traveling swallowing dramamine

what did you do tonight?

did you get drunk on a single jack and coke?
did you dance like crazy at a show featuring a vibraphone?
did you break it down with jeff?
did you samba with rikki?
did you make fun of adam's erect nipples?
did you see a flat-chested girl jump around barefoot and topless for an hour and a half?
did you watch a girl in a short black skirt and heels do a split during the band's grand finale?
did you follow the band outside the bar at 2AM for an encore performance executed solely on half a drumkit, as the entire audience stood cheering and clapping around the musicians?

i did.

if you didn't, you must not have been at the hairy apes BMX show.

shame on you. shame, shame.

(thanks to leif for the alcohol and ravi for telling me about the show.)

blame it on barrett.

oh dance with me
oh don't be shy
oh kiss me cunt
oh kiss me cock

oh kiss the world
oh kiss the sky
oh kiss my ass
oh let it rock

oh the pixies, oh oh oh. like they weren't even trying. yes, voodoo was fun.

i did manage to catch a nap during the sonic youth set. in the middle of all that long-winded distortion feedback bullshit, i lay down on my beach towel and fell asleep.

got into a fight with my mother today, more on that later if i feel like it.

for the first time ever, this blog is getting hits off of google searches. recent google searches that turned up this site:

izzo's illegal burrito
boring old bulky brown shoes
Baton rouge louie's fred
dragnet theme music
Hostel Dhoula

this is funny, i think, but also a little scary. now, if you type in my full name, this site is the first thing that comes up.

what if someone starts stalking me? and by someone i mean my parents.

okay, time for linguistics take-home midterm and to write my ass off. essay for jim tuesday, short story thursday. at least i know what the story's about this time.

by the numbers:

modest mouse concert ticket: $22.50
driving time: 11 hours
gas money: $31
food and drink: $5
jack & coke: $6.75

vehicle occupancy: 1
credit cards maxed out: 1

kidnapped child alerts: 1
police cars along the interstate: 80,000,000

soundtrack there:
modest mouse . good news for people who love bad news
elliot smith . from a basement on the hill
franz ferdinand . self-titled
counting crows . hard candy
modest mouse . the moon and antarctica

and back:
hot hot heat . scenes one through thirteen
jolie holland . catalpa
elliot smith . from a basement on the hill
built to spill . the normal years
weezer . pinkerton
elliot smith . figure 8

reason for driving to houston alone on a sunday afternoon: just because.

an hour in the rain or: anything really

saturday night i figured out the chords to "twilight" (elliott smith, ...From a Basement on the Hill).

in case you're wondering, the chords are:

F7, Am, C/G, F, C/E, D7, F.

more or less.

so yesterday I was sitting on ross's porch and this guy bryan from down the street had his banjo and they were attempting to "jam." i told ross i learned "twilight" and that he should play an F7. and he was trying to figure out how to play an F7 and then he said something about A minor and the minor 6th and i looked at him blankly.

that night, reid and i were fucking around on the piano and i showed him the chords to "twilight." i played the F7 and i was like "isn't that so pretty. but probably it's only pretty because i know what's coming next."

and he was like "i think 7th chords are pretty all the time."

i said "but they're so twangy, and like, 'i'm a 7th chord.'"

he said, "not the major 7's."

and i was like "what major 7's?"

so he shows me that you can have major 7's and minor 7's--in fact, you can have major major 7's, major minor 7's, minor major 7's, and minor minor 7's.

major major major major.

sorry.

so i'm thinking, how strange, i should have realized that the chord i wrote down as F7 wasn't what i usually think of as a 7th chord (ie, a minor 7th).

then i ask him about 6's. he doesn't know what i mean, so i pull out The Beatles Complete and find a song with an F6 in it. and he's like "well, you just add the 6 to the regular chord."

so it's F A C D.

and i'm like "but how do you know which one is the 6? it could be D flat. can you do a minor 6?"

so we play it--F Ab C Db: a minor 6--and i'm like "ooh, that's so pretty."

and he's like "oh. you know why it's pretty?"

and i'm like "no, why?"

he rearranges the notes: Db F Ab C. he says, "it's a major 7th."

he was trying to figure out how to play an F7 and then he said something about A minor and the minor 6th and i looked at him blankly

Am6: A C E F
F7: F A C E

and then my brain exploded.

blackmailed she fell off every mountain

thursday i drove down to new orleans to see the mars volta at the orpheum. i met up with ross, paul, and adam--they were eating dinner at remoulade on bourbon street. of all the restaurants in new orleans, they picked the one ben works at. but i think he doesn't work there anymore. it was still weird, though. i had a jack and coke. we got the check and i was like "i hope my drink wasn't really expensive" and took a peek and ross was like "seven bucks?" --he was kidding--but it was $6.50. fucking tourist restaurant.

the boys had brought an icechest and a twelve-pack of budweiser, so after dinner/drinks we went back to the orpheum parking garage and sat in paul's car and drank beer. i actually finished a beer. that may be the first time in my life that's ever happened. they were playing the alphabet game with band names--i didn't want to play because i didn't think i'd know enough bands. but they got bored with it pretty fast, so then paul was like, "we should play the -ate game, ann would like that one." and we went around saying words that ended with -ate. masticate, masturbate, fornicate, extricate, explicate, exonerate, dessicate, desecrate, degenerate, generate...

an hour later we had to pee. adam peed in some corner of the parking garage, then got in line for the doors (the line wrapped around the entire block) while me, ross, and paul went to a bar down the street from the theatre. the bartender informed us that we had to buy drinks to use the bathroom. ross and paul each ordered a beer and told me to go ahead. then the bartender said that each of us had to buy a drink, me included. so ross bought another beer for me, and told me not to feel obliged to drink it. i think they ended up giving it to adam.

tickets were general admission but split by balcony; ross and paul both had first balcony tickets, and me and adam had second balcony. we were going to try to sit in the first balcony anyway, but it was mostly full, and we weren't going to be able to find four seats together. so ross and paul went up to the second balcony with us and we all sat together. which was nice. i'm not sure if i've been to the orpheum before. it was kind of familiar. the seats are steep as hell. we were right up against a railing, so we had a clear view of the stage.

it was two hours of nonstop noise. nonstop. cedric (the dude with the sick-in-a-good-way woman voice) sounded pretty good for the first half of the show. he fucking nailed the second half. he was really on. it was awesome. they did L'Via L'Viaquez, which is my favorite off Frances the Mute. i went and stood on the balcony for that one. most of the time i was following the drummer. i want to have his babies. i was disappointed at the end of the show, though. i kept waiting for them to spontaneously burst into flames. but they never did.

the show let out at midnight, then it was off to twiropa for les claypool's frog brigade. i knew nothing about les claypool but ravi had told me to go, and i trust his taste in music, and paul said it didn't matter that i hadn't heard any of it because it would be really good.

so we split up (me and ross in my car, adam and paul in paul's car) and were going to park at twiropa and then all get in one car to find food before the 2am show. except on the way down canal street paul found a wendy's. so i spend like ten minutes trying to find a parking spot on some side street in the quarter, because of course you can't park on canal and there's no drive-thru. finally i find a spot and have to parallel park, which isn't that big a deal, except i tried twice and it didn't work. so ross volunteers to do it for me.

we swap seats and he says: i'm glad i know you.

i say "i win!"

then he parks the car in one try, all smooth, and i say "...you win."

then paul calls to say that the wendy's has just closed.

driving to twiropa, ross is talking about how he's going to quit playing music because what's the fucking point. i know how he feels. after i see a dance performance, i usually feel sick to my stomach, in that i've-been-doing-this-for-seventeen-years-and-i'll-never-be-that-good-ever-in-my-life sort of way. but also like i want to take a ballet class, now. and i'm thinking about how ross is talented, and i don't ever get to tell him i think that, and i should tell him. but he's in a mood, so i keep my mouth shut.

so it's maybe one in the morning and ross is saying he wants to go home, he doesn't want to see any more music. he's tired. then he laughs a little bit short and says, "i want drugs." he gets on his cell phone and calls some friend-of-a-friend who lives in new orleans, and he starts talking about "white flavored party favors" and i'm like, fucking great. you must be fucking kidding me. i don't say anything because i'm kind of reeling.   

we get to twiropa and wait for paul, who is hopelessly lost between canal and poydras. i'm starving and it's not looking like we're going to be able to find food before the show. but finally paul arrives and we all get in my car and ross drives us too fast through the warehouse district and we end up at walmart (closed), a shell station (no convenience store), and finally a 24-hour walgreens on st. charles. everyone is bitching about how new orleans sucks and i want to hit them all. mostly i'm upset with ross. i get a ham and cheese sandwich on white bread and it tastes like glue. the ham is brown. i eat it all anyway, and feel sick.

we get back to twiropa and i have to pick my ticket up at will call. i want to ask ross how fucked up he's planning on getting at this show, because i don't really want to be around to watch. tchoupitoulas is swarming with dirty hippies selling hallucinogenics. ross and paul are getting excited about buying acid. the line for the doors is long. adam and i start walking back to get in line. he asks me what's wrong and i tell him i'm aggravated because i don't want to deal with ross being fucked up. (ross is looking for a silver car.) adam says, yeah, after you've known ross for a while you learn to get used to it. (ross is looking for some guy in line.) adam says he's been really self-destructive lately.

ross and paul join us in line. some guy is weaving through the crowd, muttering "chocolates, i've got chocolates" and ross says, "hell yes." he and paul decide to split one for twenty dollars. it happens fast. i had wanted to pull ross aside but now all i can do is step forward in line, away from them. i keep my back turned.

i know acid is hard to come by. i know shrooms are a treat. but ross gets fucked up almost every night. he gets fucked up to stay awake, he gets fucked up to fall asleep, he gets fucked up just to make it through the day. even my friends who get high on a daily basis--at least they look happy about it. i've never met anyone who needs pot that badly. it's the same with alcohol. i'd say he has a drinking problem, but it's not just a drinking problem. it's that he'll do anything to keep from dealing with whatever he has to face. whatever mood or fear or frustration.

i can deal with him being high (not stoned, he's annoying when he's stoned) and i can deal with him being drunk. but when the conversation turns into him and his friends trying desperately, really, with great urgency in their voices, to figure out where the next bag of weed is coming from, i leave. because it's too depressing. and when one of the guys tells ross there's "something in the kitchen" for him, i leave. i can't watch.

the first time i was ever around cocaine: two overgrown fratty-looking guys with ballcaps and earrings come busting into the apartment talking in terms of grams and i'm sitting on the carpet getting more freaked out by the second. one of the fratty guys asks my friend for his ID and my friend, laughing, offers his library card instead. i'm thinking "how is that going to work as an ID card?" but of course the fratty guy uses it to cut a line on the kitchen counter. it was the loudest thing i've ever heard. and i wanted to leave but i was scared. it wasn't until one of my friends--my favorite, this boy--went into the back bedroom that i realized i had to leave. because i couldn't watch. it's one thing being uncomfortable around fucked-up people you don't know or don't particularly give a shit about. but when it's someone who matters. and they start looking weird around the eyes.   

the night before the show, we were sitting on his front porch--me and ross and this guy michael. michael plays bass really well. ross seems to like having michael around, but he gets aggravated with him really quickly. so when michael starts talking about being at some concert all fucked up on shrooms etc, ross is like "whatever, dude. why do you need to get fucked up to go to a show? i'd rather focus on the music" obviously trying to make michael feel stupid. ross continues: "i'm not really into hallucinogenics anymore. i don't think they're good for emotionally unstable people. i get all trapped in my head and it lasts for so long, i just want to be done with it..."

twenty-four hours later, he and paul have split a $20 bag of chocolate and i'm standing with my back to them, wishing the line would move faster so i could go hang out inside with ravi and edie and jacob.

ross says: wow, ann. you have put us beneath you. in all of two minutes.

i say, still with my back to him: no, it was fifteen minutes. and i just don't want to be around it.

he and paul are trying to talk all jovial but you can tell they're faking it. finally ross says, "why are you being like this?"

i turn around and say,  "like what?"

he says, "you're acting all..."

i say, "uncomfortable?"

paul goes, "you're uncomfortable?" and i say "yes" like i'm mad and he says "oh, okay" because it was an innocent question. and really i'm not pissed at paul. but i do feel sort of abandoned. not just because of the mushrooms. ross keeps at me. he tells me his "feelings are hurt" and really he's not going to act any different and he'll say "hey ann, wasn't that a cool bass line" like we're at any other show. and he says fine, be like that, he's not one to judge. (as if i am one to judge, as if this is about me judging him, and that makes me mad, that hurts my feelings.)

he tells me to stop. i'm not talking, i'm barely talking. finally i say "what about your friend" meaning the guy on the cellphone. he says "what?" and i say "nothing" and he says "no, what did you say" and i say nothing nothing nothing nothing. he says "turn around and tell me" and i think: you know, you're not my boyfriend, you can't do this. you can't make me talk. i don't have to be at this show with you.

so i turn to him and say, "i don't have to have this conversation with you." and he says, "it isn't going to happen." he means the guy on the cellphone. he says, "you don't have to worry about that, it isn't going to happen, i don't have the money and i'm not in the right mindframe, so." and of all the reasons in the world not to do coke, money and mindframe are not the two i wanted to hear. i'm like, "that's irrelevant." because if he had the money and the mindframe, he would have done it and expected me not to care. except i thought the point of this evening was not to get fucked up but to go to a really good show. i thought getting to hear good music with good friends would be enough.

adam is giving me sidelong turn-that-frown-upside-down faces. i catch paul's eye and try to smile because i don't want him to think i'm pissed at him. ross keeps at me. i tell him again that i don't want to be around it because it upsets me to see him like that, and he says again that i won't be able to tell the difference, and i don't know how to explain to him: that's not the point.

inside, paul and adam head for the bar and ross says: we were having such a good night. i don't want you to be upset. i had no idea you would be so affected by this. i would never have done it if i had known.

i'm thinking: i can't believe he's still talking. i can't believe he hasn't written me off yet.

except it's too late for tonight. i'm too tired to pretend like everything is fine. and i'm too tired to stick around and be pissed. i've already called ravi to see where they're standing.

i turn to ross and shrug.

he says "look at me."
he says "don't look at me like that."
he says "well i'm sorry i ruined your evening" and stalks off.

and i start to say: you didn't ruin it, it's not ruined. and i'm still going to have fun, and you will too. just not together.

but already i feel sick. and he looks sick. and he's gone. i start pushing through the crowd (sorry, sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry) and finally end up in the front with jacob and ravi and edie. ravi asks where ross is and i tell him briefly what happened. he's like, "that sucks" and it does suck but the music starts and it's really good. the guys in the band are wearing white caftans and rubber half-masks with white wigs on top, and les claypool is wearing a smiling pig mask and a bejeweled pharaoh collar. who needs hallucinogenics for this. the bass is beautiful. i want to have skerik's babies. skerik and the drummer from the mars volta. lots of beautiful babies.

so i'm into the music but i'm also feeling like i might throw up. we're in twiropa's gigantic room, and there are a million people, and they're all sweaty and packed in tight. it's 3am and i haven't had any water since 7. i keep looking back in the direction of the bar, thinking really i need to drink some water but there's a sea of people and i'll never make it back up to the front but really really i need water. ravi keeps asking me if i'm okay, and edie keeps asking me if i'm okay, and finally i head to the bar. there are seriously a million people.

i take my cup of water back to the lobby and find a spot on the floor, next to a sofa. new orleans tap water is really disgusting. i'm taking little sips. i decide i will probably leave soon. i pull out my walgreens ham sandwich receipt and write on the back: ya'll be careful going home. if you need a place to crash, call me. then some strange man comes up to me and asks if i'm okay. i'm like, "um, yes, i'm fine." i don't know why everyone is asking me this. to prove that i'm fine, i return to the gigantic room, but i hang towards the back. the shroom guy is walking through the crowd: chocolate, i've got chocolate. it's 4am and everyone looks like hell. people are slumped cold-sweating against walls and bars and columns. some guy holds out his pipe to me and i smile and shake my head. he looks at me like i'm crazy and shrugs.    

at 4:15 i leave. the street is empty except for this pack of boys in front of me. i consider asking them to walk me to my car and decide against it. i turn down richard street and there's this guy on the opposite side, headed towards me. he stops me to ask where the bar is. he's wearing converse. i point at twiropa and then say, "would you mind walking me to my car?" he says, "not at all." he says "look, i'm from austin, is this a bad neighborhood or something?" and i'm like "uh, yeah, sorta."

when we get to my car i thank him but he won't leave me alone. he's chatty and looks sorta fucked up and i don't think he's dangerous necessarily, but he's asking me for a ride to the bar and i'm like "seriously, dude, you see that giant warehouse building directly across the street? that's it. and i've got to go. seriously." i leave the walgreens receipt note on paul's windshield and get in my car. the boy from austin taps on my window. i roll the window down and he says "really i'm not trouble but won't you talk to me for a minute" and i'm like "really i'm tired i'm going to go" and i drive home.

at 5:37, ross sends me a text message: i apologize ann i would never have put u in the situation had i known u were uncomfortable. i am still glad u came.

i put the phone down and sort of fall back asleep and wake up fifteen minutes later, realizing i have to respond. i say: apology accepted. and appreciated. and i'm sorry i was a "downer." and i know you don't understand why i turned to stone and i don't know how to explain it to you, especially not on this stupid phone

he writes back: u don't need to explain. and u were not a "downer"

i was going to drive back to baton rouge friday morning but i didn't actually wake up till 2. we had tech rehearsal for the dance concert at 7:30. tech was horrible. we were stone cold and falling all over the place. when i got home, i sent ross a text message: i'm going to feel weird until i talk to you. are you out for the night? he said: yea i'm about to leave. tomorrow?

but saturday morning was dress rehearsal from 8:30-12. i called jes afterwards for our fabric shopping date, which was good fun. all i want to do now is sew. i'm going to make a cool skirt and a really ugly tank top. ross sent me a text message at five saying that he was sorry he didn't call earlier, he had been feeling sick, but what time is the show tonight? show at 730 but doors at 7.

call was for 6. i was tired by the end of the warm-up. dress rehearsal had been sort of a raging disaster. one of the guys in the ensemble didn't show up till intermission. we'd already done all the pieces he was in. it's pretty much bullshit to miss dress rehearsal. he should have been kicked out but we needed everyone onstage. then in clare's piece, lorrie and i ran into each other. like, full body slam so hard we grunted and bounced off each other. i couldn't stop laughing. they were filming close-ups and we had a small audience. my foot got caught in my skirt and i couldn't get it out, i had to stop dancing, bend over, and disentangle it. clare said i made a really mean face. i fell over at the beginning of alyson's piece because i wasn't used to sliding in tights on the marley. then my costume for jess's piece ended up being gigantic, even though they'd custom-made those tutus for us and we'd had three costume fittings. my straps were about four inches too long and the bust was too big and all i had on underneath was a pair of stockings worn as a half-shirt. as in, i was losing my top and the whole world was going to see my breasts. it was awesome.

so that was dress rehearsal. at ten to seven, i went backstage to finish my makeup and i had a voicemail from ross telling me to have a good show. and i did have a good show. i didn't get caught in my costume and i didn't fall over. the audience was fucking awesome. we stood behind the screens on the side of the pit and peeked at the house during intermission. i couldn't spot anyone, although i knew mom and michael and ross and ravi and stosh and adam and jes and alanna and adam and katie were all there. i fucked up a little in jess's piece and a very tiny bit in rikki's, but for the most part i felt solid.

when i got backstage after my last number, ross had left a text message saying he had to run but he'd get in touch soon. which was disappointing. but i met up with adam and jes and alanna and we went to serrano's for dinner and margaritas. on the way, ross called and said he had promised to go to a show with andrew, and it was half-over already so he was hauling ass, but he "fucking enjoyed" the dance concert and rikki's piece was "badass." and he said he'd call me later. i got drunkish at serrano's and we ended up back at adam's. rikki and leif and ravi and shuchin and deville came over. then me and rikki were falling asleep so we went home and fell asleep. i fell asleep with all the lights on.

sunday i kept sleeping and not writing my short story. i felt like i'd been bludgeoned. my knees looked like they'd been bludgeoned. at nine ross called me and i said "can i come over for a minute" and he said "you can come over for two minutes." and i said "this is going to turn into me coming over and then the whole neighorhood coming over" and he said no, tonight there was a two person maximum. except bryan who lives down the street came over and so did bert. but they didn't stay long. bryan stayed long enough to touch one of my toes and say i had pretty feet. which was weird.

then ross and i walked to the chevron and he told me that he'd worn a nice shirt to the dance concert and someone even told him he looked nice. but i didn't get to see it. we got back to the house and he said "so talk" and i said "what about?" and he shot me a look and said "gee i wonder." and i said "i want to tell you about dress rehearsal first" and he said "you can talk about whatever you want to talk about."   

so i told him about dress rehearsal and then he fucked around with his recording equipment for a while and got frustrated because things weren't working. and i said "well, we could have an awkward conversation instead" and he said "okay, let's sit outside." except he sat facing me instead of next to me, and i didn't know where to look.

he said i know you aren't around it a lot and it seems really grandiose but it's really not a big deal, i don't mean it like that but, and it's not something i do, it's not something i've done in a long time

i said really i could care less about the mushrooms, that's not it

he said i understand you felt uncomfortable, it just didn't occur to me that you would have your feelings hurt, or feel left out, because usually the people i'm around, it doesn't matter to them

i said i don't want it to be like i'm the one you have to watch yourself around, and that's not really what i was upset about, but i don't know how to explain it

he said you don't have to worry i'm fine i can handle myself i know my limits and i was drunk and mostly talking, i wasn't really serious about the acid so

and i said but there was something before the acid

he hesitated. 

(it's funny how lots of my friends do or have done coke, but few of them admit it. and when they do talk about it, they talk about other people doing it, like it's really worrisome and bad. and if they ever admit to doing it, it's something they did "a long time ago," as if it's part of the dirty past.)

he wouldn't say it directly and neither would i. i don't remember what he said. i reminded him of the conversation we had two weeks ago, when he told me that he'd been getting way too fucked up every night. and he said "well, yeah." and i said "so what's the part i'm supposed to not worry about?"

he said you don't have to worry about me.

i said i know i don't have to worry about you.

he said you shouldn't want to.

i said trust me, i don't. but i can't help it.

i said: i don't think i handled myself well at the show. i was upset, but i was being passive-aggressive and that wasn't particularly mature of me. i was impressed that you didn't write me off immediately. because you could have.

he said see and this will sound bad but. this is what i was telling you about relationships and why i don't want to get involved with people. because it's like if someone else is upset i have to deal with that too.

i said believe me, i know. feeling emotionally responsible for another person is exhausting.   

he said the thing is, i wanted to. i didn't want you to be upset. i couldn't stop thinking about it all night. i felt bad that i couldn't fix it.

i said: i got upset because it matters to me whether or not you're okay. or if you're feeling down. and how you deal with it. that's why i worry. even though i know i can't do a goddamn thing about it.

we went inside and he played around with his guitar for a few minutes. it was 3am and i said "i'm going to go to bed soon but."

he said "but?"

i didn't say anything for a while and he came and stood by the door to smoke another cigarette.

i said "is it worth it to you?"

he said "is what worth it?"

i said "all that stuff about getting close to people and feeling emotionally responsible."

he said "it's a tradeoff."
he said "i have to sit down and think before i say this."
he said "this is weird."

i said "what's weird?"

he said "because it's different with you. because i do care whether or not you're upset. or how you feel. and really you're the only one, not that i don't care about my other friends but. it's different. and i want to. and i still fuck it up. but i've been trying really hard with you."

i said "i know. i can tell. and i appreciate it."

he said "you don't have to thank me for that."

i said "it's less about gratitude and more an acknowledgment that i know you're trying. and it means a lot to me. that you'd even bother."

i said: you remember that conversation we had back in january, and you told me you didn't need yet another reminder of how you fuck everything up. i don't want you to think this is proof that you're a fuck-up. because you pretty much had no way of knowing i would react like i did. and you handled it as best you could. that's not to say it was fine. but.

he said: it's worth it to me. i don't think it's worth it to you.

i said: i don't know. it's not like i'm getting nothing out of this. you've come through for me lots of times. and i can call you about whatever stupid thing, that i'm nervous about my thesis defense in three hours, and you call me back to say it'll be okay, and honestly you're the one i want to call when that stuff happens.

and he smiled this tiny little smile and said: that's really nice to hear.

graduation:

may 20th, 8pm in the parking lot behind allen hall.

driving to campus to drop off my last library book, and feeling nostalgic. even though i'm going to be in baton rouge all summer.

when i walked up to middleton to return the book, there were three guys in front of hill memorial library--two trumpet players and a trombonist--playing pachabel's canon in D.

i'd just taken a two-hour nap. and it was twilight. i was wearing a green sundress with ties at the shoulders, and grubby flipflops, and bandaids on my toes where i'd gotten blisters from my dress shoes. they were playing pachabel's canon in three-part harmony and i was returning my last library book. and i seriously considered stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and doing a port de bras, or something.

i kept walking.

i was looking at my diploma folder thing. it's got Louisiana State University embossed in gold on the front. i thought: you know, i'm proud that my diploma says "louisiana" on it. and i'm proud to have been a part of the english department. dr. nardo gave me a huge hug when i got up to the stage. 

i'm glad i got to sit with my friends (rikki, stosh, eva) during the ceremony. i'm glad i graduated with two of my cousins. during the main commencement ceremony, they recognized the new "golden tigers"--alums from 1955. and my mom was born in 1955. which means my grandparents both graduated from LSU before then. and how ridiculous is it, that both my grandparents graduated from college? and my mom, and all her seven siblings.

now what.

i've slept for like two days.

now what.

sweet or unsweet

and for every one person he rescued there were ten bodies he had to push aside
hacking their way out of the attic with a
the reason is because they issued a no fly-over with the helicopters and the news cameras
with an axe and a bat they
they said it was too gruesome
the second floor of chalmette high as a morgue
found an axe and a bat in the attic that's what they used
huey p long fieldhouse as a morgue
20,000 body bags
and the new orleans i was raised to fear gutted and splayed across the national news i am ashamed
this is what happens when new orleans comes to baton rouge
don't take terrace back to your house you'll get raped
R U SAFE?
twice
fucking animals
these are not bad people
busses and gas, not food, not supplies, busses and gas
looking like third-world refugees but this is not
where's the national guard? where's the national guard?
where is the national guard?
candace who cut hair what's your mama's maiden name that's right that's right can you believe that pattie can you believe i remembered no mama i can't
(in the middle of all of this, every conversation still beginning with where you from where you went to school what's your mama's maiden name and my aunt pattie actually making a flow chart, an actual chart, i asked her and she said 'he's my neighbor!' as in, he's got the next room at the marriott, evidently such connections merit graphs)
alliterative disaster rhetoric and unwater isn't a word it isn't a word they couldn't have made a dewatering committee it's
surreal it's so surreal it's surreal it's just surreal it's surreal and i'm not going to believe it until i see it for myself
(i'm not going back i'm never going back i don't want to see it just give me the money i'll get and you can raze the lot we're going to tennessee it'll be like a vacation just a week we'll go to dollywood)
and all these connections lost
you're born in new orleans, you live in new orleans, you die in new orleans. everyone knows this. a whole city can't disperse. neither can it be homeless. and the joke no one gets-- did you hear the one about the speaker of the house (rep. dennis hastert, R-illinois) and it's funny how touchy people get at the suggestion that new orleans could or should be bulldozed since it's below sea-level because in fact new orleanians have been saying it for years

thursday night we went to sogo it was supposed to be rebirth brass band but instead it was the refugee brass band two guys from rebirth and the rest from the mike foster project five dollar cover and two dollar everything me barrett bitoun wade josh breton clinton jacob ravi alanna shuchin and another scattered few dancing barefoot and the guy from tulane up by the stage with crazy eyes (i lost everything i had) shouting fuck you katrina to the beat we had a chorus then they played oh when the saints and i ran to the bar grabbed a fistful of napkins and passed them out we second lined around the dance floor then the band came down and led us out the door i told barrett i'm so happy right now is that corny and he said we lost our houses and that's kind of corny so

proud to crawl home

have you ever felt your whole body beat

whiskey out the flask
bitebruise on your upper arm
girl in a mask and pink party dress
finger to that guy on the huey p eastbound
sangria from a pink thermos
pat o’s bloody mary
sips off somebody’s hurricane
mardi gras mambo on speakerphone to boston
crown on the rocks
crown on the rocks
dollar for the toll bridge
lose an earring
twelve dollar strawberry margarita unfrozen
hershey’s kisses foil hats
whiskey out the flask
crown on the rocks
crown on the rocks
dark sidewalks down
le bon temps to tip’s to some girl’s apartment
sleep on the floor
boy’s sweater balled up for a pillow
watch the sky light up the window
igor’s bloody mary breakfast
streetside jambalaya
cold abita keg on the neutral ground
homemade jambalaya
nap on the sofa
semi-stale fried chicken lust
bacchus zulu the first fifty-three floats of elks
first sunburn of the season

driving down west end past the wreckage and over the canal, it fullbody hit me how the levee could have just as easily cracked the other way. it could have been my house with water to the roof. it almost was. and instead it was lakeview. by blind unfeeling incident.

i knew this year it was about morale and stress relief but there’s also a sort of bewildered pride. that we’ve made it, a kind of milestone, after everything. here we are.

at midnight, when johnny vidacovich said happy mardi gras, it was the kind of heartleap joy you want to feel on new year’s.

we give no fuck.

the canopy was for shade when it got too hot in the tent. it got too hot in the tent at 8am. adam, katie, and i slept in the tent. paul slept in the truck. karen slept on top of the truck. when it got too hot to sleep, we sat under the canopy, which stretched between the tent and the truck. we had four collapsable lawn chairs with mesh cup holders in the arms. the fifth person sat on the ice chest, in which we stored cans of budweiser. this beer would be stolen, can by can, by our drug-dealing neighbor over the course of the weekend. there was another ice chest in the bed of the truck with bottled water and cans of coke. mornings we spent in the shade of the canopy, drinking water and/or coke and/or beer.

the canopy cost nine dollars. it was comprised of five poles and a square gray-and-white tarp with five grommet holes: one at each corner and one in the center. the set did not include stakes or rope or instructions. the poles were a little bit pointy on one end, sized to fit through the grommet holes in the tarp. the other ends of the poles were broad and capped in rubber. these poles had no intention of being poked into the ground. did i mention the canopy set included neither stakes nor rope? so, a tarp that sort of perches on top of the poles, but no mechanism to keep the poles upright. it was 4:30am friday; we'd left baton rouge at 7:30pm thursday. adam with crazed eyes and stubborn mouth and brilliant ideas (and paul's dexedrine) could not rest until he had put up the canopy. this he accomplished by duct-taping the outer poles to the truck and the tent. meanwhile the rest of us slept. when we woke up the canopy was listing badly to one side and some of the poles were on the ground. eventually our camping neighbors gave us rope and allowed us to tie our canopy poles to their tents. also we tied the tarp to some of the poles. the center pole we slung through a chair arm and tied upright with a t-shirt. by saturday morning the wind had picked up and the tarp became disinterested in resting atop the poles. katie, who at one point was beaten over the head by an unruly pole, invented a game called "get the pole in the hole." you played this game by sitting in the center chair and moving the pole around until it poked through the center grommet hole. this was different than sitting in the other chairs, where all you were required to do was hold the pole upright.

the canopy came in a box advertising: Aluminum Grommets Will Never Rust!

of all the things to worry about in a canopy-type product, rusty grommets are not high on my list. a grommet is a reinforced hole. how's about: Poles Stand Up On Their Own! or, better: Tarp Attaches To Poles, Which Hold Themselves Aloft!

.

i like to go to shows by myself. i like to be alone, in the front, surrounded by people who are as into the set as i am. that's the thing. i don't mind so much having friends with me as long as they're going to rock out. rocking out is the point at which you are so far gone into music that you don't know what the hell your body is doing. if the people i'm with don't rock out, i feel stupid rocking out, and then i can't focus on the music because i'm too busy feeling self-conscious. sometimes my friends want to stand in the back, or worse, sit in the back, and i don't want to be in the back or sit down anywhere at all. i understand if one's preferred method of absorbing music involves sitting very still in the back of the venue. people are different, and i respect that. and i want to be in the front, rocking out. but i feel obligated to stay with them because they came with me to see the show. even if it means i won't be able to really lose myself into anything.

and that's lame.

so the shows that mean something to me: i go alone. i like it. the last big-deal show i saw was modest mouse in february '05. i drove to houston by myself. my friends and family thought it was bizarre and/or sad: you couldn't find someone to go with you? actually, barrett went to that show in houston with some other guys, but i wanted to go by myself. i don't know. i can't explain it. if you don't get it, i can't explain it to you.

at bonnaroo i saw:
ben folds
death cab for cutie
bright eyes
clap your hands say yeah
beck
radiohead
the dresden dolls
stephen malkmus & the jicks
sonic youth

i caught bits of other sets, but these were the ones i had scheduled for myself. hell or high water. karen told me i was stubborn. i said, "i'm not stubborn - i mean, i'm willing to compromise when...um...i'm willing to compromise. it's just i have my heart set."

she said, "well, you set your heart on a lot of things."

but i mean. like saturday was CYHSY, beck, radiohead, dresden dolls. between the four bands, seventeen albums, of which i own eleven. there was no way in hell you could have convinced me to go anywhere on that campsite other than closer-to-the-stage.

no one wanted to see beck with me, which was fine. i would catch up with them afterwards for radiohead. beck was at the big stage, and i managed to get pretty close to the front, even though i had to step over hippies on blankets to do it.

it's such a pain in the ass getting to the front at these things. the crowd is layers of sitting people and standing people, and there's room up front but you have to step on top of people to get there. i feel rude about it. but i had an epiphany at the ben folds set: if i'm in the back, rocking out, surrounded by a bunch of people who are not rocking out because they're the kind of people who stand in the back: not only am i uncomfortable standing next to them, but they are also uncomfortable standing next to me! while i'm thinking, "i wish i was up in the front, where i belong," they are simultaneously thinking, "i wish this girl would go up front where she belongs." i'm sure that's what they're thinking. so for the rest of the weekend i squelched the guilty rude feeling as best i could and fought my way through the sprawling crowds of ambivalent hippies.

beck was cool, though it would have been cooler if the audience had known anything at all. that's the other thing about these festivals: they cater to the casual listener. the chorus-knower. my big moment of personal growth at bonnaroo was when i got over the self-conscious shit and rocked out even if no one around me knew what was up. because i was at a goddamn hippie festival. silly place to see a rock show. they played 'loser' over the speakers during beck's set break. i danced my ass off, and when they cut the volume on "saving all your foodstamps, burning down the trailerpark," not one goddamn person was singing along. except for me. and when i realized i was alone, i did it louder.

yo. cut it.

mostly i was surrounded by college-aged dudes, who didn't seem to mind me dancing like an idiot. there was one guy in front of me, he was wearing a green t-shirt, and he kept turning around and looking at me. i thought i was pissing him off or something. but at the end of the set, i squatted down to call paul and see where everyone was at, and the green t-shirt guy sat next to me and offered up some trail mix. (hippies.)

we had an hour and a half between beck and radiohead. green t-shirt guy said, between mouthfuls of trail mix, that we were in a pretty fucking awesome spot for radiohead. this was undeniable. meanwhile i couldn't get through to paul's phone. meanwhile the crowd up front was thinning out and we were moving forward. and forward. green t-shirt's name was nick, he graduated from some knoxville college in '04, studied journalism and now works in carpentry. he got into bonnaroo free via a field of soybeans. he's a musician of some sort, with important musician friends. i didn't ask for details ("oh, do you play guitar?") because i didn't particularly give a shit. anyway, he was nice, and also cute, and he fed me trail mix. i told him i wished a bottle of very cold water would fall from the sky onto my lap. he said if i managed the bottle of cold water, he had a whole list of things for me to wish for. like what, i said. he said, like a pile of money. then he gave me some water out his thermos thing.

the other kids sitting around us were friendly. there was a girl named mandy, from kansas, wearing a bonnet. she was with a guy whose name i forget, but he was nice too. mandy had a flask of rum, which we all nipped off. it had been such a long time since i'd made random friends like this at a show. not since weezer in new york, the summer i graduated from high school. meanwhile i still couldn't get paul or katie on the phone. at this point it was going to be impossible to find them. i was calling every five minutes, worried that they were waiting somewhere for me and wouldn't get a good spot for the show. i tried texting them to say i was by the stage, and even the text message took forever to go through.

suddenly there was this break in the crowd and we all scrambled to stand up, everyone was surging forward and closing in, nick reached back and grabbed my hand, some people got between us but he still had my hand, and then i got through. there was all this space. it was crazy. we were so fucking close to the stage. but there was tons of room behind us, and then a wall of people essentially standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a line. i asked mandy, is there like an invisible force field or what? and she pointed out that they were standing on the wire guards that ran to the sound board, so they could see over our heads. pssh. whatever. i was approximately an olympic swimming pool's length from thom yorke. without being suffocated, either.

so yeah, radiohead was awesome.

after the show, i told mandy and nick and that other dude goodbye and set off for the camp. nick caught up with me and offered to buy me that very cold bottle of water i had been wishing for. we drank cold water and shuffled with the mass exodus. he said he was going back to his campsite, where he had two bottles of red wine, and then he was going to come back and ride the ferris wheel. without considering the overtones of this statement, i said something like: "oh, puke! that would totally make me vomit."

then i realized he was hitting on me.

we held up a decent conversation all the way to the venue exit. again he brought up the wine, the ferris wheel. finally, when we got outside the venue grounds, he point-blank asked me if i wanted to go back to his campsite for wine, ferris wheel. and i said thanks but i had to find my friends. i probably gave him a hug or something.

i don't know. it was a nice interlude.

i walked back to the campsite, took off my shoes, sat on top of the truck, ate pringles, waited.

.

by sunday afternoon the tent was pretty much falling over and the canopy, needless to say, was in poor condition. adam, ever the optimist, proclaimed we would sleep under the stars on our last night. while the rest of us were at shows, he and katie packed up the campsite, minus four tent stakes. these he used to stake the godforsaken fucking canopy tarp into the ground, so we would have a nice surface for our sleeping bags while we slept under the stars.

of course no one accounted for sleeping under the rain.

broken city

my friend tommy is in law school at berkeley but spent the summer working in new orleans, and he posted something the other day about the people in berkeley constantly asking him 'how it was' to be in the city.

i was going to write about the anniversary night but didn't.
i was going to tell you about the maple leaf, how it was packed and sweaty, and i waited at the bar for a cup of water, rebirth was playing and how impossible it is to keep still, sitting or standing, and i'm standing waiting for water, watching the people waiting at the bar and dancing to themselves, watching this girl at the corner dancing and i kept grinning at her, and something in the music changed and suddenly everyone is bouncing, even the bartender as he pours the drinks. and bliss rolling down my back. there aren't words for it. joy that makes your hair stand on end. revival-meeting ecstasy, the people are fanning themselves or holding their hands up. they're standing on the walls. i was telling barrett about it--the whole anniversary thing and whether or not to acknowledge it with some big-deal event--seeing as we're forced every day to acknowledge that it happened--it's not like you can live in this city and not notice it. and that night breton wanted to see rebirth, she thought it would be fitting and i agreed--though i was tired and not in the mood for partying. so i didn't drink except the water. and mostly i danced by myself and didn't say much. and i told barrett that it felt good, like church, like church would be if it were cool and led by a nola brass funk band. and what i meant was it felt restorative.

today i woke up and took my temperature and it was 101.8. so i went to the doctor. my doctor's office used to be on robert e. lee; the new office is on vets. i figured he moved because the old office got water. i asked him and he said twelve feet. then he said i probably had strep, but he couldn't test me for it because they'd run out of the tests. so he wrote me a prescription for amoxil. then i went to CVS and there were two pharmacists working and five people waiting, the pharmacists looked like they were about to tear their hair out. my mom said it's been like that ever since. i hadn't dealt with the medical sector of the city. i didn't know.

it's like this: you think you've got a handle on the situation--then you come into contact with a different part of the infrastructure--and it's a new perspective--and it's always worse.

and these are just the petty surface details.

i went to the blockbuster next to dorignac's at quarter to nine. there was a cop car in the front and about seven people standing by the doors. they said the door was locked because the store just got robbed. some dude had run out with a stack of movies and some other dudes chased him and then the robber's friend drove up and pulled a gun on them. eventually the blockbuster people let us in. the movie i wanted to rent was checked out, so they sent me to the store on clearview and w. napolean. the girls working the counter were really nice and i was like "ya'll know the vets store just got robbed?" and they said yeah, we got robbed at about 3 o'clock this afternoon.

at the vets store, waiting to be let in, the women standing with me were chatting about how stupid it was to rob a video store--and how busy the vets store was--and how not-busy the metairie road store was--and i said was that old metairie cc's open?--and they said yeah, it just started staying open after six--and one of the women said she drives out to the vets blockbuster even though she lives on st. claude--and the other woman was like oh my god, the parish--and the first woman said she used to get movies mailed to her house but she can't anymore--and the second woman said you could get them mailed to your work--and the first woman said you're right, i do that with all my other mail anyway--she said, we're living at this one house while the other one is getting fixed up, it's the first time we've lived alone since the hurricane--and this other woman was like, yeah, i love my FEMA trailer--

meanwhile i'm thinking:
-- you can't drive more than five blocks down a main road in the city proper without seeing a cop car.
-- and we've had three bikes stolen in two months from outside our oak street office.
-- but this is metairie.
-- even while they're waiting for a video store to be secured post-robbery, new orleanians will chit-chat about goddamn anything.

standard tuning

one day i came home from school and my mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, playing 'i will' on the guitar.

it was her guitar, dusty from the closet in the den. i didn't know she had a guitar. i didn't know she had ever played.

.

we kept my dad's guitar in the closet, a deep lovely resonant acoustic. the lining of the case was dark plush red. she had bought it for him, a christmas present. they were married. i tried to learn on it but it was so big. i didn't know till years later that guitars came in different sizes and they weren't all that big. also the strings hurt and the chords buzzed and were impossible. i gave up after F.

my dad played all the time. he played 'blackbird,' which he had learned off the record. he played 'harvest moon,' which he inexplicably sang in a weird voice, like he was talking out the side of his mouth.

the night was mighty dark so you could hardly see
for the moon refused to shine
there's a couple sittin 'neath the willow tree
for love they pine
little maid's kind of 'fraid of the dark
so she says, i think i'll go
boy begins to sigh
looks up to the sky
tells the moon his little tale of woe -
shine on, shine on
harvest moon
up in the sky
i ain't had no lovin
since january february june or july
snow time ain't no time to stay
outdoors and spoon
so shine on
shine on harvest moon
for me and my gal

for a long time i thought the lyrics were: 'no time, ain't no time to stay,' he told the spoon.

i had heard this song a hundred times in my childhood and adolescence, but never a recorded version. about three years ago, in a fit of nostalgia, i tried to find it on soulseek. it kept coming up with these old-time renditions, 1940s quartets singing in full harmony. then i found a leon redbone cover.

and there it was: a single acoustic guitar and one guy with a funny voice. i knew this was it, the song he learned, the reason he sang it out the side of his mouth. i had puzzled over it for years. listening to the song, after all that time, i got goosebumps.

.

play an E, ann.
e, e, e, e, e. e. e.

play a A?
a. a. a. a. a.

and a D?
d...d...d...

.

as i've grown older and met boys with guitars, i've gotten the feeling that 'blackbird' should be lumped in with 'stairway to heaven' on the list of Songs That Every Guy Who Ever Picked Up A Guitar Learned To Play (Badly) -- which renders 'blackbird' somewhat annoying, at least in its predictability.

this cheapening or ruining is hard for me to come to grips with. because you know the way that, to a kid, your dad is some kind of hero? -- 'blackbird' is basically the sum of that feeling for me. every time my dad played it, it sounded like, i don't know, pretty much the most beautiful song i'd ever heard, and the most impressively difficult. i still don't think i've ever heard anyone else play it so clean.

i said that to him the other day and he said, well, i've also had forty years of practice.

.

the sound of a guitar tuning up makes me think of my dad, and the good smell of carpet, the rug burning against your cheek or forehead as you press your face on the floor, waiting for something to start or happen. it's a sitting-around-the-living-room sound. now i am on someone's sofa, dimly lit. implicitly this is an intimate act. i am both impatient and stilled.

.

my mom didn't play guitar, but there she was, sitting alone on the bed, playing. it was a song i'd never heard.

who knows how long i've loved you
you know i love you still
will i wait a lonely lifetime
if you want me to
i will
for if i ever saw you
i didn't catch your name
but it never really mattered
i will always feel the same
love you forever and forever
love you with all my heart
love you whenever we're together
love you when we're apart
and when at last i find you
your song will fill the air
sing it loud so i can hear you
make it easy to be near you
for the things you do endear you to me
oh
you know
i will

i want to say i was in 5th grade, but i know that can't be right. because after she played it, i looked it up in the beatles anthology and learned it on the piano, and we had only just gotten the piano when i was in 5th grade, and my dad hadn't taught me chords yet.

it must have been 8th grade, or 7th. my parents were married. then all sorts of bizarre things happened: my dad announced one day, out of the blue, that he was moving to mississippi to sell insurance. he was a lawyer. on another day, a while later and to my utter surprise, my parents jointly announced that they were getting divorced. and one day, before any of it, i came home to my mother playing 'i will' on her guitar that i didn't even know she had.

i didn't know what was going on, i didn't know that anything was going on. when they finally told us, i asked if they were joking. my mom swore to me that i knew, that i'd noticed, i'd been saying things all year, like the past december, in the car on the way to granny's, when i said christmas didn't really feel like christmas. i thought back to other strange moments -- my mom spending the night again at her best friend's house, the look she gave me when i said, "sometimes i really envy madeline." my dad in a starched white dress shirt, sitting unresponsive after work, stone-cold in the rocking chair. 

i suppose it is an optimistic song. for me that song is so bound up with loss and grief.

but only the borders of it. none of it belonged to me. it was tangential. i knew when i heard it, and when i sat down to learn it, that the song had nothing to do with me or anything i'd known. maybe that's why it seemed so sad.

doughnut .75 fancy 1.50

two cups of whiskey and george porter is playing the sickest bassline you ever heard. johnny v sings something about atoms and physics, i look at barrett and he grins at me. you have to hand it to the new orleans hippies. most hippies annoy the shit out of me but there are no old black men at dba and the new orleans hippie kids are the only ones who call out at shows anymore. yeah you right, mmm hmmm. twitching and stomping, all of us with our heads heavy. the wiry drummer is looking at me, he's got welcome home brownies at the front of the stage and we pass the pan around, we pass two bucks to the bucket. blood liquor shuffle to your feet. nothing makes you feel more corporeal than this. it is heavy and slow and it pulls you down into the groove, vidacovich laying the pocket and porter sliding in smooth and deep.

during the set break i watch andy's back as he walks down the street, everyone stoned, i couldn't have guessed we would end up back here as friends. i am glad at any rate. i ask after his sister and it feels good. think about all the mothers and brothers and sisters you knew in grammar school, not because you were friends but because you were kids together, and no one knows your family anymore.

i tell barrett and he tells me like we are both relieved to be talking normal. i pet his head. he says he is proud of me.

and i have a fish stone burning my elbow / reminding me to know that i'm glad

driving home from new orleans
that line is a paradox in itself.

but for a little while the road was straight
i was overdriving my headlights
and the moon was an orange wedge
ghosts of brakelights on the shoulder
thinking of all the music i want to give you
and how sunsets are overrated.

how to be lonely: a preparation

i am drunk off of white wine
which i never drink
i bought it from calandro's for six dollars and ninety-nine cents to cook with
i needed 'dry white whine'
i know next to nothing about wine, and
really nothing about white wine because i always drink red
so i didn't know how to pick a dry white wine
besides avoid the ones that say anything about fruit on the label.
i picked a 2005 chardonnay that is named oxford something
and yes it was dry as hell
i was proud of myself
then i made asparagus risotto
(in case you haven't noticed, i've been posting articles and recipes here)
the batteries weren't charged for my digital camera (from dad, from christmas three years ago, and i don't know if it's any good really) but i was going to take pictures for you
because holy shit i cooked something.
the past few times i've cooked things, i've put on c
hang on, i have to pour another glass (baby glass) of wine
by the way, the advice to put on a pot of water to boil as soon as you get home is very sage advice indeed
so i've decided to semi-count calories and exercise five times a week in an effort to not feel disgusted with myself
being that i'm 23 and there is no good reason not to be in excellent shape
simultaneously i made out a budget so that i could have $10,000 in savings when i leave for spain
incidentally, it is difficult to eat healthfully and also not spend money
but we knew that already
to get the ingredients i needed, i went to calandro's and also whole foods (c's didn't have asparagus but they did have a lot of other nice produce, including spaghetti squash!)
whole foods makes my face feel paralyzed
everyone looks so happy and everyone smiles at each other
black people smile at white people
and do you know why
because everyone is happy that they can afford to shop at whole foods
i cannot, so i bought a few things and left feeling frustrated
i've been needing to cut back on my spending for a while but i was making so much with the grant writing that it didn't feel necessary
but my new job really was a 3,000 paycut
so now i'm on a tight budget while having over $8,000 in savings
it's a strange feeling
and i've spent over a hundred dollars in the past three days buying things for the kitchen (two mixing bowls of different sizes; a 3-cup food processor; a cheese grater) and food for the kitchen. because in the long run i know it will save money and be healthy. but all the damn upfront money. it's hard to part with.
what i was saying was that when i've cooked the past few times, i put on classical music or rebirth.
today i played benny goodman from my laptop and then the nightcrawlers "live from old point bar" and i think it seriously helps my cooking. i don't really, but i like to think it, and it's the only time i can listen to music like this, when i sort of need to concentrate on something else. it's like sewing music. i can listen to it on repeat because i'm not paying attention but also i am. and music from home makes me dance while i'm cooking. alone.
also the wine helps.
my uncle 'sings' a lot with the nightcrawlers - which is more like speak-singing, and in track nine ("tchfunta/on that day") he does a bunch of "come on" and "yeah" and it's so good and i am so proud. i love the way he talks because it is how my family talks, and on the CD i can hear it both like a foreign tongue (i like to think how people from not-new orleans hear his accent as strange and exotic) and also like home.
my risotto has excellent, full-bodied flavor - onion and white wine and chicken broth and parmesian - how the hell do you spell that - parmesan, okay. rich but of flavor, not of death-to-your-intestines.
the texture is kind of screwy - you have to add the chicken broth (it was supposed to be stock, oops) - slowly and then save a little before you add the raw asparagus - so my rice was a little undercooked and the asparagus should have been more tender (instead of basically totally raw) - but still. damn. i cooked something. and it tasted good.
i could do this: listen to home music and learn how to cook
spend an evening by myself drinking the leftover wine
dancing down the counter
i could do this anywhere.

hey breton i love you.

upon attending my first LSU football game

-- for one thing, i've started a photo blog so that i can show you things in spain. in the meantime, i've put up some last-time-before-i-go stuff, including pictures and text about the game.

-- it's taken me almost twenty-four years to gain enough life perspective to realize that football really does matter.

-- the SEC makes me proud to be from the south.

-- speaking of that, do you think maybe southerners are so into football because it's kind of like reliving the civil war? except then we beat everyone's ass?

-- the band played "smells like teen spirit" towards the end of the fourth quarter. brett said they played it last game as well; he and his friends noted that kurt cobain would probably have killed himself sooner if he had known it would come to this.

but you know what, the kids in tiger band are my age, our age, having grown up knowing nirvana. the drummers were beating the shit out of their drums and headbanging. it's just kids who love nirvana playing nirvana's top hit to a bunch of other kids who love nirvana. i think it's kind of cool.

also, to put this on the official record, lest i forget:

i heard "smells like teen spirit" when i was eight years old at sleepaway summer camp in winchester, tennessee.  my Close Up cabinmate (and fellow seagull) jenny f______ had an older sister, so she listened to older music than the rest of us peanuts. none of us brought any music to camp, except jenny, who had not one but two copies of "smells like teen spirit" on cassette. the single, mind you. so for three weeks, the only music we had in our cabin was the song "smells like teen spirit." and we listened to it the whole time. at the end of camp, we ceremoniously destroyed one of the cassette tapes, i think by throwing it in the lake. (we didn't destroy the other cassette because jenny was afraid her sister would get mad.)

i told brett i didn't mind the tiger band playing "smells like teen spirit" because it represents a formative experience in my musical development. but really it was less a formative experience than a stirring of something that was already in my soul. those first chords still make my heart flutter. nirvana tapped that weird longing for noise and chaos that had been inside us all along, even eight years old, at an all girls' camp in nowhere tennessee.

band girlfriend

email to brett / may 18 / 9:05pm

we listened to the trrr cd on the way back from san josé.

i was only gonna play one song - i didn't want to be the annoying girl who forces everyone to listen to her boyfriend's band's CD.

but it's so good, and i was so happy to listen to it, that we listened to the whole thing.

cecile asked me 10000000 questions about it, to the point that i had to clap my hands and be like CECILE. LESS TALKING MORE LISTENING TO THE MUSIC. she asked what you played and when i said you did vocals, she was like 'he sings by himself?' and i'm like yeah.

and she's like 'but they're not his lyrics.' and i was like, yeah, they are.

then she asked me a million more questions about if you wrote about me. i was like i dunno, i can't understand what the hell he's saying, and i haven't heard the new songs, but these aren't about me because he wrote them way before he met me.

'but what are they about?'
other girls.

'how can you deal with that? what does he say?'
i don't know, he won't write down the lyrics for me, but i know more or less what they're about.

'but why don't you ask him to write a song about you?'
....because that would be really annoying. and too much pressure.

'but you could just ask him.'
no. if he asked me to write a story about him i would laugh at him. and also he wouldn't ask me that.

lisa wanted to know: what if you asked me, "have you written a story about me?"

and i was like, "well, he knows i haven't written fiction in a million years. but i've written about him on my blog and he knows about that, and he reads it and asks me if it's about him, and i'm like 'who the fuck else would it be about?'"

cecile asked,  "why don't you write lyrics for one of the songs?"
for one, because it's more like poetry and i can't write poetry. and for two, it's his band and it's his thing.

and she said, "but i think it would be cool" and i was like but it's not my thing. we can play together and sing and stuff but his band is his thing.

i told them how i tried to figure out the lyrics and make you correct them, in lieu of you writing them down for me, and about how i think it sounds like you say 'cheeseburger!' in awful eyes. and how you asked if you could write a song about a girl with gray hair, and i was like uhhhh no.

and lisa said you sang well, and i said yeah (awful eyes was on) and i said how you were less concerned about singing "well" and more concerned about sounding cool, and how i thought that was hilarious but also i could see your point. and she said you did sound cool. and i said yeah.

and i said how it was good that i liked your band before i met you, because what if i met you but i didn't like your band? and i probably wouldn't have gone out with you.

and then i had to tell cecile the story of how i heard your band and then met you.

so i'm all smiley and we're listening to the CD and then lisa's like, "aren't you so excited to go home?"

and i realized that i really am going home so soon and i said, "oh my god, i'm leaving soon." i started taking pictures out the window and it was the first time i felt sad and urgent about leaving spain.