emotional housekeeping, and I'm sure I will be for awhile. Today I caught myself getting worked up regarding some people I'm not fond of. Ridiculous! If I'm not fond of these people, and there isn't something binding me to them - bloodlines or a paycheck, for instance - then why the hell am I wasting my time on them? No more.

    I got conked on the head with a big light bulb the other day: I make friends easily, but I suck at keeping them. At first the thought depressed me, but now, not so much. Maybe it's because my adult life has been in constant upheaval. Or not, because really, show me a 33-year-old who hasn't been in upheaval for roughly 15 years. There aren't many.

    Maybe I'm not willing or able to make myself vulnerable enough to build the kind of bond that lasts. Or maybe I make friends with poeople who don't have that skill.

    Maybe I'm just an asshole.

    Whatever the reason, I catch myself getting annoyed with people and then with myself, but the annoyance goes away rather quickly. There's an upside to all of this that's making it a lot better: it's bringing me closer to B. and Clara Jane. Maybe I've spent all this time trying desperately to cultivate friendships so I can have emotional connections, support, and all that other chick lit crap, when really, I've already got it right under my roof.

    I'm also realizing that I've got that connection and support - cheesy as this is going to sound - within myself. You're going to laugh when I tell you this, because it sounds so silly, but buying that damn iPod was one of the smartest things I've ever done.

    I know I've mentioned before that, when I was a kid, I spent hours and hours sitting on our front porch swing with my Walkman and a huge stack of cassette tapes. I could sit on that swing, zoned, lost in my music, for days if they'd let me. If the weather was bad, I'd sit on the edge of my bed, unconsciously bouncing to the beat. I was always getting in trouble for wearing out mattresses and banging the porch swing into the side of the house. I couldn't help it; I'd get so lost in what I was listening to that I would be completely ignorant to what I was doing outside of my headphones.

    B. and I spent last Saturday night in a hotel downtown. We sat on the cushy king-size bed and played hand after hand of 3-13 while we watched the lightening and rain from the 15th floor. Around 11 PM, B. went on a wild goose chase for a pizza (don't ask), leaving me in the room with my iPod for half an hour. I set it to shuffle, and the first song to play was the nine-plus-minute live version of Bruce Springsteen's Rosalita (Come Out Tonight). Oh, how the side of my parents' house suffered because of that song! I haven't heard it in years, but it was always one of my favorite Springsteen songs when I was heavily into my headphones.

    By the time the second verse started I was bouncing on the bed, my cheeks hurting from the smile on my face while I gently bounced along. By the time I got to the line about papa saying he knows that I don't have any money, there were tears in my eyes. I felt like I'd come home.

    So this is what it feels like to be me. I'd forgotten.

    It felt great, returning to this piece of myself that had been gone for so long. I didn't realize I had lost it; I thought that piece of me lived on with my general music geekitude, but I was wrong. That's only a tiny part of it.

    As great and whole as I felt in those moments, it was nothing compared to the horrible crash that happened later that night. I didn't expect the frailty that would come with it, not until I found myself in that big hotel bed at 3 AM, sobbing with such a force that my eyes remained swollen well into Monday. I'm still not sure what brought it on, whether it was for the lost innocence or the found innocence. It felt like grief, like I'd lost something, although I'm not sure what. I think maybe I was grieving because I'm once again changing and in upheaval. Even though I know I need to leave things and people behind and I know it's for the best, it's still hard to admit that things didn't work the way I'd hoped, that I failed, that people I loved failed, and that I'm once again entering unchartered territory.

    Even though the terrain is new, Bruce will still be with me. But this time, so will B. and Clara Jane, and for the first time in my life, I'm sure I'll do just fine.

    Posted by Robin at 10:53 PM | Comments (8)

    March 08, 2006

    Happy International Women's Day!

    Here's a lovely way to celebrate.

    Do you think that guy is ever going to get laid, ever ever again, for the rest of his life? Sadly, he probably will. *sigh*

    Dude, I know you're young and all, but hear me out on this one: if you're so intent on not knocking someone up, you do have several birth control options you're free to exercise, all of which are cheaper than $500/month child support payments.

    I'm just amazed by the stupidity I've witnessed in the news today, when you take that dork into consideration with the three church-burning morons.

    Couple these incidents, along with some things I've been pondering over the past week and a half involving some people in my life, and I really wonder whatever happened to personal responsibility.

    Anyway ...

    Call me an old cynic, but unless the person you're screwing gives you proof that they are lacking either a uterus or testicles, it's wise to assume there's at least some chance a pregnancy might occur. I'm sure the friend of mine who was recently impregnated by her twice-vasectamied spouse might agree.

    Hello. My name is Robin. In September, 2002, my uterus was trying to fall out. Not condusive to baby-making. By the way, have you met my daughter?

    If his ex-girlfriend, did indeed "trick" him into fathering a child, shame on her for making it that much more difficult for women who are dealing with deadbeat-dad situations.

    I'm just sick to death of people not learning how to be responsible, or being unwilling to be responsible for themselves and their actions.

    Yeah, it's been that kind of day around here. Clara Jane and I didn't leave the house, and I've had entirely too much time to do laundry and ponder the human condition. I've come to the conclusion that some people could really use a trip through the spin cycle to knock some sense into them.

    It's also, apparently, Be Nasty Day, according to my new favorite crafty site, The AntiCraft. Blargh.

    You know I rarely do memes. Well, today I'm making an exception. I'm cranky, and I've got no real material, since nobody in my house has bothered to projectile vomit or shit on the floor today. Ingrates. So, I'm borrowing this from my friend Dixie, and I know she won't mind if I forget to return it.

    Pick a musical group. Answer the questions with a song title from that group.

    Since Dixie made a point of going beyond the usual suspects, I'm going to leave it to fate. I just brought up iTunes, and shuffled. Lo and behold, the first band to shuffle up? The Replacements. I couldn't have picked better myself. Except most of you probably won't get the connections, because we 'Mats fans? We're a small little cluster of music geeks. So be it. I know at least three readers who'll get it.

    1. Are you male or female? I could say I'm Androngynous, but my boobs are too big for that. So let's just say I'm Another Girl, Another Planet.
    2. Describe yourself: Left of the Dial
    3. How do some people feel about you? Darlin' One. Hey, it said some people, not all people.
    4. How do you feel about yourself? Achin' to Be
    5. Describe current relationship with boyfriend/girlfriend: Can't Hardly Wait
    6. Describe where you want to be: Happy Town
    7. Describe how you live: I Will Dare
    8. Describe how you love: One Wink at a Time
    9. What would you ask for if you had just one wish? Beer for Breakfast
    10. Share a few words of wisdom: Kids Don't Follow
    11. Now say goodbye: Take Me Down to the Hospital

    Posted by Robin at 08:35 PM | Comments (6)

    February 25, 2006

    Working for the Weekend Tidbits

    I've been far too verbose and serious this week. Really, I've had nothing else to talk about. The week has consisted of insomnia, a sick kid, a sick me, music aptitude news, and, well, that's about it. Today, I'm going to catch you up on the little bits of goofiness that have filled in the spaces between long-winded overthinking:

    -I had a 90-minute-long phone conversation with my next-door neighbor on Thursday night. While she's not my favorite person in the world, I don't mind playing catch-up with her every six months or so. I just don't want to be her best pal, at her beck and call. I've been there. It's not fun. About ten minutes after I got my first might-be-positive pregnancy test, I was on the phone with my mom when this neighbor showed up on the doorstep, distraught over some miscellaneous drama. Hearing that I'd just found out I was pregnant didn't deter her from plopping down on my couch, moaning and wailing over something so minor I don't even remember what it was. That, I can do without. But the occasional neighborly chat's okay.

    And in this particular chat I learned two interesting things: 1) she's started sex toy business, and 2) the neighbors across the street from her have a piercing and tattoo studio in their basement. So, if you're ever in the neighborhood for a Prince Albert and a Clitopatra II, make sure you stop by my place for a spot of tea.

    In less quease-inducing news ...

    -Looks like Clara Jane will be taking her first flight this summer, as my British buddy Sally and her darling boy Oz are going to visit her sister Kirsti in Detroit. While Detroit isn't exactly close to St. Louis, if Sal's there, I go. Relatively speaking, she's damn near in my neighborhood if she's in Detroit.

    I'm a little nervous about traveling solo with the kiddo, although if we can survive last October's traveling vomitorium, we can handle anything. Also, I figure Sal's flying solo across the Atlantic and half the US with a kid six months younger than Clara Jane, so I have no room to complain or be chicken.

    One of my favorite things about Sal - I'd give you the whole list of favorite things about Sal, but it might take months - is her unabashed love for things us Americans take for granted. Like IHOP. When was the last time you got excited about IHOP? Never? Well, I get excited about IHOP, just because Sal gets excited about IHOP. Excited enough to steal for her. Besides, it's the International House of Pancakes. I get to go there with someone who not only lives in London, but has also lived in Russia, South Africa and Australia. What could be more international than that?

    Last night, B. suggested a trip to IHOP for dinner. Sounded good, since I've had IHOP on the brain all week in anticipation of Sal's visit. I think IHOP's happy about the upcoming visit, since they're going to have their own little Shrove Tuesday celebration this week. In preparation, Clara Jane wore her Mardi Gras beads and insisted on dancing when Elvis came on the PA system:



    And I insisted on taking a photo of my dinner, just for Sal:



    You're two months and two days away from the chicken fried steak promised land, my friend.



    Clara Jane would just as soon bypass the fried beef and pancakes in favor of a pound of bacon, please. It's good to see that her experience with puking bacon across rural Illinois last October hasn't detered her hog product consumption.

    -My poor, stupid little dog Murphy had a horrible experience last night. When we got home from IHOP, we got out of the truck and B. said, "Jesus Christ, Murphy! Shut the hell up!" We could hear her in the house, whining, all the way from our driveway.

    We came inside, and Chloe greeted us at the door. Murphy couldn't be bothered to get up. She just laid on her back in our big red chair, whining and wagging and wiggling around like a damn squirrel. I gave her a belly rub, lovingly told her what a fucking window-licker she is, and went about my way. Still, she stayed in the chair, wagging. I had the thought that maybe she had her harness hooked on the quilt in the chair. I checked, and she was free, so I moved on, muttering about what a damn weirdo she is.

    Five minutes later, she was still on her back. Even by Murphy's uber-freak standards, that's a bit excessive. B. took another look, and discovered that Murphy had one of her front toenails hooked in the ring for her ID tag.

    Obviously, Murphy gets her intelligence from me.

    -It's the end of an era. In today's mail, I got the 20th and final volume of Kristina's Rock Yer Punk Ass mix CD series. It all began an astounding four years ago this month. It was her first mix CD, throwing her into the mix CD crazy place where Kara and I had resided for about a year. Of course, we welcomed her to Crazyland with open arms. The three of us traded CDs like mad, with the unspoken rule of not repeating songs. For example, let's say I put Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen on my "Punk Kids Vandalized My Derelict Car" mix, then it would be in bad form for Kara or Kristina to put it on one of their mixes. It's just good mix CD manners.

    However, even with our stupifyingly large music collections, we were always unwittingly using the same songs. The most overused being Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. We latched onto it like, well, like a monkey to a handful of feces. We made it ours. And even though the song is about a really horrible cocktail, we took it literally.

    Do you need some stuff with monkeys on it? Well, Kara, Kristina and I have some stuff with monkeys on it. Like the fabbo $4.50 monkey clock Kristina gave me last year. So intense was our zeal to procure the best monkey-related junk for each other that Kara kept saying, "We're taking this too far. Too many monkeys." To which I said, "We haven't taken it too far. Until one of us winds up with a live monkey, we haven't taken it too far."

    For Valentine's Day 2003, I found a pair of cheesy, horrible cards with leery photos of chimps with shaky googly eyes. Of course, I sent them to Kara and Kristina, signing them from Priscilla von Monkeyassen, who resides at 6969 Baboon Lane, Monkey Island, South Carolina.

    Of course, once they spied my awesome monkey alias, they had to have them, too. Thus Star Monkeybrass and Exena Humpamonkey were born. It's just good sense to have an alias, you know. When I got pregnant a few months later, my fetus was christened Coco Monqueytoes.

    Had I known the monkey names would stick for this long, I would have picked something other than Priscilla for myself, since that's my mother-in-law's name. I eventually shortened it to Prissy. So, when you see a police report in your local paper regarding one Prissy von Monkeyassen and her accomplice Coco Monqueytoes being held in lock-down for stealing carafes from the IHOP, you'll know it's me, and I need to be sprung, please.

    I'm sure Kristina will keep making mix CDs; she's just retiring the "Rock Yer Punk Ass" moniker. It has rocked her well. She's got a castle in Brooklyn that's where she dwells.

    Enclosed with the CD, Kristina included an article about Loverboy from the December, 1983, issue of Creem Magazine. She even took the time to highlight each usage of the phrase "hog balls" in the article. I leave you with photographic evidence:



    I think that headline pretty much sums up why we listened to Loverboy way back when: because they were there, and remote control technology wasn't like it is today, therefore making it more difficult to change the station to something that didn't suck.


    Hog balls.



    Nothing screams "heavy metal" quite like an unattractive Canadian man wearing nothing but a towel while blow-drying his man-perm.



    That's Exena Humpamonkey on the left, lovin' every hog ball humping minute of it while she's working for the weekend.

    Posted by Robin at 02:01 PM | Comments (4)

    November 16, 2005

    The Top Ten

    Much like it was brought to my attention that my blog is mostly unsafe for work environments, it has also been brought to my attention that Kara and I were in sync with our bloggity lameless yesterday. Our blog block, if you will. What can I say? Told you we're codependent.

    There's really not much going on right now. I can only talk about my child's overwhelming attributes so long before my entire readership starts gagging. Although I've gotta say, it cracks me up that she can count to ten but refuses to acknowledge the existance of the number four. Gets mad if we push the issue. Four sucks! Sucks!

    I have nothing of import to bitch about, aside from a bit of road rage I witnessed yesterday that would have been hilarious had the rager not been completely fucking scary-crazy.

    No big events on the agenda. This weekend, I'll be seeing Walk the Line. Monday night, it's a sneak peek of Rent. I'm keeping my expectations in check for that one because 1) plays don't always translate well to the screen, and 2) it's cool that they got the original cast, but aren't they all a bit, ahem, old to be playing those parts? We shall see.

    Then we have the upcoming trip to ye olde hometown for Thanksgiving. I'm pretty sure things will be much more exciting at my house while I'm gone than they generally are when I'm here, and that's all I'm saying about that.

    So, in light of my lack of interesting things to discuss, I'm going to phone it in and steal Kara's music schtick from yesterday. Codependent, I tell you.

    I suck at lists of favorites. Absolutely suck at them, and will let the making of such a list take over my entire life. Seriously. Don't be surprised if it takes me a week to write this. By the time it's done, I'll be unbathed, hungry and more than a little delirious. It'll be fun.

    In no particular order ...


    • The entire first side of U2's The Joshua Tree (back in the olden days when albums had two sides).
      Yeah, I'm totally cheating here. It's hardly fair to lump half an album into a list of songs. But all the tracks need each other. "Where the Streets Have No Name", "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For", "With or Without You", "Bullet the Blue Sky" and "Running to Stand Still" ... they are a complete work. A work that encompasses the full range of human emotion and experience. I've carried these songs with me for nearly 20 years, since I was 14 years old, and I'm still discovering new things about these songs.

    • "War on War" by Wilco
      You have to lose,You have to learn how to die, if you want to want to be alive.
      When I finally dealt with that lifelong panic and anxiety disorder shit last year, this song became my mantra. Living through that pain and fear has taught me how to really be alive.

    • "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen
      There were ghosts in the eyes
      Of all the boys you sent away
      They haunt this dusty beach road
      In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets
      No explaination needed. It's just rich and beautiful.

    • "Love is Like a Butterfly" by Dolly Parton
      Your laughter brings me sunshine
      Everyday is spring time
      And I am only happy when you are by my side
      How precious is this love we share
      How very precious, sweet and rare
      Together we belong like daffodils and butterflies       .
      My mom used to sing it to me. Now I sing it to Clara Jane.

    • "Know Your Rights" by the Clash
      This is a public service announcement
      With guitar
      This rebel girl's call to arms.

    • "Tender" by Blur
      Come on, come on, come on
      get through it.
      Come on, come on, come on
      love's the greatest thing, that we have,
      I'm waiting for that feeling,waiting for that feeling,
      waiting for that feeling to come...
      Oh my baby, oh my baby
      This song never would have entered my radar screen had it not been on a mix CD Kristina made for me to listen to while I was in labor. Somewhere around the 26th hour when the epidural drugs stopped working, this song started sounding like a mantra and a prayer. It got me through those last six hours of fear, unimaginable pain and unbearable anticipation.

    • "Sunday Morning Coming Down" by Johnny Cash
      I'd smoked my mind the night before
      With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
      But I lit my first and watched a small kid
      Playing with a can that he was kicking.
      Then I walked across the street
      And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
      And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
      Somewhere, somehow along the way.
      See "Thunder Road".

    • "Jambalaya" by Hank Williams and "You Are My Sunshine"
      The former was always sung to me by my paternal grandmother. The latter, by my maternal grandmother. These songs are little parts of them that I always have with me.

    • "Since You've Been Gone (Sweet Sweet Baby)" by Aretha Franklin
      Take me back,
      consider me please
      If you walk in that door,
      I can get up off my knees
      I've just been so blue
      Since you've been gone
      Only Aretha can make such tormented words sound so joyful.

    • "Ain't Got No/I Got Life" by Nina Simone (originally from the "Hair" soundtrack).
      What have I got?
      Why am I alive anyway?
      Yeah, what have I got?
      Nobody can take away

      I got my hair, I got my head
      I got my brains, I got my ears
      I got my eyes, I got my nose
      I got my mouth, I got my smile

      I couldn't care less about the original of this song. But the things Nina could do with a song, the way she could make it her own ... Another song that has drug me out of some pretty dank and dark places.


    And there you have it.

    Posted by Robin at 10:43 AM | Comments (7)

    November 07, 2005

    In the City of Blinding Light

    Viva las Bono!

    Friday: Arrived in Vegas in the early evening, greeted by the lovely Kim, Anne and Kat. We ran around the strip, destroyed a great deal of crustacians with dinner at Mandalay Bay. By the time I arrived, I was pretty tuckered out, so it was a short night.

    My first impressions of Vegas: this is the most surreal place in the world. Everything is manufactured. Everything. I can't decide if that's good or bad. On one hand, a little fantasy and make-believe is a great thing, and this is a huge testament to the bredth of the human imagination. But on the other, it really does lack soul. If given the opportunity to spend, say, a week in Vegas, I'm pretty sure most of my time would be spent sitting on a bench, people-watching.

    I was much more interested in seeing Kim, Anne and Kat than anything else, of course. Much talking. Much laughing. You know, doing the stuff girls do when they get together without spouses and kids. It was grand.

    We stayed at the Sahara, which is one of the oldest hotel/casinos on the strip. Personally, that suited me just fine. It felt like old Vegas. Walking through the casino to our room, we passed a bandstand, draped in thick red velvet. A band, mostly older men with a younger Sinatra sound-alike vocalist performed, clad in tuxedos. That's what I wanted to see, just a hint of what used to be.

    Saturday:Monorail passes purchased, we hit the strip. Spent some time at Paris, which I thoroughly loved. Then we headed for lunch at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill.

    Now, you might recall that I'm not a fan of Mr. Flay. And apparently, neither are you people. But when Kim got us a lunch reservation at Mesa Grill, I didn't balk. In fact, I was excited and interested. Besides, with an abhorant personality like his, the food must be spectacular for him to be so successful, right?

    When we finally found the restaurant, located in Ceasars Palace, it formed a circle with the Pussycat Dolls theater and Celine Dion's show.

    A circle. Made of Carmen Elektra, Bobby Flay and Celine Dion?

    I have entered one of the circles of Hell. It's the third or fouth, I'm not sure which.

    (Sarcasm aside, I truly loved the experience. Really. Because my God, where else would that scenario happen, and how fun to be in it!)

    Mesa Grill? Holy fuck. One of the best meals of my life. I knew I'd splurge on one excellent meal while in Vegas. I don't care about gambling. I'm not much of a shopper. But when given the opportunity, I have no qualms spending $50 on lunch, but it had better be so good that I need a shower afterwards. This qualified.

    We started with an ahi tuna tartar. It was a little torte; a tortilla on the bottom, avocado relish in the middle, piled with dices of buttery raw tuna tossed with peppers. There was a little herb salad accompaniment and wasabi and ancho pepper dipping sauces. Beautiful and divine in every way.

    I really put Mr. Flay's skills to the test (not that he was in the kitchen, of course; he probably hasn't been in a professional kitchen in years) by ordering Barbequed Lamb Cobb Salad. I'm not a fan of lamb. To me, it always tastes like feet. Dirty, icky feet. I was either giving him my ultimate test or setting him up to fail. He didn't. Field greens, avocados tossed with peppers, a smoky buttermilk dressing, rare chunks of lamb tenderloin with a spicy rub crisped around the edges and my beloved Cabrales cheese ... only the tomato was a bit mealy. Otherwise, wonderful, especially with an incredibly peppery glass of Zinfandel (vintage I sadly forgot to note).

    For dessert we all shared a bit of warm pumpkin cake, topped with a spiced cream, surrounded by slivers of crisp sugared pear and fresh cranberries with a dollop of pear sorbet, and the best cup of coffee that's ever passed my lips.

    Touche', Mr. Flay. You have won my fair favor.

    Now, why did I go to Vegas again? Wasn't there a reason ... an impetus for this entire trip? Something we were committed to doing? Hmmm ...

    Oh, yeah: those Irish lads with the guitars and stuff.

    The show? Awesome. My seat for the show? Incredible. That was taken without a zoom lens. The setlist? Mind-blowing. "With or Without You". "One" with Mary J. Blige. "In a Little While" with that cute boy from The Killers. "Mysterious Ways". "The Fly", complete with mindblowing graphics that hit me at my core.

    My one big moment was during "Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own", the song Bono wrote in tribute of his father. In the middle of the song he hits this soaring note, followed by the line "You're the reason why the opera is in me". It's both crushing in its grief and beautiful in its love. He was standing right in front of me at that point, and I sobbed. I wished Kara could have seen it, but was also glad that she didn't have to deal with the emotions it would have conjured. It was tough. Really tough.

    It was an epiphany-free show. I made sure of that. I went with the intention of just having fun and feeling good. Mission: accomplished. Not that I turned my brain off. Not in the slightest. But this time around it wasn't about desperately grasping for a glimmer of hope. It was just reminders of just how good life is, how good love is. I spent a lot of the show thinking about B. and Clara Jane, missing them, loving them. Thinking about my friends, many who've been through immense amounts of shit lately, missing them, loving them. The missing wasn't even melancholy. I'm glad I have people in my life that I miss when they aren't there.

    But it wasn't a show without a surreal moment, that's for sure. After Damien Marley's opening set, I was gawking around behind me, people-watching, when I spotted what might possibly be the cutest woman I've ever seen sitting four rows behind me. Everything about her exuded cuteness. I don't want to say gorgeous, because she wasn't Vegas gorgeous, which is just scary. She was the hottest girl-next-door in the world. Thoughts of changing teams started flickering through my brain, so sublime was the hotness. And she was wearing the most motherfucking massive diamond on her left hand. I caught myself staring, so I diverted my eyes to the person sitting to her left ... who happened to be ...

    Bobby motherfucking Flay.

    The cutest girl in the world? His wife, acotr Stephanie March. You know how celebs are rarely as attractive in person as they are on screen or in photos? She looks better in person. He, however, radiates lukewarm arrogance, as expected. I considered approaching him and saying, "Yo, Bastard! Your restaurant's serving mealy-ass tomatoes, and I totally wanna do your wife," but I make a point of not bothering the famous people on the rare occasions when I encounter them.

    Edited to add: If there is a heaven and I somehow manage to find myself there someday, I hope to spend eternity on a cloud, with The Edge on the next cloud over, playing "Mysterious Ways" for eternity. Except for maybe a little "Bullet the Blue Sky" on my birthdays. Is it any wonder he married the belly dancer from the "Mysterious Ways" video? I'm sure they just spend their days with him playing that sexy, slinky riff while she shimmies. That, my friends, is love.

    Sunday: Breakfast at the hotel with everyone, including Anne's husband and darling five-year-old son, Bean. I remember when Bean was born, weeks after I joined the Stonecutters. He was born about three months early and things were really touch-and-go. Not that any of this is evident now. He's tiny, but sharp, funny, agile and quick. I just wanted to stick my fingers in his long, fluffy hair and give him playful little ruffles all morning. Such a cutey!

    Oh, the gambling? I only played (and lost) a dollar the entire time I was in Vegas. After the concert, though, Kat hit the casino. Played $5 and won $100. Not too shabby. After breakfast she cashed in her chips, then met me in the front lobby where I was visiting with one of Anne's friends. Kat held out her cupped hand. "Am I just naive, or is this what I think it is?" She held a chip, marked with the casino's name and $100.

    "Looks pretty clear to me," I said, thinking the cashier had given her a chip instead of cash.

    "I found it on the floor when I was walking back here."

    And no, she wasn't being naive. It really was a $100 chip. Found on the floor. After cashing in $100 in winnings. Kat's had a rough go of it lately and really, if anyone deserves to trip over $100 chips, it's her.

    Anne and company and Kat both hit the road for their long drives home, while Kim and I headed to the Bellagio. Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous! We checked out the conservatory, which were decked out for autumn, complete with enormous blown-glass autumn leaves fluttering from the ceiling. We also took in the The Impressionist Landscape at the Gallery of Fine Art. Nice little exhibit and really, a welcome change of pace from all the lights, noise and make-believe. The more I learn about that era of art, the more I appreciate Renoir.

    Finally, it was plane-time. I got to the airport early, caught up on the weekends of my spouse and usual partner in crime. The flight, of course, was a sell-out, full of people like myself who hadn't shifted gears from the intensity of Vegas to the blandness of the real world. It was crowded, loud and restless.

    I sat by the window with an older woman beside me. Dressed in green camoflauge pants, an American flag leather jacket and a black felt fedora, she was missing a few teeth and smelled of stale alcohol. For about an hour, she leaned on my left arm, snoring.

    As we walked down the jetway, almost 1 a.m. back in our real Midwestern world, a teenage boy caught up with her, shouting, "Mama, I ain't never sitting next to Tequila again! She talked the whole flight!"

    It was good to see that at least a smidge of Vegas' surrealness was able to survive the bumpy flight.

    Posted by Robin at 01:20 PM | Comments (7)

    November 03, 2005

    Blessings Aren't Just for the Ones Who Kneel. Luckily.

    I've got a bad habit of writing blog entries in my head. By the time I get a chance to actually write it, I'm tired of it, or have thought it to death. Such is the case today.

    Every Thursday, Clara Jane goes to daycare and I go to the coffeehouse to work on an extended writing project. Some days, it goes really well and I come away feeling revived and like I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. Others, it's an exercise in frustration. The material's too hard to write. I'm unable to let go of the things from the rest of my life for those six hours and do what I want to do. Or maybe I'd just rather take my child-free time and go for a drive with the music turned up as loud as it'll go.

    Today, it was all of the above. I left the coffeehouse two hours early and hit the road.

    Tomorrow I'm getting on a plane to Las Vegas to see U2 with my friends Kim, Anne and Kat. It's a phenomenal situation, really. Kim lives near Vegas. Back in April she did a huge cross-country-and-back road trip. While she was gone, the Vegas U2 date was announced, tickets went on sale and sold out, much to her dismay. She spent a few days with me, and I helped her find a way to get tickets without bending over for a scalper. In return, she bought a ticket for me.

    Have I mentioned that I have awesome friends? Because I do.

    If you've been reading for any amount of time you know that I love U2. A lot. But with all the craziness of the past few months, I really haven't let myself get too excited about the Vegas show. It seemed so far off all along, and life kept intervening.

    Today, when I hit the road instead of working, I put "How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb" on, turned it up full-blast and before Bono could get to catorce, I had my Concert Reality Check. The CRC, much like Interpretive Dance Girl, is a regular at just about every show I go to. Well, the big ones, at least. It's that moment, usually a day or two before the event, when it finally hits me that, hey! I'm going to Vegas to see U2 with Kim, Anne and Kat! And suddenly my life is filled with exclaimation points, italics and shrieking with glee. In this case, catorce sounded more like "CatorcAIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAW! I'm gonna see U2 in Vegas in two days!!!!!"

    I do love that moment.

    Right now, I need this moment.

    I've seen U2 twice in the last four years. The first time was November, 2001. While standing on the floor, fifteen feet away from the stage, I had a moment where all the hurt, anger and fear spawned from 9/11, which I'd been forcing down for over two months, finally surfaced during "Sunday Bloody Sunday".

    The last time, in Chicago six months ago, I was coming off one of the worst times in my life. I'd spent five months in therapy for anxiety and panic disorders that had dictated my life since I was a child not much older than my daughter. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. It involved putting myself nose-to-nose with every great hurt in my life, every nick in my emotional armour. I had to examine everything I hate about myself - my neediness, my ability to disconnect from anyone and anything, my body, my temper, my ability to turn away from anything remotely frightening. For months I not only wallowed in every single thing awful about myself (real and imagined), but picked those details apart. It was akin to taking one of those picks you use to get the meat out of a walnut and gouging away at my soul.

    It was so bad that, for a great chunk of that time, I no longer wanted to continue living.

    I had a plan. I knew how I was going to do it, end what I had grown to hate. I just didn't know when. I didn't know what, exactly, would be the final pain that would make me say, "Enough", but I was certain it was waiting around the corner, the one final despicable thing about myself that would solidify my belief that mine was not a life worth living.

    I never found that one thing, because it doesn't exist. I didn't know that six months ago. I know now.

    When I look back at 2005, I can see a calendar in which the entire month of April and been blackened with a Sharpie marker. The people closest to me seem to understand what I mean when I vaguely reference the month of April. It's my own little code word for, "You know, that month when I was really sad, really angry and really ready to bring things to a sudden halt, whether you like it or not because goddamn it, you're not the one living this pain so you don't get a motherfucking say in how I handle it."

    When April was behind me, there was U2. If you were too lazy to read the "U2" link above, I'll summerize: I got a bunch of musical reminders that I can deal with those ugly things about myself and my life and I can make them good. And things got better.

    In the months that have passed, things have fallen apart. Seeing so much human suffering; I don't know how I would have dealt with that before May. I honestly don't. I don't think I could have dealt with them. I think I would have stuffed them down and eventually imploded. It's happened before.

    But things are different now. I've had several huge lessons in just how precious life is. It took the loss of thousands of people far away for me to see that. It took the loss of one person close to me for me to see that. I almost had to lose myself before I could see that. I get it. Lesson learned.

    And my life is so much better for it. My relationships are better. The words "I love you", which used to be pried from my lips only with brute force, tend to slip out at will these days.

    I also find myself with little patience when people who don't move when they need to. Life is short. Short and harsh. Kiss the girl. Write the book. Make the baby. Take the job. Quit the job. Jet off to Vegas with your friends for a concert because Jesus Christ, you might never get the opportunity again. It could be the best thing in your life. If things come crashing down, it might be the only thing in your life that makes it bearable to go on.

    It's been a horrific year on the large scale and the small scale. Last night I just about gave myself whiplash from vigorously nodding while reading Joe. It's been a lousy year. Really lousy, and it needs to be laid to rest. Put out of its misery. Demolished. Unlike Joe, I'm not waiting until New Year's Eve to put the dog down. I'm doing it this weekend. U2 has been the balm for my soul before, and I know they will be again.

    Posted by Robin at 07:11 PM | Comments (8)

    September 24, 2005

    I am called Super Fantastic! I drink Schampus with salmon fish!

    In a soaring attempt to return to some sembalence of our normal existances, Kara and I went to last night's Franz Ferdinand show, as we'd been planning to do for several months.

    While we hadn't planned to go with our occasional show cohort Holley, there she was, standing at the end of the line when we arrived, waiting for her friend H. And there they were again when I returned from the bar in search of Kara. I didn't see Kara, so I assumed she was in the restroom (which is usually a correct assumption; I have measuring spoons larger than that girl's bladder). I joined Holley and H. and eventually began to wonder if maybe I should check on Kara, as she was gone an exceptionally long time.

    "Um, were you planning on telling me that you were sitting up here?" she asked when she finally got to the table. Which was in the area where we always sit at The Pageant.

    "No Kara. I was going to run and hide when I saw you come out of the bathroom."

    "I wasn't in the bathroom. I was sitting down there," she said, pointing to the level below us. I'm pretty sure she uttered the word "dumbass" at the end of that sentence, but I can't be sure.

    Chalk my inattention up to my pursuit of this weekend's goals. You see, my parents and grandparents are in town, because my mom didn't bother to ask if I might have plans before making their plans. Regardless, they insist on staying at a hotel for two nights with my child, and then taking her home with them until Wednesday. Considering the difficulties of the past month, I think a little break is a fine idea. It will give me an opportunity to pursue two goals that are difficult with a 19-month in tow. Those goals are:

    1. Pursuing my freelance writing opportunities Sleeping

    -and-

    2. Partaking in autumnal housekeeping Drinking bourbon.

    I began working on #2 upon arriving at the Pageant, long before I left Kara sitting by herself. Blame the bourbon.

    I partially blame the bourbon for the intense, stomach-mangling rage I felt towards the first opening band, Cut Copy. Be warned: their website is just as annoying as the band.

    These words should never, ever be spoken from a concert stage:

    "This song is about dreams. And dancing."

    Yeah, well, that's the kind of dancing I see in my nightmares and it makes me wanna cut you, you motherfucker.

    God, they sucked.

    Shortly after Cut Copy was finished inflicting their dancing dreaming torture on us, we were approached by a guy who'd been sitting a few tables away. I'd noticed him earlier and thought he looked familiar, but couldn't pinpoint why (bourbon).

    "Excuse me," he asked a little nervously. "Are you StL Bloggers?"

    I didn't hear the initial question because I was running my mouth (bourbon). But I eventually shut up and looked at the guy. "Hey! It's Hot Out Herre!" Not that I could have called him by his first name, which he'd just used to introduce himself (Mike) or even his online moniker (DJ Early Bird) because I'm a dork (I'd like to blame the bourbon, but we all know I'd be just as inept had the bourbon not been present.).

    In case you're looking for some actual music content in this recap, you might as well leave and go read Mike's preview of show that appeared in the St. Louis and KC alternative weeklies this week.

    I was excited, though, because his blog was the first local blog I started reading shortly before I started my own last year. He and his wife Callie have a little girl who's a few months younger than Clara "Maker's Mark" Jane. We only talked for a few minutes, since he was saving a seat for Callie, who's six months pregnant (brave). Kara and I pondered how he knew who we were. I figured it was because I had been loudly telling H. a few of my tales that I have posted on my blog (bourbon).

    After the second opening act, Kara and I paid a visit to Mike and Callie, which included us asking how he recognized us. Because of our Flickr photos. Duh. To my defense, I didn't realize Mike ever read my blog. And to his credit, he recognized me while I was wearing a rather modest t-shirt, considering that the only photo I've put of myself on Flickr was 2/3 cleavage and 1/3 forehead.

    Speaking of cleavage, it takes exactly five gin and tonics for someone at our table to disclose that she once frolicked topless at a topless beach with her male companion and two friends, who she really hasn't been friends with since that day.

    "That's because, by exposing The Girls™, you achieved a level of intimacy that usually requires years and years of friendship to build," I explained (bourbon). "There was nowhere left to go after that."

    Can you imagine what that friendship-ending letter would look like?

    Dear Jane,

    You have been a wonderful friend. We've had some good times. However, you have seen my tits in a situation in which I was not bleeding and in need of a tourniquette. I'm afraid this is the end of the road for us.

    Good luck with your future friendship endeavors. Please keep your shirt on,
    Me and The Girls™

    Somewhere in the midst of this gin and bourbon disclosure, Pretty Girls Make Graves did their set. I'm not sure why this was necessary. It really wasn't. I mean, if I wanted to hear excessive whining, I would have stayed home with my daughter. Really. PGMG's lead singer, Andrea Zollo, has a fairly deep speaking voice. Last year I downloaded one of their albums. While I only listened to it once or twice, I remembered her vocals to be rather alto-y. But last night - holy crap. She must have needed a nap or a sippy cup because she whined every single word that she sang. A high-pitched, not-getting-her-way whine.

    And it made me angry. Very, very angry (bourbon).

    Despite the opening act suckassedness, Franz Ferdinand was great. I wasn't expecting much, since they've got a fairly small library, and they're so light and fluffy. But you know, I was in need of some light and fluffy fun, and they provided. Just a damn fun band to watch, and they sounded great. They didn't whine at all. Not once.

    Interpretive Dance Girl™ was there, of course, but she wasn't sitting in our section. She was all the way up in the balcony. We watched as she encountered some guy who apparently fell under the spell of her jerky, arms-akimbo interpretive dance siren song, and she was rapidly transformed from Interpretive Dance Girl™ to Spontaneous Makeout Girl™.

    There was also a woman a few rows in front of us who kept pointing skyward. I don't know what was up with all the pointing. Cut Copy kept pointing, which pissed me off (bourbon). That whiny bitch from Pretty Girls Make Graves kept pointing which really pissed me off (bourbon). Even the Franz Ferdinand guys patook in a bit of pointing. And of course, at our table, we all pointed at each other. Because we're rude. And 3/4 of us were drinking. But this woman in front of us was pointing skyward in a manner reminescent of a tent revival.

    "She's pointing to God," Holley said.

    "Yeah, well, she's so into it that I'm a little afraid she's gonna pull some snakes. 'Praise Jesus! I call the big one Franz!'". (bourbon)

    But the real interpretive dancing occured in the row in front of us and was committed by a gaggle of ... men.

    Now, I don't want to engage in unfair stereotypes and prejudice, but I wouldn't have been one bit surprised to see Greek letters seared into the skin on their asses from their days of being paddled as pledges. And I'll leave it at that.

    I also won't pretend that I understand men. I don't. I don't even understand the one I married, and I spend a good portion of my time asking him to repeat himself in a manner that my mind can grasp. I don't understand women for that matter, either, but that's beside the point.

    What I really don't understand is the concert behavior of guys of this nature. They're as ever-present at shows as Interpretive Dance Girl™. In fact, they're often accompanied by Interpretive Dance Girl™. Last night's group consisted of six guys in polo shirts with the collars turned up, and two drunk blonde girls, sucking on cigarettes but never inhaling (Bud Light).

    The boys, they do get excited. Oh, the air-drumming! The air-guitaring! The air-accordianing! And the high-fiving that they did after a particularly blistering air-bass lick!

    And they danced! Lord, how they danced - manic and sloppy, with moves borrowed from a hockey brawl (vodka and Red Bull).

    "See that one?" Holley said, pointing to the particularly enthusiastic guy in a striped polo who was so overcome with joy that he was starting to look for someone to head-butt. "I'll bet his favorite song is 'Michael',"

    And sure enough, when that anthem of boy-on-boy dancing on the dancefloors like beautiful dance whores opened the encore, the dudes in front of us were on their feet, fists pumping the air. But a few of them did feel the need to go fondle their blonde girls during the song. You know. Because they're not queer or nothing.

    I came home and partook in a bit of post-midnight-hour emailing that probably shouldn't have occured (bourbon), then settled in for a restful night's sleep (bourbon). Today, it was lunch with the family. This evening will involved playing dominoes and eating fried chicken with my parents and tee-totalling grandparents. Shirts will be kept on and bourbon will not be involved.

    Posted by Robin at 02:02 PM | Comments (10)

    August 26, 2005

    If There is a Sin, Then There is a Sinner Too

    As you might have heard, I saw the White Stripes on Wednesday. This wasn't my first WS show, but it was certainly different from my past experiences. For one thing, this time around I wasn't six weeks pregnant and experiencing the violent mood swings and profuse vomiting and narcolepsy that plagued me throughout the summer of 2003. Secondly, this time we were spared opening act Mr. Quintron and Miss Pussycat. Musically, they were interesting, and catchy enough that I occasionally, apropo of nothing, get a particular bit of one of their songs stuck in my head. But they had to go and ruin it all by ending their set with an acid-fueled jack-knifed truck wreck of a puppet show - a goddamn puppet show - that drug on and on and on with its convuluted "plot" and chantings of "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!"

    I swear to God, open a concert by any other band with that crap, and the roadies would be washing miniature magical horse guts off the stage with a firehose. You don't see that shit when you see Motorhead.

    I wasn't pregnant when the concert tickets went on sale, so it seemed perfectly logical to buy tickets for the St. Louis and Kansas City shows. Kristina bought a plane ticket to St. Louis, and the plan was to drive to Kansas City for the Saturday night show, spend some time playing in KC, then amble back to St. Louis for Monday's show. The tickets were general admission at small venues, and we had every intention of getting in line early so we could nab a spot right against the stage because, well, Jack White doesn't wear underwear.

    The plan didn't include wearing a pair of very sweaty anti-nausea wristbands and worrying about destroying my child's eardrums by standing next to the biggest speaker stack in the house, even though she didn't even have a real head yet, much less ears. But that's how things happen, right?

    We abbreviated our Kansas City trip, since my pregnancy-induced need to sleep 18 hours a day and eat during the remaining six made it difficult to drive across the state in a safe and efficient manner. Instead, we drove to my parents' house the day before the show, where I was able to get my required sleep. Then we rushed to KC and had just enough time to peek inside the American Jazz Museum and snarf down some barbeque while I repeatedly screamed, "Fetus needs BEEF!!!!" before hustling to the show.

    Which was incredible. Seriously. One of my best concert experiences ever. Not that I remember much of it, aside from "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!", trying to not vomit my burnt ends, and fretting over my child's unformed ears.

    We ambled back to my parents' house that night, where I slept for another 18 hours, then eventually made our way back to St. Louis.

    The show here wasn't quite as great. For one thing, there were no burnt ends and the fetus was ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! There were also some major tech problems during the show. Jack was agitated, but not nearly as much as the crowd. Once again we were in the pit, next to the stage, surrounded by throngs of 14-year-old boys who were just beginning to realize that maybe they, too, should be ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! or something. Or maybe it was the puppet show that set them on edge, I don't know. Regardless, we were pushed and crushed in the throng. At the beginning of "The Hardest Button to Button", the young chap behind me decided to place his hands on my shoulders so he could propel himself off the floor in rhythm to the guitar's pulsations.

    When Kristina and I decided we'd had enough of the insanity, my hormone-addled mind saw absolutely nothing wrong with looking that youngster in the eye before slamming the open palm of my hand into the center of his face. Luckily, he was too stunned from being smacked by a thirtysomething pregnant woman to use his adolescent rage against me and I made a clean escape.

    The other weirdness with the show ... I had made the mistake a few months earlier of setting up Kristina with one of B.'s good friends, Spanker. You know how you can be friends with someone, and he can be a great person, but then you find out how he is in a romantic relationship and you're shocked to find out that he's really kind of an ass? Well, that pretty much sums it up. Without going into too much detail, there had been a great deal of drama concerning this coupling.

    Let me just put it this way: forget spaying and neutering your pets. Sometimes you should spay and neuter your friends.

    Spanker was looking to make a booty call, but he had to go through me. He was going to be at the concert, and B. warned him, "Dude, just leave Robin alone. Don't call her phone to talk to Kristina. Seriously. The pregnancy hormones are bad. She's been peeling shards of lead paint off the walls with her bare fingers and muttering about shoving the peelings into several of your favorite sphincters. Don't call her."

    So what did he do? He started calling me between set, when I was at the apex of my "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!" progesterone-fueled rage. I could see him in the balcony, waving down to me as he called. Twice. I didn't answer either time and turned my phone off. I am not Kristina's pimp. Don't call me.

    Long story short, things eventually came to an end with Kristina and Spanker. I urged B. to not let my anger influence him, for I was pregnant and my emotions were powered solely by the fact that there was never, ever enough sleep or beef to satisfy the fetus. He needed to maintain his friendship with Spanker. They had been friends long before us girls came in and messed things up.

    That didn't happen. I think the differences in their lifestyles - Spanker was out macking on hot babes at the trendiest of clubs every night, while B. was at home, flinging hunks of raw beef my way and washing the barnicles off the underside of my massively pregnant gut - was the nail in the coffin. That, and Spanker was afraid of me.

    On Tuesday, the day before the most recent White Stripes show, I guess I had Spanker on the brain, thinking back to my last White Stripes adventure. B., Clara Jane and I were having dinner at a Thai restaurant down the street from the venue where that show took place, and I asked B. if he'd heard from Spanker recently. The last he had heard was last fall when we both recieved a mass email announcing that Spanker had bought a house with his girlfriend

    Wednesday afternoon, B. and I were having our usual midday phone conversation. "You will never guess who I heard from today."

    Um, Spanker? Because, you know, I have that power, summoning the unwanted simply by mentioning their names aloud.

    Actually, I wouldn't say "unwanted", because I always felt bad that B. and Spanker's friendship had faltered and I've always felt a little responsible for it. Had I not played pimp cupid ... had I not been such a bitch to him (even though he deserved it for the way he treated Kristina) ...

    B. got an email from Spanker Wednesday morning, announcing his pending nuptuals. He's getting married in late April and wants B. in the wedding party. Instead of going out every night, he's spending his evenings at home, caring for his 5-year-old future stepson while his fiance' works.

    When B. and Spanker used to get together, it usually involved a lot of alcohol. Now they're talking about visiting at home some evening while the children play. And where will I be? Probably at some show, crowing about the underwear-free rock star and punching young hoodlums in the face.

    Oh, yeah ... Wednesday's show. Awesome. Not a puppet to be found. We had incredible seats - front row, center in the mezzanine. Kara gave a much more detailed account, along with a link to the local newspaper review. McDao also has a review, and Summer's review includes a couple of sweet, arty b&W cameraphone shots for her penis-viewing perch near the stage. Holley, however, didn't have a damn thing to say about the show, even though she was there and kept touching me the entire time.

    Posted by Robin at 08:42 PM | Comments (5)

    August 13, 2005

    On the Corner of 18th and Vine

    I grew up about an hour and a half from Kansas City, and made frequent trips to the city. It dictated my idea of what a city should be. Everything from shopping at Independence Center, to riding roller coasters at Worlds of Fun, to admiring the Christmas lights and eating cheese popcorn from Topsy's while admiring the Christmas lights on the Country Club Plaza, delicate snowflakes sparkling on my chubby cheese-smeared cheeks.

    When I was in high school (and a nerd) I spent many weekends at high schools in the Kansas City area, kicking ass and taking names at speech and debate tournaments, my fellow geeks happy and basking in victory's sweet, sweet glow.

    When I was in college (and not a nerd), Kansas City was a spur-of-the-moment road trip destination, with new adventures just waiting behind every corner. I abandoned the suburban shopping areas and attractions of my youth in favor of smokey bars and barbeque joints, romance and shenanigans mine for the taking. When my friend Big Daddy B moved to Kansas City after college, I discovered an underground world of hidden delights - a world of exotic food and beverage, gender-benders and sexual escapades.

    A few weeks ago, after seeing Ben Folds open for Weezer, Kara and I decided we needed to make a little road trip to see Ben and our beloved Rufus Wainwright and KC's newest concert venue, City Market.

    This morning we strapped Clara "Crazy Little Woman" Jane into her carseat and hit the road. We dumped the kiddo with my parents and high-tailed it to The City, free of all obligations. Fun and mystery, my friends. Fun and mystery!

    The rain began as soon as we crossed into the suburbs on the eastern edge of Jackson County. This was no ordinary rain, either. This was the kind of rain that leads extremist voice-hearing types to buy all the lumber at their neighborhood Home Depot and start ark construction.

    By the time we reached the city, the rain had not abated, and my head was about to explode from straining to see the cars ahead of me, when I could barely see past the nose of my truck. I bailed onto the surface streets, relying solely on my memories and keen sense of direction (Really, I do have a keen sense of direction. Peachy-keen, even.). We eventually found our way to the hotel (overlooking gorgeous spires of Bartle Hall, then to dinner (burnt ends at Arthur Bryant's). We briefly considered skipping the concert - did I mention that the venue was outside? But upon watching a little local news and the skies, we threw caution to the wind and give it a go.

    We arrived at 6:30, just when the doors were supposed to open. And we waited. First, we waited in the street. Yes, the middle of the street. Which wasn't closed to traffic. We all lined up in the eastbound lane of 5th Street, watching the cars squeeze past, while the nearby sidewalk remained empty. Why did we stand in the street? I'm not sure. Apparently, the person in line who was responsible for the difficult decision of where to place the line - an awning-covered sidewalk or a busy city street - has some rather poor decision-making skills. So in the street, we stood.

    And stood.

    And stood.

    The rain continued. Not a deluge like earlier. Just a light, trickling rain. You know. The kind they use on war prisoners to make them talk.

    Finally, after 45 minutes, a City Market employee - the first one we'd seen all night - appeared to announce that the doors would be opening in five minutes.

    Half an hour later ...

    We were still standing in line, growing slowly soggier, but at least the line had moved to the sidewalk. The crowd was getting restless and agitated. I started having fears of a concert riot, but then I remembered who we were seeing. Ben and Rufus fans in a riot? It would probably be a bunch of hair-pulling and bitch-slapping, which doesn't do anyone any good. I suggested getting a big singalong of "Song for the Dumped" (Give me my money back/Give me my money back/You bitch), but realized that was just about as dorky and ineffective as a slap-fight.

    An hour after the employee told us the doors were opening, we still hadn't moved nor had we seen any other employees. Kara and I decided we'd had enough. We were exhausted, damp and not wild about investing the rest of our night in a concert that may or may not happen. So we bailed. And on our way out, we saw the rest of the line. Blocks and blocks and blocks of would-be concert-goers, snaking around the buildings. Like they were refugees lined up for bowls of rice. We passed on girl, completely delerious (from booze or the wait, I'm not sure). Poor kid. Whatever she had done to cause her condition, I was pretty sure she'd be hurting badly by the time she got to the show. If she got to the show.

    At this point I remembered how all those Kansas City trips of my past turned out. Frozen to the bone from schlepping around the Plaza in the snow. Missing prom to go lose at a debate tournament. Changing my clothes in the QuikTrip bathroom after sneaking out of Temporary Boyfriend du Jour's apartment in the middle of the night before he had a chance to wake up. Having a 6'3" drag queen rub my boobs and ask me if they ever itch ("No," I replied. "But mine aren't glued to thick, furry chest hair. But thanks for asking!"). Those trips never turned out quite how I expected, nor did I ever remember them as they happened. But they're good memories nonetheless, in all their sketchy splendor.

    While we drove from City Market, past Westport, through Crown Center and down to the Plaza, I kept interrupting the conversation with yet another KC anecdote from my past.

    How did tonight end? With a decaf latte and some bookshopping at the Plaza's huge Barnes & Noble, followed by a hot shower and room service chicken tenders and spinach-artichoke dip. Tomorrow, we'll explore a little more before heading to my hometown to fetch my kid. Good conversation, good food, and a good little escape from the everyday.

    Or, I might wind up watching someone get flogged at the Dixie Belle and then leave my underwear in the QuikTrip bathroom. Either way...

    Posted by Robin at 11:32 PM | Comments (3)

    July 29, 2005

    Kneejerking and Pasting

    As a music geek, I just about wet myself when I saw a comment from someone at Paste Magazine on today's shuffle. I love Paste! If you're friends with me and into music, you've probably had me shove an issue of Paste at you at one point another while shrieking, "Reeeeeeeeeeeeead! Reeeeeeeeeeeeeead!"

    But the message seemed ... spammy. It was a recommendation that you fair readers check out their 5-star review of the new Sufjan Stevens album and mention of a special subscription thingy they're offering bloggers.

    Not that I'm cynical and defensive. Well, yeah, I am cynical and defensive. Having my blog crash not once, but twice in the past seven months because of comment spam, I get a little worked up when it seems someone with much bigger resources than mine tries to piggyback on my teeny tiny little resources.

    So I bitched. Bitchy email sent to the poster. Bitchy email sent to the magazine. Bitchy post made on my blog. I was disappointed that one of my favorite publications would do something as low as comment spam. I mean, come on! Comment spam! That's for people trying to sell illegal prescription drugs and pictures of boobies. It's not for a respectable music magazine that, in a mere two months, introduced me to artists like Black Keys, Keren Ann, The Concretes, Tift Merritt and Drive-By Truckers. It's not for a magazine that writes honestly about good music that would be ignored otherwise, leading music geeks likes me to support those artists with CD and concert ticket purchases.

    Disappointed? Oh, hell yeah.

    But not for long. Let me just tell you, I got a response from Paste within minutes of issuing my ranting complaint. And it wasn't a form letter, either. It was a personal explaination and apology. Certainly not the behavior of a spammer.

    Apparently the comment was left by a regular reader who happens to be a Paste intern who was excited to see Sufjan on today's shuffle.

    So, I've deleted my rant. And Kate, I hope the boss didn't come down too hard on you. Lord knows I've made my fair share of goofs, and my interning days ended many moons ago.

    It's an interesting situation, and the line between these written forms of media is getting so blurry and fine. But I've got to say - the folks I've dealt with at Paste today have shown a degree of heart that isn't often seen in the media today.

    But that doesn't mean I forgive them for putting Billy Corgan on their most recent cover. I mean, I can forgive a little communication misunderstanding, but putting that whiny pumpkinhead on their cover? Reprehensible, but I'll give them a chance with the next issue.

    Posted by Robin at 12:01 PM | Comments (5)

    July 24, 2005

    I'm Still Afloat

    Recently I've seen a meme floating around that, if you met the person you were ten years ago, would you like that person. It seems the overwhelming answer is no.

    Friday night, during the course of the Weezer concert, I faced my almost-23-year-old self and you know what? I thought she was pretty cool.

    Weezer's first CD was released in 1994. I wasn't that interested when it came out, but gave it a few listens at the insistance of my boss' son. It was good. Enjoyable. It wasn't one of those change-my-life albums. At least, not at that point.

    In the late summer of 1994, I moved into my first roommate-less apartment. It was in the basement of a little red brick bungalow across the street from the University of Missouri, where I was a junior. I had an internship at the university's video production studio two blocks from my apartment, and I spent most of my time working as a girl-Friday for a family that owned hotels.

    I had always been a loner. Ever since I was a kid I had preferred my own company to anyone elses. It's one of the primary symtoms of Only Child Syndrome. My first three years of college required roommates, though. Mostly for financial reasons, but also for social reasons because I know I was probably at risk of becoming that weird loner chick who grows her hair over her face so she doesn't have to make eye contact with anyone, and who somehow manages to live in the dorms unnoticed for years after she's finished school, just so she doesn't have to face the real world.

    The time with roommates was okay, but I was thrilled to find myself in a position at age 21 where I could swing my own little apartment where the only unwashed person I'd have to smell would be me. My aparntment was perfect - $275 a month, paid to a kindly retired journalist and her physics professor husband. The walk-out basement location provided a great deal of privacy. While there were four apartments in the house, only one bordered mine - the upstairs unit that would eventually house my friends Mary and Bob. That first year, it was inhabited by a couple whose names I never learned. They never complained about my loud music. I never complained about them moving furniture every night in the wee hours.

    That apartment was the place where I had my first pet - my old lady cat Whiney who passed away at age 17 last winter. It's the place where I lost my virginity, and where I received my first paycheck from my first "real" job-with-benefits. It's where I lived when I got my tattoo, and where I once drank so much tequilla with Big Daddy B. that my cat feared me for days after. It was the place where I would wistfully stop whatever I was doing when my hot next-door-neighbor would ride his bike down the slope of the driveway, and where I would go into an anti-social stupor whenever he's smile, say hi and invite me over for a beer on his little patio. I wrote enough short fiction in that apartment that, if I stacked it up and spackled it, I would have had a nice little garage to accompany my little apartment. That apartment is where My Slutty Years took place, along with My Drinking Years and My Not-Paying-the-Bills Years.

    But my main memory of that apartment is sitting on the beige carpet in my living room beside my stereo for hours on end, every single day, getting myself lost in music. Sometimes I'd sing along. Most of the time I would just sit on the floor, cross-legged, rocking back and forth on my fists. My knuckles were always a little calloused because I spent so much time subconciously resting on them during these music marathons. I listened to everything, and not one band stands out as a favorite. It was a melange of The Replacements, REM (especially Monster), Hole, Nirvana, Babes in Toyland, L7, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Elvis Costello, Green Day, Tori Amos, John Hiatt, Lyle Lovett, Van Morrison and yes, Weezer's blue album, briefly. While it didn't touch me the way many of the other albums did, "Buddy Holly" never ceased to get my ass off that carpet and on my feet. In a year of listening to songs that were either angry or morose, "Buddy Holly" managed to have the right amount of outsider angst, coupled with an energy that I desperately needed in that basement.

    All told, by 1994 I was grown enough to realize that my life wasn't going to fall into place as I'd always imagined. Those dreams of coasting through college with good grades, accolades, wonderful friends, boyfriends wasn't going to happen. It was a realization accompanied by a fair deal of bitterness and anger, but tempered with the notion that things will work out, somehow.

    Weezer released Pinkerton at the end of 1996, and it barely clicked with me. I remember hearing "The Good Life" a few times, but otherwise, I totally missed it. I missed a lot at that point in my life. While 1994 was a year of exhilarating new-found freedom, 1996 was the year of paying for it. I had my first real, adult relationship that ended badly. It was preceded and followed by a string of fleeting encounters with guys who were not good for me in any way, shape or form. Friendships were flaky, at best. The few friends I made in college were long gone, and my oldest friendship was in the process of exploding in an ugly, ugly manner. My first "real" job was turning out to be a disappointment. I was unfulfilled, broke, and exhausted from long hours of dealing with a pointy-haired boss.

    During Friday's show, it occured to me that it's a shame I didn't latch onto Pinkerton when it was released, because "Tired of Sex", "Why Bother?" and "El Scorcho" pretty much sum up that year in my life. By then I was pretty much exhausted with playing all the games: of love, of sex, of career, of friendship. I knew everything I was doing was wrong, but I had no clue how to do right. I was diappointed in myself and disappointed in everyone who became entangled in my life.

    Of course, things changed, and it's all distant memory now. In fact, so distant that I'm finding the bad parts harder and harder to recall. When I think back on that period in the mid-1990s, my first thoughts go to that delicious independence, the time I spent getting to know myself. The crazy shit that, while often perilous and stupid, gave me a backlog of memories that I mostly look back on with fondness, now that I have seen first-hand that even my worst mistakes didn't ruin my life. Even most of the stuff that wound up hurting me, I'm glad I experienced.

    The acute lonliness of that time doesn't come to mind unless I specifically summon its ghost. Instead, I remember being alone, and the time I spent writing, reading and sitting on the floor with my music. That, I often miss in these days when my attention is split between my daughter, my husband, and maintaining our lives.

    Friday's concert found me in a very different place. For the most part I've gotten the hang of this adulthood business. Married, parent, homeowner, quasi-business-owner. But the emotions are still there - the lonliness, frustration, disappointment.

    These days I seem to spend an inordinate amount of my time thinking about really big things. I've developed a bit of an obsession with questioning my purpose in this world, as well as everyone else's purpose. If you ask yourself often enough, "Why are we here?", you'll make yourself crazy. Really crazy. I've always somewhat believed that the answer to that question lies in the things we love, the things that give us joy and peace. Sitting on the floor, lost in my music has always provided that. But then what? What good does that provide to the world?

    At the concert, as with most concerts I attend these days, I found myself feeling old. The people my age at shows are becoming fewer and fewer. I sat next to a girl in a Nirvana t-shirt, and all through the night I fought the urge to ask her how old she was when Nevermind was released. I was a month shy of 19 when it came out fourteen years ago. I'm assuming that she hadn't even started school then. With moments like this becoming so commonplace for me, I have to ask myself yet another unanswerable question: why am I still finding so much joy in concerts while so many of my compatriots have moved on? Did they simply outgrow their connections to music and find deeper connections elsewhere, or is it something they regretfully lost along the way? Or am I just a weirdo who refuses to grow up?

    It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter why I still love going to shows, just like it doesn't matter why I'm here. What matters is, when the band played Friday night, the melancholy lyrics and the frustrated, angry swell of percussion and feedback touched the place barely contained under the surface of my skin, that place that still holds my fear, my lonliness, my joy, my love. I spent the night on my feet, jumping, dancing, screaming, letting out a week of sleepless nights and cranky toddler. Letting ing out a month of a lost job, paying bills, and marital frustration. Letting out an adulthood of questioning and second-guessing myself. I lost myself in the crowd and in the music, let go of the notions of how a nearly 33-year-old wife and mother should act and just did what felt right.

    The band ended the show, as they do most shows, with "Surf Wax America", a song I've embraced since making the decision several years ago to drop out of the rat race.

    I'm goin' surfin cuz I don't like your face
    I'm bailin' out because I hate the race
    of rats that run round and round in the maze

    You take your car to work
    I'll take my board
    And when you run out of fuel
    I'm still afloat

    As I stomped and jumped and screamed the lyrics, I realized that this is enough. Being filled with joy, even fleetingly, is enough. That energy, that emotion - that's what keeps this world afloat. Even when that energy comes from something as silly as a pop song - heard live or while sitting on the dirty floor of a $275 a month apartment - it's enough.

    Posted by Robin at 04:39 PM | Comments (5)

    July 16, 2005

    The Chicken Lady

    Last night after the Black Keys show, I told Holley that once a year, I should allow Kara to fully beat my ass in return for all the agony and aggrivation I provide to her.

    I don't know how these things run amok. I really don't. I don't know why it's so easy to come up with really absurd imaginary situations for Kara. But it is. And most importantly, it's fun!

    To whit: When we were in Chicago for the U2 show in May ... I fully blame this on the fact that it was 3 a.m. and I had been awake for around 19 hours. In that time I had performed my daily motherly duties, then flew to Chicago, hauled ass to the show, et al. But for whatever reason, we were in our hotel room and I randomly referred to Kara as being the town pocket - a term embedded in my brain from Toni. Being the asshole I am, I turned it into something dirty and said, "Yeah, Kara's the town pocket - everyone's put a little something in her!" Which is funny because Kara is quite possibly the least slutty person I've ever met.

    It didn't help that Holley laughed herself nearly to the point of seizure, thus egging me on.


    Last night was no different. I think it's gotten worse because of Holley. I make smartass remark. Kara smirks. Holley laughs and adds another smartass remark. Next thing you know, we're out of control and Kara's sitting there, looking like she'd hit us with a tire iron if she had one handy.

    By her own admission, it's not a meal unless Kara winds up wearing her food. She blogged about that recently, but I can't seem to find it. You'll just have to take my word. I'm much the same way. As you read the following, I want you to keep in mind that the mean, vicious person doing the teasing is the same person who had The Pepper Incident on a date. We were eating Chinese food, and I was looking all cute in a rather low-cut shirt. Just as I lifted a large slice of green pepper - on a fork, mind you, because chopsticks are far beyond my dining skills - my date looked at me in time to see me get the pepper to my lips, only to send it tumbling, sauce and all, down my cleavage. Having to dig a chunk of a kung pao'd veggie out of ones boobs while ones date laughs himself to the point of hemmorage is rather humbling. But damn if I didn't marry that man anyway.

    Anyway, my point is, I'm a big ol' pot, Kara's a sweet little kettle, and I'm jumping up and down like a ninny, screaming and laughing at how black she is.

    Last night she was wearing a very cute red shirt that had an elegantly draped neckline. Like this. It looked great on her, really. And she totally looked better than my lazy t-shirt-out-of-the-hamper-wearing-ass. And an added bonus: I noted that when she dropped bits of her pad thai, she'd be able to arrange the drapes on her shirt to hide the stains. Fashionable and functional!

    And from there, it just snowballed out of control. For some reason, I envisioned Kara losing a fried chicken wing in the drapes of her shirt. "How embarrassing," I said. "You're gonna be making out with some anonymous stranger and whoops! A chicken wing just fell out of your shirt!" Kara glared the stink-eye. Holley laughed.

    As the evening wore on, that little imaginary chicken wing grew. Kara had made a visit to the bathroom, and in her abscence Holley and I lost all control and the next thing we knew we've got a scenario in which Kara's smuggling an entire bucket of Colonel Sanders' finest in her shirt.

    Do you know the comedy potential that comes with such an image? Do you? It's extreme, my friends. Extreme. But with great potential comes great responsibility, which Holley and I beat to death with a crowbar.

    "I smell chicken!" I said. "Must be Kara!"

    "She's wearing Eau Du Cluck," Holley added. "Hey, you got any cole slaw in there?"

    "No Holley! You don't even wanna know where she keeps the slaw!"

    When Kara returned from the bathroom, she found us in a heap, our rampage slowed only by the the physical limitations caused by laughing ourselves into a state of incapacitation. Kara didn't have to say anything. And even if she had, we wouldn't have heard her because we were delirious. The look on her face said it: "You people are fucking retards and I know this is something really stupid about me and I so wish I had a tire iron and could beat you."

    And yet, what did Kara do? She added fuel to her fire by chosing this particular moment to empty her purse onto the table.

    "She's looking for the mashed taters and gravy!" I tried to say, but I only got a few words out before I fell out of my chair, pissed myself, and started convulsing.

    I would like it noted that in the many years I have been allowed to be friends with Kara, I think I've only seen her eat fried chicken two, maybe three times. It's not like she's got some huge fried chicken-flavored monkey on her back. No. The monkey on her back is actually a macaque, whose name is Dak. Dak's eyes are black and she has an enormous rack and do you see how fucking easy it is???? Because now not only do you have an image of Kara with a bucket of chicken in her shirt, taters and gravy in her purse and slaw in an indisclosed and private location, but she's also got a large-breasted black-eyed primate on her back!

    At the end of the concert - yes, we did pay attention to the quite good concert - I noted that it was a good thing Kara was parked directly across the street from the show's venue, while Holley and I were parked several blocks away. Kara wouldn't have to endure the walk past the Church's Fried Chicken up the block with us.

    Of course, all these terrible teasing had an instant karma effect, because I left the show with a fried chicken craving unlike any I've ever experienced. Do you know how hard it is to find decent fried chicken at 11:00 on a Friday night? It's hard, People. I found myself wishing that I had a bucket of chicken stashed in my shirt and mashed taters and gravy in my handbag. Luckily, I'm not a fan of the cole slaw.

    Next week when Kara and I go to the Weezer show, I fully expect her to require me to wear several layers of duct tape over my pie hole so that she can get at least one evening of peace and quiet. And I'll submit to her request. It's the least I can do.

    You know, I kid because I love. That's how I show my affection. I'm not a hugger. I'm not good at saying the L word. But if you're one of the rare people I'm fond of, you can bet that I wish you a shirtful of chicken, a purseful of taters and gravy, and panties full of slaw.

    Posted by Robin at 10:27 AM | Comments (8)

    June 18, 2005

    Concerting

    White Stripes tickets: purchased. And damn good ones, I might add. First row of the mezzanine. Not a single person blocking my 5'3" view. Oh yeah. Granted, last time I was close enough to tell that Jack White doesn't wear underwear and he veers severely to the left. But such closeness comes with a high pricetag. And that pricetag involves being used at a pummel horse by angry 14-year-old boys, one who wound up getting smacked in the face by me. I blame the pregnancy hormones. And speaking of 14-year-old boys ...

    Weezer/Ben Folds tickets: procured. They're pretty good seats, too. I hadn't really planned on seeing Weezer this time around. I haven't listened to the new CD and I've heard some not-great reviews from people whose musical opinions I respect. But last time I saw Weezer in 2001, the entire row in front of us was filled with the geekiest little middle school boys I've ever seen. They were so happy, and having so much fun. It filled my heart with joy, seeing them so happy in light of getting their asses kicked daily at school. Because, let's face it, these boys were getting their asses kicked daily at school. I just wanted to bake homemade cookies for them and reassure them that even though they were dorky, they would be a-ok in the long run. And then, during "Surf Wax America", they went all Lord of the Flies and scared the crap out of me. Their shirts came off, the dancing turned frantic, and I was looking for the nearest emergency exit, because if they started painting their faces with bodily fluids, my ass was going to be gone. Do you think I'd pass up a chance to experience that again? Hardly.

    Springsteen tickets: still figuring out the details. Have one week to finalize unusual concert-attendance plans.

    U2 in Vegas - not until November. The ticket's a gift from my friend Kim, and I'll be going with some of my "Stonecutter" friends. Not only will I be seeing U2, but I'll be seeing them at a fabulous venue, but I'll be losing my Vegas virginity. That's right - I have never been to Vegas. And as if all that's not enough, Howie Mandel is also going to be performing at the same casino! Not that I have any desire to see him. I've just wanted to pop that goddamn glove for the past two decades. This might finally be my chance.

    U2 in St. Louis - If I don't remember to pay her for my ticket Holley will send her thugs to kneecap me.

    Black Keys - Totally forgot about them until Kara reminded me today. I like it when two people make a lot of noise, so count me in.

    Posted by Robin at 03:04 PM | Comments (2)

    June 10, 2005

    This is our new American Idol?

    I just read this, because I am a glutton for punishment and love the feeling of my eyes burning in their sockets:

    "I'm from Oklahoma and grew up listening to country music. I think it's the most cheerful music," said (Carrie Underwood)the 22-year-old singer.

    Cheerful?

    Cheerful?!?!?!

    Let's make a list of some cheerful country songs, shall we?

    The Man in Black by Johnny Cash

    He Stopped Loving Her Today by Geroge Jones

    Flowers on the Wall by the Statler Brothers

    Lovesick Blues by Hank Williams

    Crazy by Patsy Cline, written by Willie Nelson who gave us that party song Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.

    Fist City b Loretta Lynn

    Jolene by Dolly Parton, as well as Coat of Many Colors, which drives a motherfucking stake through my cold, black heart every fucking time I hear it because goddamn, that baby was poor and those rat bastard kids fucking teased her! Teased like a big ol' blonde wig because she was poor!

    Just about everything written by that tear-jerking son of a bitch Alan Jackson.

    CHEERFUL?!?!?!?!?!?!? I'm cheerful enough to open a damn vein.

    Of course, this is discounting the truly sad and depressng songs, like everything recorded by Toby Keith and Shania Twain.

    Edited to add... So, after I posted this I went to change my panties, because the pair I was wearing were bunched beyond all recognition and usefulness, when something occured to me: the country song Carrie Underwood repeatedly performed on American Idol was Martina McBride's Independence Day, a song about a drunk who beats the shit out of his wife, who in turn goes all Farrah Fawcett/Burning Bed on his ass and burns the motherfucking house down! The song's from the perspective of the delightful couple's daughter, who winds up in the county home because Daddy's dead and Mama's a firebug, probably living out her days in Leavenworth Penitentiary, just like my grandma's first husband, who was also a firebug. He didn't torch the family home with anyone in it; he just burned his pickle factory in LaMonte, Missouri, for the insurance money. Which still isn't exactly cheerful, but at least the kids didn't get carted off. Now that would be a cheerful country song.

    Posted by Robin at 09:49 AM | Comments (6)

    June 05, 2005

    If you're not watching this, you're an idiot

    Normally I try to leave my latest pop culture obsessions to the sidebar, but this one ... this one needs to be sung from the rooftops.

    You have to watch "Dan Finnerty & the Dan Band: I Am Woman". If you don't watch it, or if you watch it and don't like it, there's no way I can be friends with you. You'll be dead to me. Dead!

    It's a one-hour concert. Three guys - rather manly men at that - giving their renditions of girly songs like "Total Eclipse of the Heart", "Shoop", etc. There are Wilson Phillips covers. There are profanities. There are pelvic thrusts. There are sweat rags. There are wet pants from the hysterical laughter at my house.

    Posted by Robin at 11:18 AM | Comments (4)

    June 04, 2005

    Listening to...

    Get Behind Me Satan.

    Not that I can tell you how incredible it is. Too busy listening. Shhhh. Be quiet. I'm busy rocking out.

    Posted by Robin at 04:18 PM | Comments (1)

    May 20, 2005

    The Friday Shuffle - The Nocturnal Animal Edition

    Posting way early, because I'll be frolicking at the zoo in about eight hours.

    1. Padam, Padam! - Edith Piaf
    2. No Business - Bonnie Raitt
    3. Chains - The Beatles
    4. Hot Boxin' - The Donnas
    5. Your Sweet Voice - Matthew Sweet
    6. Here With Me - Dido
    7. San Quentin - Johnny Cash
    8. Runaway - Bonnie Raitt
    9. And Your Bird Can Sing - The Beatles
    10. The Commander Thinks Out Loud (Future Mix) - The Long Winters

    Posted by Robin at 12:41 AM | Comments (2)

    May 11, 2005

    Freedom has a scent like the top of a newborn baby's head

    As you regular readers know, I don't really do concert reviews. I'm not a music critic. Other people do a much better job of concert reviews than I do. You can read one of them on Interference.

    My post-concert posts have two possible directions: making fun of my fellow concert-goers, or waxing philosophical. Monday night I saw U2 in Chicago. Guess which way the discussion is going.

    The set list is available here.In other coolness: this particular show was filmed for their next DVD release, which tickles me to no end.

    Of course, there were moments of wit and hilarity. Since our seats were in the nosebleed realm, which is always entertaining when attending a show with Kara, who's afraid of heights.

    "Oh, you're not gonna fall!" I told her during her post-Kings of Leon hand-wringing. "Not unless I push you, anyway."

    "THAT'S WHAT I'M AFRAID OF!!!!"

    Later, Holley nudged me, laughing as she yelled, "We paid $100 each for these seats!" And then we all laughed and laughed and laughed. The laugh of the damned, of course.

    A bit later, when Kara went in search of a toilet, Holley suggested that we throw Kara's jacket, just to freak her out. I thought that was a great idea, and that we should leave a note on her seat that said, "You're next!". Unfortunately, I would have had to borrow a pen and paper from Kara (which she had on hand to write a rough draft of the terse letter she's sending to Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, but that's another story).

    While we were waiting, four conical, glowing red lights were lowered, one for each member of the band. I tried to tell Holley that they were special U2 heat lamps, specially designed for maximum pop star freshness, but employees are required to dispose of any pop star left under the lamps for more than 15 minutes. I wasn't exactly successful in relaying this info, because I cracked myself the fuck up and couldn't get my entire long-winded fast-food joke out without heaving with laughter.

    Obviously, I had a touch of the altitude sickness, coupled with the bad karma that comes from eating a 1/2 pound of pure Chicago beef under an autographed photo of Oprah at the Palace Grill.

    Now, before I get into the show itself, let me tell you something. In the big moments of my life, especially over the past four years or so, U2 has always been present. When I know I need to walk out of my house to face something big, and I'm having trouble doing so, "Beautiful Day" appears, and I'm coaxed out of my home and my comfort zone, into new territory. It happened when we were trying to drag ourselves out before the Nov. 2001 U2 show camp-out, and when my friends and I were getting the gumption to hit the road for my 30th birthday road trip to Memphis. It happened the night I went to the hospital to give birth to Clara Jane. After 14 hours of early-stage labor, wondering with each pain how much longer I could stall, "Beautiful Day" appeared on VH1. It was the last song I heard played in my home before it changed forever. It was how I knew it was time to make the most frightening journey of my life.

    About a month prior, it was another U2 song that triggered the notion that I was on the verge of something big. I was undergoing some tests to make sure all was well with Clara Jane. One of the tests involved measuring her heart rate and movement to ensure that they corresponded with each other. Just as the nurse started the test, "Where The Streets Have No Name" started playing on the lite-rock station the nurses were listening to. The song starts quiet, with a flutter of melody from The Edge's guitar, building into a racing heartbeat of drums and bass until it explodes with Bono ...

    I want to run
    I want to hide
    I want to tear down these walls that hold me inside.

    And as the music built, my baby began to wiggle, then tumble. By the time Bono's voice burst through, I could feel my child in every square inch of my body. She gyrated, kicked and twisted. Her little heart thundered in jagged lines on the fetal monitor. For five and a half minutes I was more aware than ever of the human being inside me, seperate from me.

    The song ended, her movements returned to normal, her heart rate slowed. It was just a momentary burst of interuterine excitement, the fetal equivilent of stopping your daily routine, cranking up your favorite song and pogoing around the living room to blow off a little steam.

    In the eight months I had carried her, she never seemed real. I felt her movements, but the concept of carrying another human being just felt completely abstract. She was never as real to me as she was in those five and a half minutes. Music could move her, just as it has always moved me.

    My daughter and I had found our first common interest.

    Why do humans dance? Why do we bob our heads to a tune? Because we're wired to do so. It's in us before we exit the womb.

    Can you hear me when I sing...
    You're the reason I sing
    You're the reason why the opera is in me

    Bono wrote those words in a song for his deceased father. I was dreading hearing those words in concert, in the aftermath of the most recent blow-out with my own father. But it barely fazed me on Monday night, when I expected it to lead to a blubbering breakdown. My heart seems to have decided on its own volition to no longer dwell on every single way I have failed him in my life. I can't feel bad about that anymore, because it's damn near destroyed me, these feelings of never being adequate, of knowing that the only person I ever wanted to please still sees me as being little more than a lazy smart ass.

    Can you see the beauty inside of me?
    What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?

    I'm trying to reclaim it. I can see it. It's there. I can almost touch it, if I reach.

    In all of the glitz and rock star spectacle, beyond the screaming crowd and filming, it came down to two songs for me. Two songs that turned me inward and left me tear-streaked and shaking, reminders of what this life of mine is supposed to be about.

    "Beautiful Day", six songs into the show:

    Touch me
    Take me to that other place
    Teach me
    I know I'm not a hopeless case

    Words I've heard so many times over the past four and a half years. Words that have always given me a little push when I needed it. But they didn't push this time. They pulled me back.

    As much as Kara fears falling from the nosebleed seats, I have feared falling of late. In the worst moments of the past 15 months, when I've felt inadequate at best, and like a whirling sandstorm set to destroy everything I love and myself at worst, I have felt myself falling. It would be so easy to fall, so easy to just let go of this life and be done with the pain. A few times my fingertips have relaxed and I've just about let go. Said my goodbyes, made my peace, and waited to drop.

    I know I'm not a hopeless case. I know I'm not a hopeless case. I know I'm not a hopeless case. Sometimes, I need Bono to remind me of that in person, in the presence of 30,000 other people.

    And in that moment on Monday, I felt something shift. A question answered. A flutter followed by a gyration that makes life real. Real and good.

    Nine songs later, "Where the Streets Have No Name", and all I could think of was that little girl at home, the one who came to life for me during that song, the one I'm going to hang on for.

    And once again, I walked out at the end of a U2 show completely shaken to my core, and reminded of what it means to be alive, what it means to be human, and what power there is in surrendering to something much larger than myself and having faith that I'll be caught should I lose my grip.

    Today, Clara Jane and I were back to reality. Groggy breakfast. Swollen baby gums with teeth gleeming just under transluscent skin. Frantically rushing to take care of my basic hygeine and the bills while she napped. Grocery store and Target in the sweltering heat and humidity.

    I was listening to How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb as we ran our errands. While I've enjoyed it, it hasn't touched me like other U2 albums. But then again, Joshua Tree, Achtung Baby and All That You Can't Leave Behind didn't reach me at first. It took time.

    Pulling into the Target parking lot, it suddenly meant something to me as I looked in the rearview mirror into those smiling blue eyes, the child giggling as she pulled her big toe to her mouth just because she knows it makes me laugh:

    Baby slow down
    The end is not as fun as the start
    Please stay a child somewhere in your heart

    I'll give you everything you want
    Except the thing that you want
    You are the first one of your kind

    And you feel like no one before
    You steal right under my door
    I kneel 'cause I want you some more
    I want the lot of what you got
    And I want nothing that you're not

    Everywhere you go you shout it
    You don't have to be shy about it

    And I cried as I pulled into my parking space. I cried as I laughed at the giggling girl in the backseat with both of her bare big toes in her mouth without shyness, without fear and with nothing but love and joy.

    Posted by Robin at 12:03 PM | Comments (5)