Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

Better With Age

Tom and I took out daughters and our niece to see Paramore at an outdoor show last night. They ended up hooking up with friends so - even though they were all around us, we were still essentially alone.

It was a very young, predominately female crowd. I won't bother to describe what that sounded or looked like - what you're imagining is probably right on target.

Tom to me: "I don't think we're the oldest people here."

Me to Tom: "You might be right. But if we're not, we're certainly in their peer group."

At one point, shortly after nightfall, we decided to take advantage of the fact that all the girls were standing so we had the blanket to ourselves. It was a beautiful night to be outdoors. We laid back and looked up at the stars.

Tom said to me, "Do you suppose those are airplanes?"

I saw right away what he meant. The stars weren't behaving like proper stars. They were blinking in and out in a way that was much more pronounced than a subtle twinkle (which is, as everyone knows, what proper little stars do). And one - no - more than one of them had tails.

"What the - is that a shooting star? I've never seen a shooting star before!"

"It can't be - I think they move faster - but it's something..."

We mused on the stars for a few moments, wondering why none of the kids were noticing the fabulous display going on right before their eyes. In years past, I may have attributed it to a contact buzz, but the smoking ban has pretty much obliterated that possibility.

And then it hit us.

We were getting this private show because when we laid down and looked up through our bifocals it distorted the images.

After we figured it out, we didn't stop. At least not right away. We were getting to trip for free AND the drive home and the morning after would be completely symptom free.

Getting old. Wearing bifocals. Bonus.

Nothing Compares 2U

So many of my reflections begin: So I was at Kroger and I heard __________ on the muzak (which I know isn't called muzak anymore, but it's such a good word...). Well, this one does not begin that way.

Just kidding, it totally does.

So I was at Kroger and I heard Sinead O'Connor's Nothing Compares 2U on the muzak. Now I'm usually able to appreciate that different things move different people and everyone doesn't like the same thing and different strokes for different folks and so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby, but I swear - if this song doesn't reach through your chest cavity and squeeze you by the heart, I'm not sure you have one. It squeezes my heart and does a little number on the rest of my innards, too. It is just so unrelenting and beautiful.

It is not the sort of music to which one should grocery shop. It is music for slow dancing - real slow - almost painfully slow. It is a painful song, after all. It is a song for crying, even if you're happy, because you remember ONCE you were that sad - that empty - that raw - and if you weren't, then you know somebody who is or once was. And yet - and yet - there is so much beauty in the pain that you couldn't stop listening if you tried. I know I never can.

When this song was in heavy rotation, I always felt sorry for the DJs and VJs who had to follow it - where do you go from there? (In case you were wondering, the muzak went straight to Billy Joel's Angry Young Man - a song which I also love, but it made for a pretty seriously jarring transition. Sheesh.) During that time, I was dating a boy, but he wasn't anything special. I mean, I'm sure he was, like, to his mom and stuff - and he's probably found a girl who he's the world to by now - but for me, then, he wasn't anything special. The girls I worked with never understood that - they thought he was possibly out of my league good looking - but he just didn't do it for me. Scooby dooby dooby.

But I've digressed.

We would go out dancing - he in his short jacket (Who the hell ever thought short jackets on men were a good idea?) and me in my high waisted dress shorts (Who the hell ever thought high waisted dress shorts were a good idea?) and a fabulous hat (Which is, was, and ever more shall be a good idea. Great even. Anyway.) This song would come on and we would dance. We - who were the very definition of casual dating - would dance - foreheads touching (hats permitting) - swaying slowly - feeling her pain - remembering our own - sharing these painful, intimate feelings that we didn't necessarily have for each other, but that we both knew how to have. It was almost surreal.

THAT is what THAT song does.

It does not encourage me to impulse buy. It encourages me to want to sit on the floor in the produce department and weep - maybe while clinging desperately to a stranger, just for human contact. Is that the sort of behavior that you want to encourage, Kroger? Really?

I'm going to have to start grocery shopping with an iPod.

(Couldn't get it to embed, but I'll give you a link - in case you feel like sitting on the floor with me, forehead to forehead, in delicious shared despair.)

Bieber Fever

Wait, wait, come back!!! It's not contagious, and we don't have a documented full blown case of it in our house, although there has been some possible exposure. You're pretty safe, I think. It's all good.

My girls are not really into his music, so my familiarity had been limited. I saw him on The View flirting with Barbara Walters, so my first impression was that he was a sycophantic little jackass with a silly haircut.

A couple weeks ago, while enjoying a nice frosty drink at Sonic and listening to Sonic radio, One Less Lonely Girl came over the airwaves. My eldest groaned and covered her ears.

"Make it stop!"

"Who is this?"

"Justin Bieber. He SUCKS!"

"Don't say that, he does not." This declaration came, very surprisingly, from our youngest - whose tastes tend to run even harder stronger and faster than Tom's and mine.

"Do you LIKE him?"

"I don't know. Probably not. Maybe. I don't know. But I do know that he makes some of my friends very happy. And anything that makes my friends happy can't suck. Even if I don't like it myself."

"You like Justin Bieber!" my eldest sang, tauntingly.

"I'm a twelve year old girl! I'm supposed to!"

"Do you want his CD?" continued the taunting song, "because you LO-O-OVE him?"

"NO!" a pause, "maybe..."

That Sunday morning we didn't fast forward through his stint as musical guest on SNL when he appeared with Tina Fey. It wasn't my cup of tea, but I'm not exactly his target demographic. He was in a couple sketches. He was tolerable. Cute, even. He looked - safe. He looked like every shaggy haired boy with dreamy eyes I idolized in my own youth. I got it.

But more than that - and possibly the reason I was able to step back and get it - was that my daughter's words rang true: Anything that makes my friends that happy can't suck.

I remember being very happy in the mid-nineties when boy bands made a comeback. I was well into adulthood at the time, so - again - it wasn't my cup of tea - but it was so nice to glance at the covers of '16' and Tiger Beat on the news stands and see these cute, young, safe boys. The eighties saw bands like Van Halen, KISS and Motley Crue gracing their covers. Now I liked me some DLR in the eighties. Oh yes I did. The following is from a story about my first apartment that I posted at Portable Magic:

We bought ourselves a poster of David Lee Roth – 1984 was when he was arguably at the height of his hotness – stepping out of a swimming pool. The poster cut off just below the hollow beneath his hip bones. We knew he probably wasn’t naked, but it was provocative enough that we were free to imagine that he was. It was – distracting, all right.

Little girls shouldn't be reading Tiger Beat and '16' for that sort of distraction. I just read Nikki Sixx's autobiographical The Heroin Diaries. Little girls DEFINITELY shouldn't have been looking for THAT sort of distraction. Nope. As a twenty-something, Van Halen and the Crue were perfectly acceptable fantasy fodder. Early teens needed 'N Sync. They needed NKOTB.

They need Justin Bieber.

Rock on with your not-so-bad-little self, Justin.

If you make scores of little girls happy, I don't think you suck.

Time Tick Tick Tickin' in My Head

My family plays a game wherein a word will spark one of us to sing a quick clip of a song containing that word and the rest scramble to sing other songs that contain that word or phrase. Some words and phrases are easier than others. 'Love'? Forget about it - you'll never get 'em all and it isn't even a challenge. 'Rain' and 'Money' are easy words to play. Another easy word? 'Time'.

We could start with my title and easily get to: time is on my side, time for you to stop all of your cryin', if I could put time in a bottle, what time is it? (4:30), time after time... you get the idea. (and if you want to keep it going, far be it for me to stop you...)

Concerning time, there seem to be two schools of thought. There are those who think their time is more important than everyone else's and there are those who think everyone else's time is more important than their own. I fall pretty firmly into the second camp. This manifests in my full blown need to be prompt. If I tell you I will be somewhere at a certain time, it is very likely that I will be there fifteen minutes earlier. I have been known to sit in my car waiting to go in somewhere because I don't wish to appear too eager. I have very successfully instilled this value in my children - so much so that they don't refer to being prompt as being prompt - they refer to it instead as 'being Howardly'. This isn't to say I've never been late for anything ever. Of course I have. Things happen. But I feel genuinely bad about it. I hate the thought that I might be keeping someone waiting - that I might be wasting their time.

I'll make no apologies for that - I think it's a good way to be. It's respectful.

That being said, just because I put a high value on the time of others doesn't mean that I put a low value on my own time. I used to. I used to not mind waiting because I figured anything anyone else was doing was more important than anything I might have wanted to do. Not so anymore. I find myself becoming more and more impatient with people who do not value my time. While being prompt is respectful, taking your own sweet time while someone is waiting for you is rude. I'll wait my turn, certainly. I don't allow myself to become frustrated by long lines. But waiting for a scheduled appointment? That frustrates me much more quickly. It's one thing for me to think someone else's time is important and to respect that by being prompt. It is quite another for them to (essentially) come right out and say that their time is more important than mine.

Time never flies in the waiting room.

A stitch in time saves nine, time waits for no man, everything in it's own time... it seems that lyrics aren't the only place that themes of time are prevalent. Why are we so caught up in time? Is it because we all only have a finite amount of it?

Whoa. I hadn't meant to swim into the deep end. I really just wanted an excuse to use an Anthrax lyric as a post title. That song has been a recurring earworm since the first time I heard it. I hope the time I took to write this post won't push me to be late. I hate to be late (for a very important date, it's late it's late it's late but not too late, it's too late baby now it's too late...)

I Married Johnny Bravo

Tom and I were sitting in the ski lodge waiting for the kids to finish tubing and watching the band set up for the evening's entertainment. There was one guy setting up equipment who was hard to miss, because he had not only a mullet but also bangs. Now either of those hairstyles on a man warrants a second glance, but both? Well, suffice it to say, it was nothing short of glorious. After a few moments, he approached us. Scratch that. He approached Tom. He held his hand out for a handshake and said to my husband (he said), "You must be a musician."

Now we were both watching them set up, so why he was able to single Tom out as the musician among us is a mystery. No it's not. Tom has beautiful long hair. It naturally dries in perfect spirals. It makes him look like a rock star. We had a chuckle about him having been approached by a man in a bar based entirely on his appearance and that was that.

Or so we thought.

We left the lodge for a couple hours and when we returned Mr. Rock Star was enjoying a sandwich. Mr. Mullet Bangs Rock Star, to be clear, not Tom. He approached Tom once again, asking what he played and where he was from and if he had a day job - which was weird enough - but then he handed Tom his phone and asked him to enter his number. Not knowing how to gracefully decline, Tom did so. Dude definitely wanted to play (some music) with my handsome hubby.

Now Tom is a kick-ass bass player. Know how I know? I know because I've heard him play; not because I've cleaned remnants of his glorious locks from the shower drain.

As we turned to leave, he introduced his drummer to Tom. Tom introduced me and Mr. Mullet Bangs Rock Star said, "I'll never remember that - I'll just call you Mrs. Tom."

I called Tom Mr. Tammy the rest of the night in an attempt to regain some identity and to recover from the blow to my ego.

My self-image/identity crisis had been quite the recurring theme in 2009 and I was hoping to unofficially resolve to leave it behind in 2010. It only took one silly man with an even sillier haircut to remind me that middle-aged fat housewives are not relevant.

Nah, I can't give him credit for that. I wasn't really in any danger of forgetting.

I think I'm gonna resolve to take up smoking instead. That way if I fail in my resolution before the week's out - or before I even actually attempt it - I can still be considered a success. Sort of.

Or maybe I'll just get a mullet.

You Never Forget Your First

I bought myself a present yesterday. I do that all the time on the rare occasion when I feel like I really deserve one. What did I do yesterday to merit a present, you ask? Well, I completed my fifth day of NaNoWriMo and that officially marked more words of fiction than I've ever put to paper before. (I know, right? Cheers! *clink*) It's weird - I'm not particularly proud of what I've written and I'm not even sure if any amount of post-November editing will make me so, but I AM very proud of the fact that I've been disciplined and dedicated enough to do it every day - even when the results weren't exactly (or even close to) what I wanted them to be.

I didn't want to talk about that, though.

I wanted to talk about my present.

I bought myself the CD 'Dreamboat Annie' by Heart. (no small thanks to Mary RC for getting that ball rolling with her post about doing their freaking hair and makeup and throwing me into possibly frightening squealy fangirl overload mode in her comments. Sorry Mary. Maybe sometime I'll tell you how I REALLY feel...) Now this was special, because this was the first album I bought with my own money. And I haven't had it in any other format until yesterday. Oh - for my younger readers - albums were these big flat round black things - bigger than a dinner plate - and we played them on record players, one side then the other. The artwork on them was sometimes amazing and often iconic. They were and are delicious. But that's not what I wanted to talk about, either.

I listened to the CD in the car yesterday and was amazed that I still knew every word to every song. The low notes she sings are still too high for me, but that didn't stop me from singing along to every note. I was alone in the car, no one's ears had to bear the offense. Oh! That was you next to me at that stop light? Well - whatever... Momma was just getting her groove on and you were probably just jealous. Love me like music, and I'll be your song...

Which brings me (quite smoothly, if I say so m'self) to the lyrics. How pretty is that one, by the way? I nearly wept this morning, listening to 'How Deep it Goes'.

Somebody turned on the dirty blues, well I know -
you don't like the blues 'cause the words are always the same
and they kind of remind you...

Somebody turned the blues on me,
well, I don't like the blues -
'cause I can't see through the tears that come,
and make it hard to find you...

Good gravy, kids. That moves me as much now as it did when I was fifteen. And that's exactly how old I felt, listening to it. I was instantly transported to my parents living room, playing albums on their hi-fi and singing every word as if it mattered. I could feel my parents carpeting under my belly as I read every lyric from the album cover and commited them to something deeper than memory. I almost expected my dad to say, "Time to call it quits, Tam, we've got to head to school"

"Just one more song..."

"I'll sing you a song - we have to go." (And for those of you who actually knew both my dad and I at that time - here's an extra little treat for you - he generally sang me Billy Joel's "Big Shot". Sometimes he danced. You're welcome for that visual)

I remember thinking the song 'Magic Man' might have been written about the boy I was seeing, because I truly HAD never seen eyes so blue... I thought about him this morning - listening to that CD - for the first time in over thirty years...

I remember hiking in the Canadian Rockies and drinking from a stream and hearing the lyric 'the time that you drank that water like wine, so sweet and so fine...' in my head and I was transported back to THAT moment this morning, too. I could almost taste that water - infinitely sweeter and more refreshing than any I'd ever tasted before or since.

My children were fighting in the car this morning and I turned up the volume on 'White Lightning and Wine' - mostly just to drown them out - and they not only stopped fighting but decided it would be a great song for their band to cover. Music hath charms...

I suppose I should get back to my NaNoWriMo project. How else am I gonna convince myself I deserve 'Seals and Croft's Greatest Hits' or Carole King's 'Tapestry' or Billy Joel's anything before 'The Nylon Curtain'?

Write on.

Painted Skies and Pie

I've been feeling a little despondent lately. You may (or may not - how self-centered am I, anyway?) have noticed my absence in the blogoshpere - I've just been sort of feeling like I have nothing to contribute. Not just in the blogosphere, in the whole general scheme of things. One thing a few weeks out of commission will teach you (you, in this case, being me - but I think the lesson transcends my personal experience) is that the world keeps spinning without you. It spins quite nicely, matter of fact. The sun remembers to rise and set. Dramas continue to unfold. You might be missed, but not much, and not for long. The place you held in people's days and thoughts is quickly filled in. It's the whole pulling your hand out of a bucket of water thing.

Sigh.

So that's where I've been.

But this morning, I had to take Liv to band practice. (Now don't say, "See? Someone needs you!" because if I hadn't been able to take her, arrangements could have easily been made. I'm way over myself.) I like taking her to practice at this time of year, because from the time I leave my house to the time I return, the sun rises (as it always remembers to do). Those of you who have been with me any length of time know that that is my absolutely favorite part of the day. Even if the sunrise is nothing more spectacular than the transition from dark to light, there's still just something hopeful and wonderful about it.

This morning's sunrise was more spectacular than a transition from dark to light.

We left the garage in almost complete blackness. In the fifteen minutes it took us to get to her school, we watched the sky take on cotton candy hues we laughingly described as scrumptious. Liv pointed out that she'd never thought about eating the clouds before, but today it looked like a swell idea. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? How about Cotton Candy with a Chance of Pie? We watched the colors shift before our eyes - it was quite a show. It continued after I dropped her off with our usual exchange:

"Have a great day, love you!"

"Love you too!"

"Always happy, happy!"

"Never crappy, crappy!"

I know, my life is just one big Hallmark card. I apologize to those I've made jealous by sharing this heart-melting daily exchange. Not everyone can be as eloquent and poetic as Liv and I.

Anyway.

So I dropped her off and continued to the McDonald's drive through because it's Monopoly season, ya'll home. By the time I pulled into my garage again, it was full-on day. No remnants of the cotton candy sky remained. All blue and white and bright. The transition was over.

I'd made it through.

Now what does this all have to do with pie? Well, not a damn thing, actually. Except that pie has been on my mind (and the minds of everyone I know, apparently) recently. Everywhere I turn, it seems, someone is talking about pie. And if you're reading this and thinking, "Oh! She's talking about me!" you're probably right - but I'm talking about somebody else, too. Pie talk has been everywhere I go. I do not hate this. I do not even mildly dislike this. Come on! Who doesn't like pie? Bye, bye Miss American Pie. (No! come back!) Pie, pie, me oh my. She's my cherry pie... (okay, maybe that one didn't fit quite as well...but come on...tastes so good makes a grown man cry - sweet cherry pie...) So, yeah, everyone's talking (and I'm singing) about pie.

My mom makes an excellent pie. (It's the law or something. Baseball. Hot Dogs. Mom. Apple Pie...) Her cream pies are good, but her fruit pies are to die for. I was well into high school before I realized that most people do not serve 1/4 of a pie and call it a slice. (And I have a weight problem! Go figure!) We had pie several times a week. Pie for breakfast was no big treat - we had that at least twice a month. MmmmmMmmmmmMmmmm - Mom's pie. The thing is, I don't make many pies myself because of this. I know mine would never be as good as hers, so I don't even try. I ask her to make me a pie when I go home to visit, and it's a treat, and that's that.

But one day, when I was living faaaaaaaaar from home. (With Shrek, in Far, Far Away...) I decided it was time to give it a shot. I called my mom and asked for the secret to her amazing pie crusts. She hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then said, "Tammy, I haven't made a pie crust in years. I used to, but the roll out ones they make now are just as good with no guess work and no gambling." I was aghast. Mom's amazing crust came from the refrigerator section of my local grocery store? And I hadn't even noticed the transition - which must mean that it actually WAS just as good...

But you know what? Even with that little bit of knowledge under my belt, my pies still aren't as good as hers. Maybe I haven't been a mom long enough. Or maybe you have to know how to do it right before you start taking short cuts.

But homemade or bakery bought, one way or another, I'll be having a hunk of pie today.

Always (well, usually, anyway) happy, happy, ya'll.

Icons: Pat Benatar and Blondie

The local DJ introducing the show said, "Can you smell that smell in the air tonight? It smells like flowers and sweat. That's the smell of an estrogen heavy hard rock show, man! Breathe deep!"

We breathed deep.

Pat Benatar and Spyder Giraldo started playing together the year The Donnas were born. They haven't stopped since. Stepping once again into the shallow end of the pool (I always like it there. The water's warmer. You can say that's because the little kids pee there, but I won't hear you. LALALALALALALA!) Pat looks amazing. The years have been kind to her. Uber kind. Dude. I'm certain that there is a portrait of her somewhere that is aging normally. That's really the only explanation I can come up with.


She didn't hit all the high notes, but that was ok. Our minds filled in the blanks. She and her band knew what the crowd wanted and they delivered it. I felt like I was in college again.

That's a real, real good thing.


Blondie was up next. Debbie Harry took the stage like she owned it. Girlfriend is 64. I looked it up. Sixty-four and dancing, strutting, posing, and generally just rocking the house.


The stage set and the band took me back to 1982. Ms. Harry herself is timeless.


Their first callback song was a punkified cover of the ridiculously inane 'My Heart Will Go On". They made THAT cool. THAT, my fine friends, is no small feat.

THAT, my fine friends, is Blondie.


And THAT, my fine friends, concludes the week of a thousand bands. Or, you know, eight. To recap:

The Prodigals

Blue Oyster Cult and Alice Cooper

Joan Jett and the B-52's

The Donnas, Pat Benatar and Blondie

You can hold up your iPhones with their lighter applications as long as you want, but there won't be an encore from me anytime soon.

Unless, you know, an opportunity knocks and I score some tickets.

Will blog for tix.

(The more observant among you might notice that there are only two tix for The Donnas, Pat Benatar and Blondie. We didn't ditch the kids that night, but we did leave them in the cheap seats. My cousin got us two sweet seats, but couldn't manage five. When I visited with the girls after The Donnas' set, I said - "It was so cool! We could see the pink bass strings! We could see the little sparkle thingy on the singer's face!" They responded, "We could tell the singer had a head." Meh, they're young. Their opportunities for sweet seats will come...)

Warming Up (That's Hot)

The Donnas - every single Donna (none of whom are named Donna) were all born in 1979. I know this because Tom looked it up. Tom could tell you their whole history. I know, 'cause he told me. When the squealy fanboy bug bit him, it bit hard. My first reaction to hearing this was, "Holy crap! I'm old enough to have been their unwed teenaged mother!" (You know, because having a child at seventeen is feasible, but marrying the boy I was dating when I was seventeen? I shudder.) My second and more prevalent reaction was, "They're THIRTY?" Because from the sixth row not one of them looked old enough to drink a legal beer. Third thought? Thank God they're thirty, because the thought of Tom getting so hot and bothered over teenagers was a little unnerving.

How cool are her pink bass strings? How cool is it that we were close enough to see her pink bass strings?

Our introduction to The Donnas came when we watched the special features included on the Detroit Rock City DVD. If you're waiting for me to apologize for or justify liking Detroit Rock City, I sure hope you're comfortable, 'cause that's not going to happen any time soon. Anyway. Here was this cute, young, girl band in KISS face make-up singing 'Strutter', rocking hard, and clearly having a ball. Not one thing wrong with that.

When The Donnas took the stage (For a mere four songs. That's how it goes when you're the warm-up band for not one but two icons.) Tom was on his feet for the whole short set. Most folks were not. MOST folks had not even showed up yet. When the set was over, he was all smiles. "I KNOW she saw me, Tam. SHE saw me and APPRECIATED me."

"She liked you, stud. Ain't no doubt."

They would've been great opening for Joan Jett. But then Tom's head might have exploded.

Next up? Pat Benatar and Blondie. And I'm still in the sixth row, center. Yeah.

Birth of a Squealy Fanboy: Joan Jett and the B-52's

Midway through the Joan Jett concert Tom turned to me and said, "I get it now."

"Get what?"

"That full body visceral reaction you have when Steven Tyler makes that noise. I think Joan Jett is my Steven Tyler."

He said something like that, anyway. It was pretty loud.

My husband had just discovered his inner squealy fanboy.

Nice.

But I got it, too. Joan Jett has replaced Dave Navarro as my favorite pocket rock star. How does so much sound come out of such a wee tiny thing? And how does a chick who represents as such a badass (one might even be tempted to say she had a bad reputation about which she didn't give a damn) present with such a contagious smile? Seriously, ya'll, her smile was brighter than the stage lights. When she went into her cover of the theme from the Mary Tyler Moore show (I KNOW! Right?) asking "Who can turn the world on with her smile?" I just wanted to say, "well it's you girl, and you should know it."


She rocks it as hard as she did when I was in college.

Also she's really hot. If you're into that sort of thing.

I think I'm gonna get a shag haircut.

I LOVE rock and roll!

so put another dime in the juke box, baby

so hurry up, and bring your juke box money

See how smoothly I segued between Joan Jett and the B-52's? My transition was considerably smoother than the actual one, which was sort of jarring. I like both bands, but I don't know whose idea it was to book them together.

It was not a great idea.

When we tried to decide who SHOULD'VE opened for the B-52's, though, we came up blank. They're sort of in a genre all their own. Lots of acts could've opened for Joan, though. Just sayin'.

Ack! Pictures were a lot more challenging after dark when flashes were prohibited!

The B-52's were just what I expected them to be. They bring the party, they do. They bring the retro, trippy, psychedelic party. They bring the strobe lights and the go-go dancing and the weirdly staccato vocal stylings for which they are known.

I was glad I got to go to the party.

Not everyone gets to hang out on Planet Claire. It's a groovy scene, for sure.

But it was a weird scene to enter from the back alley, where I'd just spent time hanging out with the bad kids in their black leather.

"Do you think she saw me, Tam?" Tom asked as we were walking out of the venue.

"Who?"

"Joan Jett. Do you think she saw me? I got my hands up really high..."

"I think she winked at you, hon. I was way jealous of your obvious connection."

I've been at this squealy fangirl thing a lot longer than he has. It's so easy to make us happy and hopeful. His giant goofy smile confirmed it.

One of us. One of us. One of us. One of us. One of us.

We All Went Down to Woodstock

In keeping with the concert theme, and in celebration of the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, a short trip down Memory Lane - this time only going back to 1994.

Forty years ago this week, when the original Woodstock was held on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel NY, I was six. Now I reckon there were indeed six year olds at Woodstock, but none of them were the children of my parents, who harbored a deep seeded fear of hippies, weirdos and freaks.

Fifteen years ago, however, when the 25th anniversary of 3 days of love and music was held, I was way older than six. And I considered hippies, weirdos and freaks to be my peeps. I was in.

Tom and I were not dating at the time, but we were friends. Really good friends. Best friends. We decided to go to Woodstock together. (mistake #1) We lived in South Jersey at the time, which is not exactly right around the corner from Saugerties NY. We decided to go on a sponsored bus trip rather than messing with the driving (mistake #2)

I bought a cheap two-man pop up tent, just big enough for us each to unroll a sleeping bag in (mistake #3 - see mistake #1) We packed as lightly as possible, knowing that we would have very little space and no shower facilities. (misfortune #1)

We were up well before the crack of dawn, waiting in the parking lot with lots of other tired but excited Boomers and X-ers.

The ride there was uneventful. We were corralled through extensive security and eventually were on the grounds and ready to find a place to set up camp. We settled on a spot, popped the tent up, unrolled our sleeping bags and set off to explore the grounds and plot our course.

Oh, we had big plans. We were gonna see it all. One stage to the next. (mistake #4) Long before the first scheduled band played it's first note we knew THAT wasn't going to happen. The stages were quite spread out and the crowd was thick. Ridiculously thick. Before the shows even started. There would be no hopping from stage to stage.

We took our blanket and walked to the main stage. We'd be sacrificing a few things we wanted to see, but it made the most sense.

The rain started before the sun went down. (misfortune #2)

The next day we set off for the main stage again, armed only with our blanket and our still quite sunny dispositions. (Sunny being a relative term, as Tom and I are both more Eeyore than Tigger.)

The weather over the course of the weekend fluctuated between rain and scorching heat. The mud was ubiquitous. (misfortune #3) But we'd secured a decent position on the lawn (high point #1) and were determined to make the most of it.

The Rollins Band performed (high point #2) and made the whole damn trip worthwhile, no lie. I'd ALMOST be willing to do it again, just for the opportunity to have another chance to see just. that. set. Oh, kids, I do love me some Henry Rollins. He makes me feel all tingly inside. (Oh, Plankton, that's the way you're supposed to feel!) He - and his music - are just so - POWERFUL. I'm trembling thinking about it.

Ahem.

There was a blanket full of teenagers spread out behind us. They provided a moment or two of amusement for us. To whit:

Overheard at Woodstock

"Who's coming on next?"

"It says Joe Cocker."

"Who's that?"

"I don't know. Some old dude."

"I think he sang the theme for 'The Wonder Years'"

~later that evening~

"I love Nine Inch Nails. I hope they play every song they've ever played. AND MORE."

(to us) "NIN is my favorite band. Could you guys just, sort of, sit down or something during their set so I can see them better? I mean, like, you can still dance around and stuff, but I really want to see them."

" God I love NIN. I can't wait, man, I can't wait."

~one half hour later~

(announcer) "Nine Inch Nails!"

(boy behind us, curled in a fetal position) ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Metallica came on after NIN. We were so tired and cramped and miserable at that point. Earlier in the day Tom had ventured out to find nourishment. It took him the better part of an hour to make his way through the crowd to the concession stand, pay a ridiculous sum of money for a lousy Dominoes pizza and a 2-liter bottle of warm Pepsi, and find his way back to our blanket. We were both, it turned out, a little bit afraid we'd never see each other again.

We watched a little bit of Metallica's set then decided we'd be able to hear them as we walked, so we'd start back to the tent. (mistake #5)

Tom and I are in agreement that the crush we got ourselves caught up in on the way back to our tent ranks in the top five scariest moments either of us have ever experienced. The crowd sort of became an entity of it's own which moved of it's own volition. (misfortune #3) We were merely carried along with it. If we had wavered or - God forbid - fallen, we would have been trampled and killed in the mud. We had no doubt about this.

Aerosmith closed that night. We were already in our tent (and shaking like leaves after the near-crushing incident) when they started. We could hear the whole set, but we couldn't see a thing. Tom figured it wouldn't matter since I'd seen them four times already on that tour alone. (mistake #6) Tom can be so silly sometimes.

The next day opened with us cranky, muddy and sore. We brushed our teeth, spit on the ground, and threw on bandannas and that completed our grooming regimens. We could barely stand ourselves, much less each other. We both wanted to go home, but since we'd come by bus we had no choice but to wait,

When we finally did make it through the muck and the mud to the bus the next morning, we left behind our tent, our blanket, and a ridiculous amount of money. The tent and blanket had soaked up so much mud that they were too heavy to reasonably carry back to the bus. (misfortune #4) The money? Oh, hell, you know where the money went. 'Twas a festival of Peace, Music, Mud and Commercialism. (mistake #7)

So the bus load of us had all survived the same ordeal. I mean - experienced the same great event. The ride home was a lot quieter than the ride there had been. When we stopped at a rest stop, I opted to stay on the bus. Tom got off the bus to use the facilities. When he returned, having been in polite company and fresh air for 5 minutes or so, he said, "You can't even imagine how bad we smell."

The weekend had been rough on our friendship. The close quarters, the mud, the near death experience - it all took it's toll. But when we got back to my apartment, there was no need for discussion. No one would need to wait for a shower. Besides, I didn't really want either of us sitting on my furniture while waiting for the other to shower. We took one together. (high point #3)

When they held the 30th anniversary concert, we watched it on our mutual TV with a toddler in my lap and a preschooler in his. Peace, music and love prevailed. We'll skip the mud and commercialism this time around, thanks.

Dancing on Railroad Tracks

Today's Thursday trip down memory lane is a little different, as we are not going to trip back to my childhood or my teens, but to my mid-twenties. A shorter trip, but sadly not by much. I am visiting relatives this week (thus the sporadic commenting - sorry!) to attend a festival in their hometown and I couldn't help reminiscing about festivals past.

Musikfest is one of my favorite festivals. I love the music and the food and the handcrafts. I love the city, full of history and warmth. I don't hate the beer. But none of those are the reasons Musikfest retains 'favorite' status among the many festivals I attend each year.

I have dated many musicians and passed time with many more. I even married one. Gave birth to a couple. But the only time I ever served as a muse was based on an afternoon at Musikfest.

It was a bright, sunny weekday in August. The air was laden with the sense of summer coming to an end and the promise of fall. We were both teachers, so we had the summer off. We spent the day at the festival. We had a couple beers - enough to dull inhibitions, but not enough to make foolish mistakes. The perfect amount.

Definitely enough to dance.

We did a mean polka at the Festplatz.

We tapped our feet and moved to some folk music at the Volksplatz.

We danced our way back to the car, twirling and swaying on the railroad tracks, fingers touching but not grasping, together but independent. It was sublime.

When I saw him the next weekend, he said he had something he wanted me to hear. He sat down behind his baby grand and started playing the most lovely melody. Delicate, intricate, free-spirited. He paused.

"It's not done yet."

"It's really pretty. What is it?"

"I think I'm going to call it Tammy Dancing on Railroad Tracks."

My hands went to my throat in a gesture that would've seemed more natural coming from the belle that I am not.

In reality, I am clumsy and awkward and prone to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I am plain of countenance and, if I'm going to be VERY generous with myself, 'sturdy' of frame.

In my mind's eye, though... in my mind's eye I am graceful and delicate and poised. I pull off a fairy-like combination of earthy and ethereal. In my mind's eye.

Apparently that's how I translate in song, too.

The Department of Youth

When, in the song 'Department of Youth', 61 year old Alice Cooper asked "Who has the power?" and 44 and 46 year old Tom and I pumped our fists and screamed, "WE DO!" the irony was probably not lost on anyone. Discussing it in the car on the way home, though, Tom and I agreed that if Alice still felt qualified to head up that particular department, we might indeed still have a little power after all.

It was the same sort of grin I get every time Roger Daltry sings "Hope I die before I get old." Glad he didn't. My g-g-g-g-generation indeed.

My generation was out in full force at the Alice concert Saturday night and so was yours. I feel confident typing that, because no matter what your generation is, it was represented. I had told you some months ago about going to the MSI concert with the girls and how our family held down both ends of the age spectrum. Not so at Alice. There were folks younger than our girls and folks older than us and everything in between. Grandparents were there with their grandchildren. The show my mother deemed far too inappropriate for me when I was fourteen has now been deemed, apparently, quite family friendly. There was a little girl right in front of me who appeared to be about seven or eight. At one point she got tired and curled up in her seat to rest. The proximity of the chairs led to her little head resting right on my knee. I don't think she was aware of that, but I sure was. And I thought it was very sweet.

Blue Oyster Cult was a fine choice for an opening act. Their band was tight. Their bass player was beyond tight. Who's playing bass for BOC these days, you ask? Well, only Rudy Sarzo, that's who. Rudy has played with Quiet Riot, Whitesnake and the venerable Ozzy Osbourne. He owns the stage like the rock star that he is. For those of you who enjoy swimming in the shallow end of the pool, he has the sort of wiry muscular build I usually (rightly or wrongly) associate with drummers. He's not what you might want to call a bad looking fellow... For those of you with more tender hearts, there was an ASL interpreter stationed off to the right side of the stage interpreting the concert. At one point Mr. Sarzo made his way over to that side of the stage and signed something directly to the folks with hearing impairments. I don't sign, so I don't know what he said, but I thought it was a sweet - um - gesture. For those of you who would rather judge a musician by his musicianship rather than his looks, sweetness, or stage presence - well, you would have been the least disappointed of all. He kicked. Ass. As the wife of a bass player and the mother of another, I tend to appreciate the bass solo more than some, but I think even those who use it as an excuse to head for the restroom would've enjoyed this. It was pretty amazing.

(a side note to the small handful of my college buddies who read this blog: When they played 'Godzilla', I tried very hard to keep my feet from touching the floor. I did. But the seats were small and my ass is large and it just didn't work out. But I did try. There was intent. And you were all remembered fondly. So that has to count for something. History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of men...)

Alice was everything I needed him to be, from his opening number ('School's Out') to his last encore (um, 'School's Out'. But with a costume change and different props - it really worked in a full circle sort of way). There was no between song banter, it was just song, song, song. When he needed to take a little break, the band played (they were pretty kickass in their own right! No divas in Alice's band, though - he OWNS that show!) All of the showmanship and theatrics were there. It was just the show I'd expected to see thirty-odd years ago. There were crazy costume changes and macabre props and almost non-stop camp.

This tour has been dubbed the 'Theater of Death' tour, with the subtitle "they keep killing him, but he keeps coming back". Alice himself was killed by guillotine, hangmans noose, poison hypodermic and iron maiden (excellent! execute him - bogus!). 'Cold Ethel' was thrown around the stage in a most cavalier fashion. 'Billion Dollar Babies' were presented and promptly beheaded (causing my children to giggle, "Memaw was right! He kills babies!"). And can I just say, that it is my sincere wish that if I ever need to be confined to a straight jacket, I would like for it to be purple and embellished and contain a hole so my hand can still hold the mike. Ya'll will see to that, right?

A personal highlight was singing 'No More Mr. Nice Guy' to Liv and having her sing it right back to me, despite the fact that she knew few if any of the actual words. It was a gist thing. It so totally rocked. My girls are total Alice fans. 'Welcome to My Nightmare'.

Tom and I agreed that we were left wanting for nothing. We had been totally entertained. If Mick still can't get no satisfaction, maybe he ought to check out an Alice show. Just sayin'.

Runnin' all Around My Brain (Alice Edition)

Here is some of the randomness that is runnin' all around my brain this fine Saturday morning:

ALICE!!! Tonight I finally get to see Alice Cooper. Regular readers may recall that I wanted Alice to be my first concert, but my mom put her foot down. She is no longer the boss of me. School's Out, baby. I may not be Eighteen, but I still like it. I am all atwitter. ALICE!!!

Check it out: The fine folks over at The Knights of Moleskine, Spirit & Ale have invited me to join their blog as a contributor. (Flattered? Um, yeah!) I've written a post about the festival we attended last night, so stop by and check it out.

Did I mention ALICE???

Oh No! There goes Tokyo!- Guess who's opening for Alice? (I mentioned that I'd be seeing Alice Cooper in about 10 hours, didn't I?) Blue Oyster Cult. BOC. I saw them once in the 70's. It was awesome, or so I'm told. I fell asleep. Yeah. Let's go with that...

aliceAliceALICEALICE!!!!!

FestWear - did you know that my entire summer wardrobe consists of the gauzy dresses and skirts purchased at festivals and on the boardwalk? Well it does. Judge if you must, but it makes this bohemian suburbanite awfully happy. I got a new red dress last night. It's purdy.

Lines form on my face and hands... oh! was I singing out loud? Sorry! I'm a little preoccupied. You probably hadn't even noticed, bless your heart.

Big 2-0-0 - did you know I'm only a post or two away from my 200th post? I'm planning something I hope you'll find fun. Watch this space.

Only Women Bleed - Well lots of chores and errands to do before heading to the fair tonight. Did I mention I have concert tickets, too? Well I do. Goin' to see Alice Cooper, I am. Oh, Alice. It's only been 33 years since my mom said "no". Tonight I defy her! (and I'm takin' her grandbabies, too)

The Bo Bice Incident

I've alluded to The Bo Bice Incident on a few occasions. I have never told the story here before, but perhaps it's time. With the Week of a Thousand Bands looming before me, I've been thinking about concerts past at the venues I'll be visiting. Saturday, when I FINALLY get to see Alice Cooper, I'll be doing so at the Ohio State Fair. The last time I saw a concert at the fair...

But wait.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

A little back story is in order.

I don't watch reality TV.

(What never? No never. Never ever? Well - hardly ever!)

I've never seen 'Survivor' or 'The Bachelor' or 'Big Brother' or even 'The Amazing Race'. I did watch the first go 'round of 'Joe Millionaire'. I am not proud of that. I am really really really not proud of that. But I'm being honest here, and I didn't want "I don't watch reality TV" to come off as high-falutin' in any way. It's just not my cup of tea. (I did watch celebreality on VH-1 for a couple seasons - not terribly proud of that, either). I didn't watch 'American Idol', though I did enjoy both seasons of 'Rock Star'.

Let me amend that.

I didn't watch season 1 of 'American Idol'. Or 2. Or 3. But for some reason, I watched season 4. I guess the planets were aligned just right or something, I don't know. Maybe it's because it was around the same time as 'Rock Star: INXS' was ending and I'd been addicted to that and needed to fill the void. I don't really remember the whys, but I watched season 4 from day 1.

And I liked Bo Bice. He was my vehicle, baby.

Flash forward to the following summer. 'Saving Jane' was warming up for Bo Bice at the State Fair. My girls loved 'Saving Jane' and wanted to go to see them. My girls were pre-adolescent at the time and the song Girl Next Door spoke to them. Heck, it spoke to me, too. But they didn't want to stay for Bo Bice.

That was ok. I was pretty much over him and was a little bit embarrassed about having been as obsessed with 'American Idol' as I had been. It wasn't the first time I'd bought tickets for a show because I liked the opening band more than the headliner.

'Saving Jane' was great, and the girls were so happy. They were also so DONE. We had had a long day at the fair before the concert. Both girls were tired ALMOST to the point of tears. It was time to go. As we made out way out, the lights went down and Bo took the stage. We were in the hallway leading out of the venue, but could still see in. He opened with Vehicle. And my knees went weak.

I stopped in my tracks and, if my family is to be believed, pulled my hair and screamed, "I LOVE YOU BO!" then mumbled repeatedly, "So much pretty. So so pretty." The kids were no longer on the verge of tears, but I guess I was. Squealy fangirl tears. What Frankie referred to in 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' as an orgasmic rush of lust. Now they just didn't know what the hell to do. They were stunned silent. They looked back and forth between Tom and I.

"Do we need to - stay?" my husband inquired. He knew that look, and I think he might've been hoping the after effects would still be in effect when we got home, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Do YOU need to stay? I could take the kids to the car..."

He was looking quite bewildered at his point.

He expected this sort of behavior with Joe Perry.

He expected this sort of behavior with Roger Daltry.

But Bo Bice? Really?

I didn't understand it, either.

I shook my head in the negative and we headed for the car. Both girls opted to hold hands with him. I think I freaked them out pretty badly. No child should have to see their momma in the throes of squealy fangirl bliss. I followed with my head bowed in shame, feeling a little numb.

After that, any time we heard a Bo Bice song, or saw him on TV, or even heard his name mentioned I could count on at least one of my beloved family members to pull their own hair and say "so much pretty!" Luckily for me, Bo never became what you might want to call omnipresent.

They've probably forgotten it by now.

I haven't.

Crap, two out of three of 'em read this blog.

I'm screwed.

See what I do to entertain you people?

It's probably not too early to start reminding myself: Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man...

ETA: Lea wanted to clarify her tears - I figured that was her story to tell, so I glossed over it. She wanted to tell it and did so here.

Anatomy of an Earworm

No, no, no - this isn't going to be a squicky post!

It's about those songs or - more accurately, song fragments - that get stuck in your head and won't let go.

Everyone gets them from time to time, some people are more prone to them than others. Some songs are more likely to stick than others. Once they're stuck, there doesn't seem to be a lot you can do to unstick them. Which wouldn't be so bad if it was a song (or song fragment) that you liked. Quite often it is not. Quite often a fragment will stick and you don't even KNOW the rest of the song. I think these frustrate me, personally, the most.

I like to share when I get a particularly persistent earworm. I'll sing it out loud over and over. This brings a lot of joy to everyone around me, because I have quite a lovely voice and that loveliness is much magnified when I sing the same line over and over again in as many different keys as I can find (or come close to). People always say things like, "Oh, for the love of all that's holy, please, please stop." I know that this is because everyone has their own personal threshold for loveliness. I exceed that on occassion, I guess. It's a gift. And a curse.

For weeks - WEEKS I tells ya! - whenever my brain had a quiet moment, I subconsciously filled it with M-E-T-H-O-D-O-F-L-O-V-E. (Oh, you're welcome! No problem at all!) And that is very typical of an earworm for me. A pop song that I maybe didn't love, but was certainly aware of (MMMbop, anyone?) that just sneaks in there and makes itself at home. I've read that commercial jingles provide earworm fodder for a lot of people and - while I imagine that's quite annoying - I think it means the advertisers have done their job very well (Gimme a break, gimme a break, break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar).

For the last three days, though, the earworm that's been accompanying me is one I'm in no hurry to rid myself of. I've been hearing Billy Joel's 'Vienna' , particularly (but not limited to) the line, " you know that when the truth is told that you can get what you want or you can just get old." My usual response to an earworm is annoyance that ranges from mild to crazy-making. My response to this one has been that perhaps it's telling me something. It is such a beautiful song - click the link if you're unfamiliar - with such a beautiful sentiment. I think maybe there's something in there I need to hear right now. Perhaps when I successfully noodle it out I'll conquer the earworm.

I'm not going to rush.

The first line of the song is "slow down, you crazy child".

I hear ya, Billy.

It's a Small World After All

No - this isn't another post about Disney. I didn't drink the water from the ride and trip. That was Lisa Simpson.

No, mine is a story that sort of begins with my friend Kevin.


That's him in the black hat and the plaid shirt.

Kevin works at the music store where Liv takes drum lessons. He thinks she's awesome, so I think he's awesome. We talk every Thursday while she takes her lesson. He has played with a lot of big name folks and he always has a story to tell me, usually backed up by pictures or a CD or an article in a magazine. Talking to him is surreal sometimes. I am very used to him mentioning names that are familiar to me, because he's played with a lot of REALLY big names. One day, a couple months ago, he did just that. We were a few sentences past it in conversation when I realized - hey! I didn't recognize that name because he was famous! I recognize that name because I knew a guy by that name - a musician by that name - in my hometown! I made him rewind to see if I'd heard him right. Indeed I had. The bass player in Kevin's band was the guy I knew from Youth Fellowship in high school. I didn't know this guy well, but we had mutual acquaintances, most notably his brother, who I ran around with a little bit back home.

Small world.

It turns out these brothers are both now living where I now live. I looked up the one I knew on Facebook. (I do love me some Facebook.)

Tonight I was reintroduced to the other. (That's him in the plaid shorts and the white shirt, in case you were wondering.)

What a fun night.

Of course seeing someone you knew thirty odd years ago unexpectedly is a trip. (Not a 'drinking the water from the Small World ride' trip, but a trip all the same).

That was fun.

But it was a fun night all around. If it's not clear from the picture, this was a little community free concert. People came out with their lawn chairs and their blankets and hung out and listened to music in the park. I was not the only person there who kicked off my sandals. Well, technically, I was the only person who kicked off MY sandals. Other people kicked off their own sandals. Other people kicking off my sandals would've been silly. And weirdly less sanitary than going barefoot.


The wee ones put on a show of their own. They danced, they ran, they rolled down the hill. Is that not an excellent hill for rolling? Slightly older kids practiced their cartwheels and somersaults. Older kids still climbed trees and talked in the woods.

A toddler with the sweetest curls brought Tom and I into her ball game. Well, she started with me, but when she realized Tom would play, I disappeared. She was an eye-batter, that one.

I have never gone to one of these concerts before. Expect that to be rectified.

It was a perfect evening - temperate with a warm summer breeze. (Which did, indeed, make me feel fine. Thank you so much for asking.)

The band was so good. There was just so much talent - Tom and I recognized the keyboard player as the bass player in a jazz combo we used to see a lot. One of the guys had written an Emmy award winning jingle. He has an Emmy on his mantle. There was so much diversity - both in the genres they played and the talents they exhibited. Several people played different instruments. Most of them sang at least once. Crazy talent.

To the best of my knowledge they all have day jobs.

And Nickleback are millionaires.

Sigh.

School's Out

Back in the early days of my squealy fangirlhood, when I first got interested in going to concerts, the first show I really wanted to see was Alice Cooper. Mom's foot spoke hard on that one. No way, no how, not gonna happen. I hear he kills babies. (Yes, Mom. He kills babies. On stage. With no consequence other than parental disappoval. Sheesh.) The very next month I was allowed to go see my actual first concert. Nazareth. I think she might have thought it was Christian rock. I neither confirmed nor denied.

Anyway.

I have to wonder if Alice Cooper (the band or the man) had any idea how iconic the song "School's Out" would continue to be, decades after its 1972 release. I'm quite certain he couldn't have anticipated appearing in the 2004 Staple's commercial featuring the song. Funnier than Gene Simmons' Dr. Pepper commercial and even Ace Frehley's Dunkin' Donuts commercial. Suck it, KISS. Alice did it all first. And he did it all better.

Anyway.

My girls were singing "School's Out" this morning - and I'll betcha a nickle I haven't heard it for the last time, today.

And I'm a-scared.

I love my girls. I do. But that line, "Well we got no class. And we got no principles." was written, I think, specifically with them in mind.

And they're gonna be here all day. Every day. For three months.

Didn't Alice also say, "lines form on my face and hands"? (totally out of context, I know, but work with me here.)

Didn't Alice also say "only women bleed"? It's a big 'ole hormone cocktail 'round here. And now there will be no respite. For three months.

Someone hold me.

Or pour me a shot.

Or shoot me.

Power Lunch

Tom plays in an orchestra through his workplace. They have 2 'seasons' - Spring and Winter. They play lunchtime concerts at various venues and I try to see them play at least once each season.

The bass section. That's Tom on the left.

Yesterday they were playing at his workplace and, as it was almost the last show of the season, I figured it was time for me to go!

The amount of times I have visited his workplace could probably be counted on one hand.

Each time I do, I am overwhelmed by the differences between the world in which he lives every day and the one in which I live.

The most prevalent indicator was in the way people were dressed. I wouldn't even know how to dress so beautifully every day. I felt a small twinge of insecurity. These are the women my hubs sees every day. These women in their smart outfits and their clicky heels and their shiny hair. These women who looked so comfortable in their multi-hundred dollar outfits. I sat there in my gauze skirt and T-shirt (I had broken out a ribbed Henley for the occassion - because even a SAHM needs a day to be fancy), trying to disappear. I felt pretty when I left the house. I was Kroger pretty, not workplace pretty. I became painfully aware of my hair in it's 'growing out' state. I took notice of my 'not so fresh' manicure. I became very self-conscious of everything about my appearance.

Everything about the working world looked so glamorous and polished - in direct opposition to my existence. It was almost like visiting a beautiful, exotic foreign land. I haven't entertained such a romanticized notion of the workplace since before I was old enough to work.

I watched these beautiful people - men as well as women - going about their lunch hour, stopping to listen to a song or two then moving on. I ruminated on their casual comaraderie and the fact that they had someone to share their lunch with every. single. day. I wasn't jealous as much as I was in awe.

Now I know they don't have a live orchestra in the lobby every day, but since they do every time I'm there, it's easy to pull up that visual when I'm sitting at home eating leftovers in cut off sweats and bare feet, huddled over my laptop.


The funny part is, I know there are probably many folks in the workforce who would just LOVE to be home in cut off sweat pants and bare feet. The grass in my yard is greener than the marble on the lobby floor.

I feel the need to cut short my 'everyone's life is more interesting than mine' rant, though, to tell you a little bit about the concert. It was really good. Not 'good for a volunteer orchestra' good, but really good. Tom had been very excited about their spring selections and I could see why. One piece was particularly exciting. The story went something like this (Tom, if I get it wrong, feel free to jump in on the comments and correct or amend):

Their orchestra leader was listening to classical music on satellite radio and heard this song he really dug. He jotted down the name and started seeking a score so that the orchestra could play it. The score was not to be found through any of his usual channels. Turns out that this particular tune has never before been performed live in the United States (it has been somewhat widely performed in Russia, if I understood the story correctly). He acquired the score, the orchestra played it, and it was magnificent. To listen to this little orchestra playing the American debut of a piece was quite exciting. The piece was called "The Assault on Beautiful Gorky", if inquiring minds want to know. It was quite lovely.

So maybe my life isn't so mundane after all. I might not have fit in there, but there I was. And it gave me a swell story to tell today, huddled over my laptop in my cut off sweats and my bare feet.