2005
We Are the World
Last night I saved the children.
Gayle and her roommate Ronda and Ronda’s boyfriend Dave and my new coworker Maureen and I went to a save the children/tsunami benefit concert featuring Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie, The Postal Serivce), Mark Kozalek (Red House Painters, Sun Kil Moon), Jonathan Richman (the king of Weirdsville himself), and Eric Bachmann (Crooked Fingers, Archers of Loaf). Mirable dictu, I actually knew all of these guys, and it was on that note that the committee promoted me from Music Fan to Music Superfan and gave me the certificate to prove it, so yay for me.
First up was the reason we simply had to go to the concert (besides our dedication to the children who needed saving, of course), and that reason is Mr. Eric Bachmann, who you may remember we saw a few months ago. Eric was smiling and having a grand time and the crowd loved him and he loved us, and it’s too bad I’m recounting the night chronologically because that means you’re getting the details inverted-pyramid style, which means all the good stuff comes first and it just gets worse from here. So, yes, Eric was the best and we love him and I don’t have the words to describe how great of a performer he is, even though he totally sucks on the harmonica.
After the break, Jonathan Richman came out in a white T-shirt and under the influence of something happy, and during the half hour he played, he sang in at least four languages and I exclaimed in at least forty distinct intonations “He’s so weird!” In my greatest moment of music identification ever, I turned to Maureen and said, “This guy sounds like that troubador dude who sings in the tree in There’s Something About Mary, and, miracle of miracles, this was the guy. Never has a hip-shake made me feel so indescribably uncomfortable, never have I “given someone a beat” by slapping my thigh until it turned raw and tingly, and never has the twirl of a guitar at the end of a song made nonsense come through so crystal clear. Jonathan Richman is cool.
And then we have Mark Kozalek. Mark Kozalek has a lovely voice and fingerpicking sensibilities I live and die by, but on this occasion, although he had two bands and a solo career to choose his material from, he instead played five or six Modest Mouse covers out of his eight-song set. Not sure what was up with that. He was good but he wasn’t interesting, and that’s all I have to say about him because I only listened to the first fifteen seconds of each songs–just long enough to figure out what Modest Mouse song it was so the girls and I could form a huddle and whisper-sing the originals (drinkin drinkin drinkin drinkin coca coca cola…).
But then…
Hey, it’s Eric B. standing in the back of the concert hall and, hey, Gayle is suggestible and all it takes is one “Go over and talk to him” and, hey, we’re talking to Eric B.! And he is very cool! and smart! and genuinely nice! He did say some la-la stuff about how he doesn’t do music for the money but to serve God and the people, but that didn’t matter to us because he’s just so talented and enjoyable and sincere and inspired (not to mention tall and stubbly-cheeked and, um, he plays the guitar and isn’t that enough?) that if “smittener” and “smittenest” were real words, they would be used here to describe me and Gayle as we tried to hold our shit together and not ask him to sign our copies of Tiger Beat. We talked about his music and his website and the philosophy of doing covers and Denver and Salt Lake City and Chapel Hill and Seattle and a bunch of other stuff it’s probably best I’ve forgotten because I was two drinks in, which means my memories of the conversation feature two or three Gayles talking to two or three Erics while we all rocked back and forth on a listing ship. It was fun. Eric is good. Buy his music.
Then, respectful girls that we are, we shut up and left Eric to enjoy the rest of the show when Ben Gibbard took the stage. But if you want to know the truth, while I sang every word to “Such Great Heights” and praised its genius to high heaven for the hundred thousandth time, we actually talked through the rest of the set because it was, well…boring, and besides, lookoverthereohmygod Eric is leaning his shoulder against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other like he’s Humphrey Bogart or something and he KEEPS LOOKING THIS WAY and holycrapdoyourealizewhatishappening HE’S WALKING TOWARD YOU, where you stand in the farthest back corner of the room where no one else is standing, just you. It was one of those situations where you’re not exactly watching someone’s every move, but you always know where he is in the room; he is on your radar. And thank god for Gayle, whose red hair is made of spun bravery, because there we were talking to him again as the show ended, and we probably could have talked to him all night if not for the kiddies with their posters and their sharpies and their big-eyed, manic expressions, but horribile dictu, it was time to go and so we did. Here’s a picture of Gayle, me, and Maureen upon exiting the theater, a little big-eyed and manic ourselves.
The rest of the evening featured animal crackers, a random minty-breathed guy trying to pick us up, the three of us hanging out in a bathroom stall together at a skeevy dance club where people wore sparkly shirts, scrambled eggs and sourdough toast at Maureen’s house, and at least a dozen mini-skirted hookers in the ten blocks we walked back to my car, which I’d been lucky enough to park for free on the street instead of paying $6 at the garage, except, what’s this?, a $35 ticket (my first) for violating the street sweeping schedule at 3 a.m. Boo. At least I helped save the children.
2005
Language Barrier
Today at work I learned about drop folios, which is what you call it when your page number hangs out on the page at bottom-center instead of at upper-right (on rectos) or upper-left (versos). Drop folios are most commonly used on the first page of a chapter, where you also commonly sink your text box and have a blind, or “unexpressed,” running head. Blah blah, duotone processing, blah blah, saddle-stitched galley proofs with a self-cover, blah blah, give me ten f&gs and a Sanford-brand Col-erase carmine red pencil, product #20045.
Right now you are thinking one of two things (unless you’re Will, in which case you’re thinking something else entirely). You’re thinking either “Damn, that girl’s good at her job” or “Damn, that girl’s totally psycho annoying.” So which is it? I’d like to know. (Keep in mind I confine the publishing lingo to the workplace and don’t whip it out at cocktail parties (unless I get really drunk (or paid))).
2005
An Entry in which My Ass Features a Bit Too Prominently
After updating my movie list in yonder sidebar to include everything I’ve seen so far this calendar year, I have come to a deeper understanding of myself and my complex psyche. The things that stuck out most during that moment of brave introspection were these:
1. I am weird.
2. I spend a lot more time sitting on my ass than the average person. (Have fun with this ambiguous elliptical clause, fellow grammar nerds!)
Thirteen movies in twenty-seven days (twenty-eight counting today, unless I can squeeze one in before or after tonight’s concert) equals a whole hell of a lot of movies and a whole hell of a lot of sloth.
The good thing is at least I’m not watching all of these movies alone in my dark, cold apartment while eating cheap tv dinners and cursing cruel fate. No, I’ve actually seen a lot of them in my nicely lit, warmish apartment while eating entire Trader Joe’s pizzas and cursing cruel fate. And I’ve been out with friends a lot too (hooray for midnight mimosas).
Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with watching movies or even watching a lot of movies or even watching a lot of mediocre to bad movies. What I’m saying is that my ass and my couch are starting to talk about a June wedding, and I’ll be damned if have to attend the nuptials of one of my own body parts to a piece of used furniture before I even have a real boyfriend.
I need to alter my viewing habits. I figure if I jump up and down while watching movies (or march in place if I get too tired), that will help combat the ass-spread problem. Trouble is, I don’t think it will help diminish the weirdness problem. Especially if I do it in the theater.
What I need to do is get an iPod. Yeah, that’s the ticket. And iPod, in all of its sleek portability, will guilt me into going to the gym more regularly (read: at all), and in going to the gym, my ample ass will have ample opportunity to meet someone new and forget about that old homebody, the couch.
On the agenda for this weekend:
1. Get me an iPod.
2. Get me a new pair of headphones because earbuds are not unlike bamboo shoots under fingernails, and besides, a trusted source has informed me that when one iPodder spots another person with those telltale white earphone cords, both are contractually obligated to perform a cult ritual that involves sticking tongues in mouths, and I’m just not cool with that. Yet.
