Two Songs For a Friday

Festival // Sigur Ros

I was going to write a whole blog post about 127 Hours, which hit with me with the intensity that Into the Wild did, but I thought I would just pay homage to this incredible film with a song that marks it's conclusion. For some, it may be slow for the first 4 minutes and 40 seconds, so I implore you, use that little mouse clicker to fast forward to 4:39, and go from there. In my opinion, the song, and the movie, are synonymous to the human experience. Adventure, struggle, and an ultimate victory.

Barbara Streisand // Duck Sauce

This one is compliments of my good friend and soul sister, Miss Lauren Buckowsky. She lured me into a loft-like dance club in Williamsburg not long ago, and somehow we all came alive in a way we hadn't before. This song, among many others, got us excited about the night, about the dance floor, about New York, and about being young. This video is incredible, portraying the craziness of young and vibrant New Yorkers, while leaving you thinking... "Is this amazing or is this amazing?"

It Happens

Quick, like summer. Quick, like burning your tongue or falling in love. It happens in an instant. The lights go up across the street and the music on the radio changes and the pigeons fly up in masses, their wings fluttering the wind through your hair; you're unaware. Things become soft and quiet, the soft quiet feeling of a store full of colored yarn, or another comforter on your bed. Windows close and shades are drawn, air becomes quiet, our cheeks become red, we feel softer. Evidence of breath without sound. The city braces itself for it, knows how hard it will be, how slow the trains will become, how school might be let out on days when it wouldn't be in, say, April. We put up an enormous tree near a skating rink so that tourists and children can flock there and say, oh yes, it's that time of year. Yes, we're here. We tuck in around each other, quiet and soft, whispering words and hugging hugs we wouldn't have in, say, April. It happens when we least expect it, the cold entering our bloodstream just as the warmth has settled in.

I Beg You

Two Songs for a Friday

Cripple Crow // Devendra Banhart

I remember when I first heard Devendra Banhart, in a tiny Madison bunk bed bedroom which I shared with the very roommate I have now, 6 years later, in Brooklyn. She showed me some of the most eclectic and beautiful music I'd ever heard. This album came out a few years ago, and it's oddities and nonconformities are what draw me to it, again and again. It's tribal, organic, it tells a story, like all songs should.

If It's the Beaches // The Avett Brothers

This song has affected me for about a year and a half now, since I first heard it on my living room floor on Butler Street. A friend was in town, a loud-mouthed Dutchman who offended me just as much as he warmed my heart. The last time we had seen each other was somewhere 30 miles east of Bangkok, probably over Singha Beer and cards. He played this song for me on his guitar, which he was bringing on a road trip down the east coast, following the Avett Brothers and trying to find cute Southern chicks. He played and we sang on my living room floor far into the night. Today is his birthday, so this one's for him.

Housing Works

I started volunteering on Monday afternoons at the Housing Works Bookstore. It's a non-profit, donation-run cafe & bookstore that benefits the housing and research for those who suffer from AIDS and HIV in New York. I like it there. It's warm, a bit dusty, and has that musty book smell, all the books have flattened dog-eared page and coffee stains on the covers. The people who work there are cuddly characters from childrens' books.

Catherine likes to be by herself, sorting books in the basement and humming Miles Davis tunes into the dank air. She's got round glasses and a small nose. She's what I would imagine I'll be like when I'm sixty years old. Gray, wrinkly, but still agile and quick with a joke, and desperately in need of alone time with stacks of books. She took to me immediately, and I to her - it was like she was looking at a mirror of her past, and I into one of my future.

Then there's Eddie, a squat and round man who has earrings that line his lobes and I think he might be from the Philippines or Hawaii but I haven't asked him yet. He's got this lovely sentiment to him that screams "I want to get things done, and now!" Always doing something, checking the store and making sure the displays are in order. I think he and I will become friends, but I think he will take a bit longer to crack.

Then there's Theresa, who I won't normally work with but who I worked on a shift with that they needed extra volunteers - apparently the weekend after Thanksgiving, people love to clean out their bookshelves and donate them in heavy, breaking boxes. Theresa and I are quite similar - unemployed, sarcastic, rather unfashionable and happy for it. She is a writer too. We established a joshing rapport right away.

How easily these friends were made is baffling to me. Or maybe it's not, because we're all book people, and we book people get along - in our awkwardness, in our senseless knowledge in senseless things, in our boredom with reality.

Yesterday was a particularly impactful day when Eddie asked me to do a task I hadn't done before. Usually I shelve books, or price books, or set up the mat and chairs for the children's story time. Yesterday, Eddie gave me a white window pen and a list of names. He told me he had noticed I had nice handwriting and asked me to "sign" these people's names on the two big front windows. I liked the idea of the project at first, and while I buttoned up my coat I smiled at the difference in my life between the sterile desk and keyboard at Scholastic only two weeks ago and projects like this. I'm happy to be standing outside, seeing my breath as I press a white pen to a window, reminding passersby of how many people a year we lose due to HIV/Aids. As I was writing the names, people would stop and watch. We have a sign up in the window announcing that Today is World AIDS Day - a day to remember the loved ones we've lost - a day when all the names of the people who have died from AIDS are read aloud, echoing from 5 podiums in City Hall Park in Manhattan. I was writing these names, and each of them, as they came out of my fingers and onto the glass, started to tell me stories of their families and of their dreams. It became harder and harder to do as I wrote more and more names. So many stories, so many loves and losses.

Christine

She was songworthy, that's for sure. A friend wrote a song for her and sang it to her to cheer her up, and we can all sing it now when we think of her name, when we want to remember her laugh, when we see her smile in our dreams.

She hails from yonder Cedar Grove
Waitressing for tips
If customers don't like the food
She'll smash their plates to bits.
The Dutch don't work on Sundays
Not a mower to be seen
They're all in church upon their knees a-prayin' for Christine

Christine, Christine
Prettiest gal you've ever seen
Cuter than Pearline
Friendlier than Ed Gein
We tip our hats to you, our birthday Queen.

Her father was a doctor
His waiting room was packed
Until one day Christine displayed
Her famous Burlesque act.
With her hem tucked in her panty hose
She paraded round the room
Now Daddy blames his lack of work on a certain nylon moonnnnnn.

[chorus]

"Her skin's so young and lovely!"
Those jealous women cry
And when they ask her secret
Christine gives her reply:
"Those beauty bars and facial creams
an overpriced mistake.
I get my apple-polished looks from smelling funny cake!"

[chorus]

One Song for a Black Friday

If it still is Black Friday...

Florence + The Machine // The Dog Days Are Over

Do not listen to this song while sitting down. Stand. Sing. Dance. Swing your arms like an airplane. I saw a friend tonight, danced to this song with her. We lived in the same room in London, held the same beliefs and feared the same fears, walked down Abbey Road and shopped in Soho, jogged through Hyde Park. We loved the same way, hard and somehow soft, and tonight we danced.

The Smell of a Drawer

I remember sitting at Treetops when I was very young, at my dad’s big wooden desk in front of a large bay window. The window opened up to a perfectly serene yard, with a deck, mulched flower beds, birch trees and a curving stone wall. A perfect advertisement for prospective clients. I would stare out that window for hours, my dad working at his drafting table behind me, America’s “A Horse with No Name” serenading us on his dusty tape player. My legs dangled from the chair, kicking back and forth, back and forth to the rhythm of the song.

I loved looking in the top drawer of that desk, with nests of rubber bands that he’d use to secure rolled up blue prints, a stapler, scotch tape, masking tape, measuring tape, dust, pencils, pens and post-it notes. I loved this drawer. It said something. Each of these things had a specific purpose and my dad used them to do grand things like make something ugly into something beautiful. I peeked inside the three side drawers filled with file folders and envelopes and boring things. I always knew the boring stuff would be there, and wondered how long dad had done that boring stuff. Looking at pieces of paper and scowling, drinking from the same coffee cup that had a picture of Paul, Colleen and I smiling out of a tent during a road trip to Maine. I knew that he drew a lot and erased a lot, and that this was the fun part of his job, but I could never quite understand the desk part, the part he would yell about, or get frustrated about and stay late and not come home for dinner because of.

As I go through the drawers and shelves of my desk at Scholastic, pulling out old business cards and coffee mugs and plastic spoons and balls of rubber bands, I am taken back to dad’s desk. The supplies and the drawers themselves smell eerily the same as his did 20 years ago. Somehow, I’m overtaken with a present nostalgia. All of a sudden, I am him and he is me: cogs in a machine of people working at desks with pens and envelope openers and clocks that tell us when to come and go. He raised me well, into a hard working girl who wants to get the most out of life and succeed in a career. But he also raised me to be a free thinker, to be creative and to constantly think outside the box. And so I am. And so I am packing these things into a box and walking out the Big Red door on Friday.

This will probably be the first of a series of posts about this little desk in the Rights Department on the 9th floor in 557 Broadway. There are too many things to say all at once. I’m assuming my perspective will change. My attitude toward the colorful carpets lined with literature, the proverbial Big Red Paw lifting slowly off of my shoulder, the New York City sunlight illuminating the dust bits on my computer screen…

One Song for a Birthday Friday

Wagon Wheel // Old Crow Medicine Show




Because it's my birthday. And because at my birthday party, which happens to be in a few hours, I've made it a requirement that the chorus of this song is memorized. A merry sing-along it will be.

Rainn Wilson's SoulPancake

"These things," he said, pointing to the rows upon rows and stacks upon stacks of books at the Strand Bookstore, "these things you see here are books, my friends. BOOKS. You all may be too young to know what they are, seeing as you all look freshly into or out of college and read from plastic and metal appendages that pose as books." He looked out through his hipster spectacles at the crowd of 20-somethings on the edge of their seats, craning their necks and their iPhones to get a good view of him so they could tell their friends that they saw Dwight last night.

"Does anyone have any questions?" he said, laughing, because he had said but one sentence and the normal chain of events calls for questions at the end of a presentation, not at the beginning. His outcry was met with silence. "No, really. Does anyone have any questions?" That's what his book SoulPancake is about. It's about questions. Based on a website he created with a few friends called... you guessed it... SoulPancake, the book dives deep into lifes biggest questions.

And I know you're probably thinking that within these pages he'd answer questions such as, how do you deal with a black bear attack vs. a brown bear attack, to which he'd obviously answer:



But the questions asked and answered on the website and in the book are... actually... quite profound. There he was, Dwight Schrute in the flesh, talking about love, and the universe, and human connection, and what the difference between right and wrong is. He quoted philosophers and transcendentalists, (we even had a round of applause for the latter), he told us about his son and his wife whom he loves more than anything. He was sincere, he was straightforward, he told everyone to take everything in life with a grain of salt. Because you may think one thing, and others may think another... and that's okay.

Throughout the book, Rainn puts his two cents into each of the 180 questions posed... but there are other guest authors as well... Exclusive commentary from the fascinating minds of: Amy Sedaris (!), David Lynch, Heather Armstrong, Dr. Drew, Jesse Dylan, Justin Vernon (Bon Iver) (!), Harold Ramis, Josh Ritter (!), and Saul Williams.

Buy it. Or I will buy it for you for Christmas. Whichever comes first.

2 Songs for a Friday

Long Time Traveller // Wailin' Jennys



We'll start slow and work our way to oblivion. This reminds me of the "O Brother Where Art Thou" soundtrack. I stumbled across the Wailin' Jennys on a quest to dig deep into the Avett Brothers' archives, and was instantly entranced. Their harmonies, their simplicity, their message... quite impactful. Great de-stresser on a drizzly Friday.

Happy Hippopotamus // Cloud Cult



I was stuck on one album by Cloud Cult for quite some time, (Feel Good Ghosts, with a special shout out to When Water Comes to Life, because it is in fact my ringtone.) That album took me places I never thought music could, and then it brought me back to earth again in pieces all a-jumble. Then, thanks to grooveshark.com, I came upon this gem, and a whole new album. I like to take my albums slowly, sip them while their hot like coffee. I'm feeling good about this one. And it reminds me of my best friend, Miss Maggie Draughon.

Dr. Gao

After six months of my bike seat serving as both my Metro Card and my gym pass, I was forced to leave it be. It sits in the basement of Scholastic gathering dust and loneliness, wondering where I am. I want it to know that I’m here, but that it hurt me, that it gave me scrapes on my knees and a large dent in my radial head, better known as my elbow. I think about it down there, waiting for me, as I go throughout my days with my broken wing, wondering when we’ll meet again.

I think about it while I’m in Dr. Gao’s office, my lovely Chinese physical therapist just off of Canal Street. I’ve seen him twice a week since the accident, and it seems that he and I have become lifelong friends. I usually start out by sitting in his tiny waiting room stuffed with chairs and water coolers and machines that look like they belong in the gymnasium on the 2nd floor of the Titanic. I catch up on my pictures of Lindsay Lohan with raccoon eyes and lots of bracelets, and who had an ugly baby and who caught Mel Gibson in a hat and mustachio disguise, and then Dr. Gao comes in and saves me from the insanity.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, as I lay down on the bed with three pillows propped under my head and three pillows propped under my kneepits. I tell him it’s going away every day. “Lots of typing today?” he asks, and I nod profusely… He shakes his head and places two circular rubber things attached to a machine on my elbow. He wraps it in a warm cloth, turns the machine on so that my arm buzzes like I’m ever-so-slightly being electrocuted, just in that spot. “Goodnight,” he says. From there I am left in the dark for 15 minutes, and usually I fall asleep right away.

I wake up in a daze as he is taking the towel and the electrocuters off of my arm, rubbing it with icy-hot lotion, talking about the weather and what his kids were for Halloween. He tells me he needs to exercise more, (while I think, he might need to eat more), asks me about Wisconsin. He says, “they eat a lot of milk there, yes?” Yes.

He tells me not to open doors. To ice it. To make people give up their seats for me on the subway. To relax, relax, relax. He wants to do acupuncture on the back of my neck. He wants me to not feel stressed anymore. Little does he know, it’s about to be all gone.

2 Songs for a Friday

Young Folks // Peter Bjorn & John



Not only do I love the animation in this video, but I love the feeling of this song. I love the echo-y vocals, the beat, the dancibility. Yep, that's what I said, dancibility. Also, it makes me feel young.

Generator 2 // Freelance Whales



This song feels like autumn. Crisp. Colorful. Bright when things are about to get dark. The Freelance Whales came into my life because of a friend, Miss Liz Arenberg, and we sang this and the rest of their album into the passing wind during a trans-American road trip a few months ago. It's about photographs, fixing smiles, the mark we put out there in our life, and how it just ... might ... not ... matter. Good stuff.

*Lindsay Foster*

I had the extreme honor of standing in my very dear friend Lindsay Quilling (now Foster!)'s wedding this weekend, and it couldn't have been a more beautiful day. From hair-dos to helping her put on her dress to sing-alongs on a trolley to photos with lion statues near a lighthouse, to a ceremony lit by enormous windows and fall colors, to a delicious feast and a dance floor jam-packed with friends and family... it was a day I will remember for the rest of my life. Here is what I had to say to Lindsay about it, microphone in hand, glass raised:

Lindsay, I did some math and figured out that you and I have experienced a total of 88 seasons together. 88! In 22 years and at four seasons a pop, we've whipped through those calendar pages like wild fire. We've had springs full of rainy reading days, field trips to art museums with my grandma and soccer games with your dad and birthday parties wearing all of our clothes backwards at your house. We've had summers full of quiet backyard afternoons, trips to the Dells, cheese fries at the pool, and finally shaving our legs. We've had autumns full of first days of school (the very first of which, at Mequon Junior Kindergarden, was shared with four of us sitting up here: Lindsay, Maggie, Jeff and I)... of pumpkin farms and leaf piles and embarrassing high school dances, of New York streets that make you feel brand new and lights that inspire you. We've had winters full of ice skating trips with my dad and ski trips that ended up in knee surgeries, Christmas parties and forgetful New Years nights. We've had it all, round and round, together for most of it, apart when we needed to be, and always growing. During the seasons when I needed a sister, you became one. During the seasons when you needed one, I was there.

Now, Brandt has had, what is it... 6 x 4... 24 seasons with you... it's no 88 but it's getting there, and I cannot wait to see your calendars flip and to watch your seasons together unfold. You'll have springs full of trips across oceans, red tulips in your yard, lawn mowing Saturdays and sunny car rides. You'll have summers full of baseball barbecues, lazy lake Michigan Sunday afternoons, babies running through sprinklers while you sit in sunglasses and laugh. You'll have cinnamon smelling autumns with warm sweaters and packer games, full of dance parties with us, and thanksgivings in your very own kitchen. You'll have winters with each other, winter after winter, snowfall after quiet snowfall, shoveling, sledding, hiding presents under the tree, together. To you, Lindsay and Brandt, to your love, to your seasons, and to this beautiful Autumn memory.

Green Mountain (VerMont)

Her home smelled like a cinnamon Christmas morning. Slanted ceilings and wood floors, old red bottles on the windowsill and quiet coffee cups. Her orange sweater embraced me like it had been years since we last saw each other. I liked the pumpkins on her porch and the smell of her basement. I liked the big tree in her yard and her navy blue car. She took me through the woods where the sun glinted through the yelloworangered leaves and we welcomed Fall together with our cameras. We listened to bluegrass and then went home and played our own, sang in harmony, told secrets to the stars. We danced next to Lake Champlain and ate brick oven pizza. We played with children in the grass and sampled honey and cheese and samosas from laughing men at the farmers market. We drank wine with my lovely relatives and took photos of our arms around each other. Everywhere we looked there were beautiful, built, driven and creative men. Everywhere we looked there was possibility. Everywhere we looked there was Burlington.

Love Gaps

She filled that gap with time spent with her grandchildren, who were born year after year after year, mostly boys, all beautiful and vibrant. Many of them, too many to count, for her multiple children multiplied with zeal. She watched those babies grow from one year to the next, first all blonde haired and blue eyed and then different shades of both, into themselves. She changed their diapers and sang them to sleep, took them to the zoo and drove them around in her little green station wagon.

During these drives, and during the time they spent with her, they noticed things about her, repetitions that initially annoyed them but then eventually became token -isms that grew on them like moss grows on fairy homes. They noticed that she’d always apply lipstick before getting out of the car. She would stand in the doorway waiting for them to help her with her bags or her coat. Gum was always spat out before seeing her, posture straightened, dirt wiped from cheeks and profanities left at the door. These rules were what made them who they are today, the excellent citizens and positive influences on humanity.

Some of them grew up to study art, some of them became excellent fathers. Some traveled to opposite corners of the world to teach and study and fall in love. Some stayed right where they were and some wandered around searching for her in tall buildings and on ocean floors. They all ate well and treated strangers and enemies with respect. They broke hearts softly and loved fully. They all remembered not to say the word “like” out of context and they all appreciated the smell of sea and sand. With exquisite and unfeigned taste in music, art, and literature, they grew up. With keen senses and fatal flaws, her grandchildren each took on characteristics she’d predicted but would never know. Phenomenal athletes, stubborn fighters, sought-after employees, intense holders of beliefs, both democratic and republican and none of the above. They rounded out every facet that she’d ever imagined them to have.

2 Songs for a Sunny Friday

Wedding Song // Anais Mitchell / Hadestown / Justin Vernon



I was turned on to this song by an old friend from my Jamba Juice days... who has always been a kindred spirit in terms of music. This band is a Folk Opera, which is a beautiful melding of many different songs not unlike the Freelance Whales... woah I need to post them next week. Anyway I'll always love me some Justin Vernon (the delicious voice of Bon Iver) and he continues to amaze with each new projcet he works on.

Bouncing Round the Room // Phish

This may come as a surprise to some, considering I haven't spoken about or listened to Phish since the early two thousands (can we say that?). I must use it though, since the band (and this song) has come up twice this week in different conversations. My lovely best friend Nina told me that she'd heard it and was brought back to summer nights in my old pool house. We definetly did use those firefly-filled nights to bounce around the room... And then also because I am visiting Phish's home town of Burlington, Vermont this very weekend. It's time for some crisp air, some orange leaves, and some walks where Trey Anastasio once walked.

2 Songs for a Rainy Friday

Gobbledigook // Sigur Ros



Upbeat and perfect for a kick-off into the weekend, this one feels like a heartbeat. Sigur Ros is Icelandic, so most think that the language being spoken is such. But... the joke's on them! They've made up their own language, so all of their songs are, essentially, gobbledigook!

Sweet Thing // Van Morrison


The reason I picked this one is not only that I've been neglectful of Van for a good stretch of time, but also because it is my good friend Maren's favorite song, and she just left on a jetplane, so this might be an homage to her. Or to love. Or to you. Or to walking and talking in gardens all wet with rain, or to never growing so old again. Happy weekending.

Chad

It was after her sons had read an ad in the Journal-Sentinal about a little old lady who was mugged in a decent section of Milwaukee that she received a strange gift for Christmas one year. Tall, gruff looking, and bulky, a life-size man with removable legs and sandy blond hair became an inhabitant of her every day. At first she thought they were crazy, she didn’t want the gift.

“What am I going to do with this thing? Sleep with it? Feed it?”

“Put it in your car, and stop complaining. You’ll thank us some day, when you realize that years have gone by without hoodlums bothering you or robbing you.”

She didn’t like it, not one bit. She was too young for this, they were too worried about her. She was a completely confident independent woman, and didn’t need a silly doll to take care of her. Eventually, they got to her, though, nagging her about how much the doll had cost them (split between 6 kids, actually not that much), nagging her because they loved her more than life itself, and didn’t want to see anything happen to her.

Eventually, she had his legs put into storage, put an old green polo shirt on him, brushed his beach-blonde hair to the side, and put a red baseball hat on him. She looked at him, thinking he resembled a chiseled, surfer-looking Ken, and all of a sudden he had a name. Chad. She put Chad in the front seat of her station wagon, strapped on his seatbelt, and there he lived, for the rest of their time together. At first she hated having him in the car with her, thought he was ridiculous, thought he made her look weak. As the seasons changed and the calendar pages turned, though, she began to find somewhere within him, within his cloth skin and stuffed biceps and plastic smile, a friend. His eyes, though staring straight ahead into the great abyss of the windshield, had a knowing sense about them. His hands, big and manly, seemed somehow ready to help her carry her groceries.

“Oh, you don’t have to get out of the car, Chad. I can get these myself,” she’d say. “He’s always trying to do good deeds, you see,” she explained, as her grandchildren watched from the backseat. Grandma was having conversations with a life-sized stuffed man in her car. Polite and baffled, they just raised their eyebrows and nodded silently.

“Sometimes he gets frisky and puts his hand on my knee while I’m driving and I have to slap him away!” Somehow, without doing or saying or being anything, Chad became a part of the family.

She didn’t like to think about how Chad met his demise, was snatched right up from under her, when she was at book group in downtown Milwaukee. She didn’t like to think about it one bit. So she didn’t.

To Songs for the First Friday of Fall

Is This Love? // Clap Your Hands Say Yeah



I mentioned this song last week. In an apartment long ago, in a city built on an isthmus, the lyrics of this song were painted across the bedroom wall of one of my best friends. It always makes me think of her, and it always makes me happy.



The Trapeze Swinger // Iron & Wine



Not so much a Friday song as an every day song. As I rode into work this morning a fog settled upon Manhattan's stoic buildings, and this song, very appropriately, played on my iPod. I promise I won't always put Iron & Wine on this segment... but if you know me at all, you know how much I love me some I&W. Sam Beam is a lyrical genius in this intense story of one man's experience of life under the Big Top. It's a long one, so sit tight. I assure you, every line is worth it.

Old Red Trek

It’s the wind. It’s the sweat. It’s the 6,855 feet of the Manhattan Bridge. It’s freedom and speed and creating my own path. It’s the sunlight that glints off the buildings at 8:30am, into my sunglasses. It’s the East River, 100 meters below me, somehow blue, somehow beautiful. It’s the bulky men carrying metal slabs in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, it’s the men with wooden boxes of fish in Chinatown, it's the kids walking to school with backpacks and ipods, it’s the smell of bacon and coffee on Lafayette. It's crispy in the fall. It’s the white of my knuckles and the clench of my calves. It’s 35 minutes there, and it’s a slower, leisurely 45 minutes home. It’s the ultimate Lisa time.

Two Songs For a Friday

Fridays are blustery, sunkissed days stacked with hope and anticipation. Our weeks spin by, though we don't feel the speed as they pass, we only look to Friday, we keep our eyes on that square on the calendar. We get up, work, go home, go to bed, get up, work, go home, go to bed, get up, work, go home, go to bed, get up, work, go home, go to bed and then ... it's Friday. Somehow, after a long week of work, we feel energized.

I started emailing a few musicloving friends and family members on Fridays a few weeks back, with two songs for a Friday. They didn't ask for it, didn't see it coming, but I've gotten some solid feedback and figure that I can spread the love a little farther, to you fine people. My blog rarely takes on the conversational tone, I rarely acknowledge readers, speak directly to them, evoke their hearts and souls. But things change, people change. Well, at least on Fridays. I'd like to invite you to check out the blog on glorious Viernes, sit back, have a listen, and get excited for a few days off.

I'll put my opinion into them moderately, but as Lamar said so many years ago on Reading Rainbow, "you don't have to take my word for it." I'll also work hard to keep my emotions out of it. These will be universal Friday songs. Oh, and comments are welcome.

Kingdom of the Animals // Iron & Wine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhfIOXQJbpc

This song takes on an oddly whimsical tone, almost hymnal. It's uplifting though, makes me feel like giving people hugs. Also it might be the image in the video but it makes me think of the 2009 film, Where the Wild Things Are, which gives me the warm fuzzies.

Oh Mandy // Spinto Band
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-AlcwgAVCc

This is a perfect song for a Friday, very motivating. Very in your face. It reminds me of a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song, which I'm tempted to post but maybe that will be a teaser for next week. Anyway, Oh Mandy is hip, upbeat, and it mentions a gnome so booyah.

Mona Lisas and Madhatters

Denver. Didn't really think I'd be spending a lot of time here - but here I am at Stella's Coffee Haus drinking dark coffee and listening to Sufjan Stevens: recalling what has happened in the last seven days. Maybe it was the people I was with that have made it what it was or maybe it was the people I encountered.

Liz Arenberg

It was Liz, with her iPod shuffling the songs we yelled out into the wind and at each other, with her introduction into the coolest museum on the planet, where we climbed through crag and tunnel, holding on for dear life to the found materials and the sides of the slides. It was laughing into the sunlight on a ferris wheel on the top of St. Louis.

It was Liz's sense of extreme adventure combined with my own that brought us into the roadside bar near the Vinita Rodeo that night in Oklahoma. The Liketty Split Band was playing, and we couldn't help ourselves - asking the cowboys what they do (farm), what they're interested in (you), what their horses names were... It was Liz's love for New Mexico that opened my eyes to it's vast and baffling beauty. The elevation brings the clouds and the land together, almost touching. The sage fills the air and digs it's roots down into the red ground like a song.

Joe Dietz and Jeni Kittleson

It was Joe and Jeni with their adobe-laden home, with ceilings higher than their cozy Brooklyn garden apartment - the apartment I last left them at, sleeping on their living room floor. It was their space, the calmness in their faces, their outdoor freedom, their comfort. It was Joe's cowboy hat and Jeni's new jewelry. They frowned dramatically when I told them how short my stay would be. Glasses of wine and catch-up time and dance parties in their enormous kitchen.

It was the stroll through the craft fair and the Dietz boys at their finest. It was the man who told us all about the bar he was playing music in, the same bar that "Crazy Heart" was filmed in. Even more so than they did in Brooklyn, these two felt like family.

Max Schelble

It was Max with his rickety, open-air Jeep Wrangler and his faded flip-flops. His enormous apartment and his cat, Frankenstein. It was the way we communicated like old friends, a familial understanding and a distant realization that our moms are sisters, so here we are. It was his beautiful and open girlfriend Heidi, teaching me the rules of Sloshball (a form of kickball where players must always have a beer in hand).

And it was his couch and the shadeless lamp as we talked late into the night, as I mentally prepared to be back in New York.

Ray LaMontagne

It was Ray with his black cowboy hat and his vest and his quiet, timid way of thanking the Red Rocks audience. It was his raspy voice that echoed over the crowd and under the stars. It was "Jolene" and "New York City is Killing Me" and "Like Rock & Roll and Radio". It was the goosebumps on my arms and the constant awe I haven't felt at a concert ever before.

Jethro

It was Jethro and his sunglasses, his blue t-shirt and his vast knowledge of music. It was his house in Fort Collins, almost empty in anticipation of being sold. It was the bagels he bought for me and the distance that had separated us. It was how I couldn't remember how to play that song on guitar and it was the way he turned away.

It's amazing how something good can change in an instant into something bad, someone you know so well can become unrecognizable. It's saying something and not being able to erase it. It's driving for 6 hours in a silence so poignant you can hear it over the deafening music he's playing. It's the feeling of a full bladder and an empty stomach, a jarred heart and hair blowing in your face, and watching him adjust his seatbelt strap. It's feeling shame, blame, cowardess and terror. It's what happens when love kicks your ass, or when you don't know what else to say besides stop. And stop he did, on the side of the road in Denver, deleting my name from his phone as he drove away, deleting it all as I stood there on the sidewalk, dumbfounded.

Allison Makoutz

It was Allison and her cowdog Taco, the saddle and reigns in the corner of her living room, the diamond on her finger, the warm, Utah light that fell through her kitchen window. She'd look out from her back porch onto a vast expanse of farmland abbreviated by towering mountains and tell me about living about Mormons - how the alcohol rules are different and how she, as a Catholic, is the minority.

It was the nostalgia we collectively brought out of each other, the memories of trampolines and Montana and road trips, of braiding one another's hair and of listening to music while laughing on each other's bedroom floors. It was the realization of the intensity of an old friendship immediately brought back to life.

Teddy Jorgensen

It was Teddy J and his clean hair cut and his fast car, his smile as he came into the bar across from Coors' Field in Denver. It was Teddy! My very first crush and my very first kiss, our very own grade school heart throb. His hug embracing my baffled sadness, his concern for my well being and his patience as I choked the story out. It was his roommate and the sushi and sake we shared, it was the space he gave me and it was the normalcy of ice cream, plaid comforters, a big white towel and a grassy front yard.

It was coming back to a new reality after experiencing a harsh one, and finding out how incredibly gracious and understanding people can be when you need them.

Liz Wright

It was Liz with her bright and welcoming apartment, it's style not unlike that of her old home where I'd spent summers running barefoot from backyard to kitchen to basement with her younger sister, the infamous Kathryn Keeley. It was the art show she took me to, her laugh as we joked our way down the hallways of paintings, the sunglasses on her head and the openness of her gorgeous girl friends around a table full of margaritas and chips and salsa.

It was forgetting for a second what had happened to me. It was remembering, too, in the quiet dark on her couch, the slow hands of the clock on the mantle ticking me to sleep. It was her drive to succeed in a marathon, her 15 mile run, and the banana I stole from her fruit bowl.

Josh Kennedy

It was Josh with his spiffy haircut and his banged up ankle and knee. It was his excitement when I told him I was making the drive, plunging down to Telluride into the craggy canyons and San Juan mountains that each individually looked like a sleeping stegasaurus. It was his apartment, tucked into the birch-filled mountainside, packed with half-way assembled bikes and piles of ski poles, North Face jackets and PBR. It was our gondola ride, our reminiscing, the wings and the tots we shared.

It was the guys in the ski & bike rental shop he works in, calling me "Lis" immediately upon meeting me, it was our bike ride to the waterfalls.

Others

And then it was all the people back home - in Wisconsin and Brooklyn and Salt Lake City and DC and Maine and Chicago who my fingers fervishly told my story to via text, during the long drive, during the sleepless nights, during the crisp days. They read my story in pieces, asking in return if I was okay, asking how heavy my boots were, sending good vibes my direction. It was the people I talked to on the phone and over voicemail who reassured me that I had done the right thing, that I've set myself free.

But the sadness remains within that freedom, it remains as that sinking feeling comes over me when I realize that I've lost someone who means something to me, when I see a ring on a finger, as I prepare three wonderful women to walk down the aisle so soon. The feeling of being trapped in my own clean slate, trapped in this search to find someone, trapped in my continuous failures with love.

669,725,404

Just another chat with Web...

Webster: you strongly dislike people hahahahaha
me: shut up!
Webster: you also hate when I tell you things about you sorry ill shut up
me: i dont hate it its sort of entertaining because its half right but also half wrong i love people, i just hate when they're dumb
Webster: yeah, i know you don't actually hate people duh pff
me: you said it the other day though - you were like, "you really like being alone" - makes me feel like a freak which i am i guess
Webster: hahah not really but you do love being alone...i think thats apparent not allll the time but you are someone who reallllly neads their alone time sometimes and you could argue everyone needs that i guess
me: i have too much going on sometimes it makes me crazy, so i need to calm down and not talk to anyone for short periods of time i also hate smalltalk so i avoid little stupid chats and stuff, id rather be silent than do that
Webster: sometimes I hate small talk, sometimes i love it depends on timing, audience, my mood, etc
me: you're pretty good at it audience haha
Webster: seriously
me: i dont mean that in a bad way i think its a skill
Webster: ha
me: a skill that i dont have
Webster: i dont take it in a bad way usually im good with it, but sometimes it gets awkward, and i absolutely hate awakwards situations, but know they one will always run into them their whole life ...no matter what
me: yes, its inevitable i just hate when people bring up shit like the weather or trains ... i'm like, why dont we stand here silently in the elevator instead, okay? and your breath smells bad.
Webster: hahaha the weather is the worst
me: least.favorite.topic.
Webster: its cooling down, hey? how bout those rain showers?
me: Gianni knows this about me and he ALWAYS asks how the weather in new york is to piss me off
Webster: hahaha Jess works at the weather channel, i can add that twist in there
me: or "tips on being a douschbag" step one: talk about the weather
Webster: I ask her every day what th weather is and she loooves the question
me: hahahaa whoops!!
Webster: Don't knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn't start a conversation if it didn't change once in a while ~ Kin Hubbard jess just sent me that
me: hahaha its true! those nine-tenths are the people i dont want to talk to its just so apparent, like, everyone KNOWS what the weather is like, they've BEEN outside. its just sort of a redundant comment... "it's raining" is very similar to "I'm a human being." or "I'm wearing a shirt."
Webster: so you dislike 90% of all people, is what you're trying to say
me: yes, that is what im trying to say
Webster: haha
me: 10% is a lot! it's like 669,725,404 people

On and Off, On and Off

I like to watch the lights go on and off from my back fire escape in my new apartment. The sky is pink-black, and it's so quiet that I can actually hear insects. It's so quiet that I can hear a single passing car, a girl in flip-flops, a hushed conversation on the corner. I like to think about what is going on behind those windows, where the lights are turned on, and then where they are turned off. My neighbors are getting home from work, dropping their keys on the table, starting dinner. They're saying hello to one another, or they are silently dealing with lonesomeness. They're going into their bathrooms and brushing their teeth, they're reading their children a story, they're having sex. I like to think that they all are the same as me; maybe they liked Inception too, maybe they read David Sedaris. They have slowly made their way through their day, and they are slowly making their way out of it, turning their lights on and off as they please, making rooms brighter and then making them darker. I turn around and walk back inside, turn off the living room light, go into the bathroom, turn on the bathroom light, brush my teeth, turn off the light, go into my bedroom, turn on the light and then turn it off.

Spilling Tears

In college I wrote a paper about the concept of home, the way it pulls at us while simultaneously pushing us away. It’s warmth and it’s coldness. This weekend I felt it’s warmth so acutely that tears spilled all over my family’s shoulders, into swimming pools and over gardens of lavender. I spilled tears on my sister’s cheeks after she put on her wedding dress, twirling and smiling through the tilted afternoon sunlight. Whenever I’m in Wisconsin I’m hit with nostalgia, but the summer heat makes it heavier, leaving me silent and staring straight ahead on a flight to LaGuardia, wondering why the hell I don’t live in the Midwest, where the mosquitoes suck the life out of innocent barbequers, where farmy highway air is thick with the smell of cows, and the Milwaukee air is thick with the sweet smell of yeast. Where I can go over to my aunts’ house and find her popping tomatoes straight from the plant into her mouth, help her dispose of the sad dead bird on her porch, help her set up her internet toolbars. Where I can go to Carrie's house and find her digging up moss in her backyard for her terrarium, the quiet sounds of a shifting, new-smelling home around her, and the cicadas buzzing in the backyard. Where I can sit on the living room floor of my brothers’ calming, plant-surrounded home and squeeze the toes and thighs and cheeks of the most beautiful and perfect nephew I could imagine, kissing his fuzzy head repeatedly, whispering to him how much I love him, over and over and over. Where I can go swimming in my old back yard and float around in the blissful green and watch my friend fall in love. Where I go into the kitchen and see Pat’s fresh cucumbers and eat her delicious pico de gallo, sipping strong coffee and talking about January. Where dad and I curl into chairs in the sunroom lit by one lamp and the fireflies outside late at night, where I talk and he listens, where I show pictures of my life and he smiles.

Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie (Dylan)

Absolutely the most moving poem I've ever read/heard.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbr0y8zp68&feature=related

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache¥
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

The Things I'll Carry

forks knives spoons
plates, cracked
bowls, cracked
wine glasses
glasses, miss-matched and stolen from bars
cumin rosemary lawrys salt salt pepper coriander basil
green tea earl grey Tao calm coffee filters
noodles brown rice peanut butter cocoa sun dried tomatoes
pots pans baking sheets spatulas butcher knives
toaster tea pot microwave
vases
small cooler
broom swiffer
garbage can recycling bucket
drano raid windex clorox sponges dish soap hand soap
Pat’s kitchen table
three chairs
dad’s wooden table papa san chair love seat futon
drip paint painting train picture book poetry calendar
photos of Picadilly circus photos of Bologna Italy photo of mom Amelie poster Ankor Wat poster
map of London map of New York map of Thailand map of the world
DVDs CDs old phones old chargers chords chords chords
green rug
oak chest black book shelf green book shelf queen mattress box spring
cook books childrens books fiction books nonfiction photo albums yearbooks
notebooks journals diaries
sheets flowered blanket down comforter ratty pink blanket 4 pillows Gerald
t-shirts nice shirts pants jeans shorts skirts dresses
tennis shoes rain boots heels sandals flip flops clogs boots chucks
underwear socks bras belts hats scarves
box of notes from Nina box of college papers and notebooks box of Peter box of files
bath towels hand towels wash cloths park blankets
guitar
bike
cactus jade red vein
iron ironing board soccer ball huge box of junk I never open
toothbrush toothpaste brush nail clippers bathroom mat contact case qtips
nail polish aloe vera lotion contact solution sunscreen
face wash mouth wash shampoo conditioner body wash razor
me

Quiet Hell

http://www.slate.com/id/2260395
Will it ever happen?

Dear Robbi [an excerpt]

You may admire this trait of mine, this ability to love -to drown in it as quick as Jack drowned in the icy waters of the Titanic's Atlantic. My brain shuts down, like so, and my heart and it's veins and vessels do the thinking. It's a dangerous way to live, this, but I cannot and will not attempt to control it. How can one resist the flowery goodness, the lavender and lilac of love? Especially, as you noted, the beginnings of it - when the seed has been planted and the young, wet, sinewy stem reaches the surface of the dirt and it's form is in plain view? And I don't blame you for fearing the wilty side, the other side of love, where you have to work hard to hold tightly to the fading pink petals - to keep it lively, to keep it lovely. When there is a fertilizer made for this, find me, bring it to me, tell me! Because the first years of love can be the best years of our lives - but the rest won't be so bad - not for people like you and I. We'll color it with those lavender purples and rosy pinks - no matter what - we'll smear our petals on the walls of our lives and never ever let them be eggshell or beige.

Memory Tour

As we walked through 5 neighborhoods of Brooklyn in one day and 4 neighborhoods of Manhattan that one balmy weekend, we remembered the time when she made up a bed for me in her sun-lit home, in the room with the balcony and the multi-colored quilt. When I would sit at her kitchen table watching her at the stove, mix concoctions, roll meatballs, sauté vegetables, and tell her about my day at school. When we would lounge at the pool in her backyard, where she would tell me that my body would change, that I should feel lucky to be a Chamberlain with only just a hint of sarcasm, that I would find another boy to kiss even if the boy I was kissing smelled like Michael Jordan cologne and had gel in his hair. We remembered the beach with driftwood and drip sand castles and the cottage with collections of sculls and sand and grandchildren. Woven through our conversations and our subway rides and crossing intersections, memories of her mother and my mother flowed freely, almost as though the two woman walked with us, laughing with us at the passing characters, wiping their sweaty brows with us, holding our hands like they used to when we were young.

Dear Grandper

Dear Grandpa,

Remember when we stood on the porch of the cabin in the June dusk, the lake behind us, the family weaving around us, and you asked me whether or not I was writing in New York? Remember how I told you I was, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the weary-eyed hours of the afternoons at the office, sometimes after dark and sometimes on an airplane between two places I call Home, in a notebook with small messy scribbles, piecing together an incredible weekend with dash marks and strikethroughs?

As you stood watching us play volleyball in the grass where quiet night sounds rose with the lightning bugs, we stood in front of you like players on a stage – your grandchildren and your children and your grandchildren’s children: healthy and vibrant, unique and teeming with life, with athleticism and passion for the stories we have to share with you. You made all of it possible, you and our beautiful Grandma started it all, and for that we are forever indebted, forever grateful, forever here to give you squeezes and hear your “howdys” and your “holy mackerels” with the utmost appreciation of these lives you gave us. We hope you saw us, we hope you witnessed our happiness, our talents and our fluctuating love lives and our cartwheels to different cities and states and our graduations and haircuts, our new shoes and our engagement rings and how our teeth looked when our braces came off.

You should have seen it – the way we all came together the night before you arrived at the cabin in the Northwoods. We all rushed past the reds and the blues and the Green and Gold of Wisconsin scenery into the deep dark woods where we’d all crash together, one huge happy family, laughing and shouting over one another, breathlessly tripping over our tumbling sentences: catching up. The whos and the whats and the whens and the where, whys tumbled out between soccer games and ping pong matches and crazy tube rides, before and after the fishboil and the campfire songs. You were there, smiling, leaning back and basking in your creations, and we felt love. Love in a way that only a family can feel, a love full of criticism and judgment, along with competition and digs and jars and cracked ribs from sudden hugs. Love spanning from the wheel of a motor boat driven by one sibling and pulling a tube that bruises and batters another, a love of proving oneself, building strength and muscle and courage to stand up and beat our chests like Tarzan, beat our chests with pride.

We flipped cups filled with beer for some and water for others, we held each other’s babies, we passed guitars, strumming what we knew and humming the rest, nodding because we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again, and life will keep happening and the years will keep toppling over one by one, and for that, we thank you. For that, we love you.

Stanhope

I had the (dis)pleasure of sitting front row at a Doug Stanhope show this past Saturday. I say (dis) because it was far from a pleasure to hear this man speak his words of slurred wisdom, but I must say I walked out carrying a pocketful of something… discouragement? laughs? lost hope for humanity? and a head full of calm rage. Stanhope, in a faded denim shirt which had holes and strings hanging off the arms, swished around his screwdriver, switched over to a jagerbomb which he milked and at times lingered over, mid-sentence, and then went back to the screwdriver for a few more sips. Two Budweisers appeared out of nowhere on his stool, and he’d randomly see those and pick them up too. There was always an unlit cigarette behind his ear, and when he’d finally put it to his lips, he’d pat his pants absentmindedly, realize he didn’t have a lighter, and put the sweaty cancer stick behind his ear again. This was repeated until it eventually fell on the stage and he walked on it without knowing. I felt like I was just with an old college friend who got wasted and would sit and tell us everything that he thought about the world. The only difference is, I paid $25 for Douggy Fresh.

“Do drugs. Don’t have drugs.” Was one of the first things that he announced to his audience.

He also hates the Yankees. But who doesn’t? Oh yeah, the 100 Yankees fans who were at the Highline Ballroom that night.

He had a lot to slur about the World Cup… how watching soccer is like watching the Deadliest Catch: you watch, at the edge of your seat, and wait for something to happen, and wait, and wait, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and you’re waiting, and you’re watching, and then, all of a sudden in the end, nothing happens. True, but soccer is so much more than that.

He did bring up an interesting point about travelling in Europe. He said whenever he used to go there he’d have to defend himself because people would say, “hey, you’re American, you’re George Bush, therefore I hate you.” Having gone through that exact experience everywhere I’ve travelled, I could agree with the old waste-case. He then went on to say that it would be nice if we could make fun of their governmental choices for once: “Yeah, our democratically elected Commander in Chief was a d-bag, but who are your leaders again? Kings? Queens? Wizards? Dukes? Earls? What is this, a country or a Renaissance festival?” Nice.

When he wasn’t spilling his drink, staring blankly into the lights, yelling at people for taking pictures of him, or burping, the guy was pretty funny. He mentioned that he thought this big change was going to happen in the world when he became a comedian, that he was going to make a difference by telling people how things really are. Nothing has changed though, so he’s reverted to being a downspiraling whoremonger with nowhere to turn but the bottle. Glad I caught the show before he pulls a Heath Ledger.

The guy who opened for him, Jamie Kilstein (who was breathlessly awesome) had quite a few winners, the best of which was simply this: “If god created everything, he created the atomic bomb.” Yes he did. Yes he did.

Live at Red Rocks

We had been on tour for a few days before we hit Red Rocks; just two acoustic guitars – one strung right-handedly and one strung for a lefty. The first session was quiet, slow, careful, in a dark living room in Fort Collins, Colorado. Our audience consisted of a sleeping Estonian couple and a tired brown dog. Despite the initial humbleness and faux-shyness, we continued the tour on to the road, with a bag of bananas, Earl Grey tea, swim suits, three picks, and a few songs waiting patiently in our fingers to break into the wind.

Somewhere between Fort Collins and Steamboat we stopped at a scenic overlook, our shoes crunching the gravel beneath us as he adjusted my strap. We faced out at the summer snowcaps and then out to the highway. This time the whipping wind was our audience, along with the cars racing by. Both carried the sound away from us quickly so we had little to critique. We’d added a third song to our set list, and were pretty set on a band name as we laughed and put our seatbelts back on, having swallowed enough wind and sung enough disorganized lyrics.

We sat in a wildly westernly decorated condo looking out on Steamboat with a few margaritas in us for our third performance. We had the confidence to play face to face with a captive audience who had heard us in their sleep the night before. Despite his nods and cues, I couldn’t pick up the vocals but for one song. Afterwards I vowed to memorize, but to play and to sing simultaneously is like asking me to blindfold my hands and only see with my heart. I was surprised at how well our performance was received, at how quickly my fingers could jump from string to string as I watched his.

The three solid practices were what created our confidence as we approached the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Morrison. The Beatles performed there in 1964, so why couldn’t we? We climbed a path to find just enough privacy, with just a hint of a possibility of a passerby or two to hear our strums. I sat on a rock and he stood facing the towering dusty boulders. He shouted Old Crow Medicine Show at me, so I answered in refrain. A group of mid-twenties boys in plaid shorts and aviators walked past hollering at us. “Are you two opening for the show tonight?” “Yep, just warming up,” we answered. “See you down there!” We played Ray LaMontagne in preparation for a future show in the same venue, thinkin about firsts, thinkin about the beginning of the end, thinkin about believing in everything as we played. Ben Nichols was next, his A minors switching to E’s and then back again, and I tried my best to keep up. I smiled and showed him the calluses beginning to form on my fingertips and we switched places so the sun wouldn’t burn just one side of our faces. He added another Ray LaMontagne to the list, and got an audience of 20-30 baffled hikers, and our nerves quickly made us wrap up, our cheeks red with a perfect combination of embarrassment and excitement. Our first show at Red Rocks! And certainly not the last.

part of the termination process is ritualizing the ending

Walking away from Lost last night the air that followed me in my slow walk home was perfect, calm, temperatureless. I felt a little like that when the 2.5 hour series finale ended. Temperatureless. I thought I was going to have an emotional breakdown afterwards, cry and snot all over Liz and the rest I watched it with. But I remained calm, not unlike Desmond does throughout his seeking out of the rest of the Oceanic survivors (or non-survivors!!), like we all should throughout life. I held Liz’s hand a few times, grabbed Kelly’s knee once or twice, but I think that’s what Lost may have been trying to say in the end: sometimes we need to hold hands with each other, touch each other’s knees, eat fish biscuits while stuck in a cage to survive.

Expectations may have been unreachable for our dear prodigies, Jeffrey Lieber, J.J. Abrams, and Damon Lindelof. We all may still be left confused, flabbergasted, asking what happened to Bernard and Rose and why Michael and Walt weren’t in the multi-religion church at the end, and whether Jack will start his life on the island all over again now that he is laying near the white shoe in the bamboo forest like he did in the very first episode, but that’s okay. We should be okay with the fact that there are still questions because there will always be answerless questions, or questions that we have to answer on our own, in the quiet spaces of our souls. Where do they go in the end? They go wherever it is that you want them to go. Was it religious? If you’re religious, sure: it’s religious. If you’re not, it’s not.

I think I learned more from Lost than I had originally set out to on that fateful evening when I watched the pilot. I re-confirmed that past lives can exist, that the most important thing in our lives is the people who we share it with, who shape us, that you can look into someone’s eyes after just meeting them and see that you've known them, you've met them before, that you're the same as you always were and always will be, while at the same time ever changing with the landscape of life, whether you’re on an island or a freighter, all the way sideways or flashing forward and back, we’re always constant, always here, now.

Thailand, In My Heart

Three years ago today, I was sleeping in a big yellow bed with a white insect net around me, peaceful as a princess. The bed was in a room, the room in a house, the house on a street, in a city, in a country that would forever change me. I didn’t know this, sleeping in the 90 degree heat, my kneepits sweating and my hair tight and wet around my forehead. I didn’t know that the place would make such an impression. I made friends there, learned a different way of speaking, a different way to hold my silverware, and a different way to drink beer (with ice!). I taught children there, and the children taught me. I fell for the attitude there, and the beauty and the smiles and the generosity of the people who live there. And today, and for every day since the time I was there, these people are in danger. Bat Lee, Poochoy Wichien, Pee-Oy, Barry, Colm, the boys on the basketball court, Pee Wee, Pee Mee, May, Mai, Sand, Ing, Force, Earth, Chacha, Jump, Jane, and all of the rest of them, all of the people who I encountered, all of the people who served me tantalizing cuisine on the side of the dusty roads, everyone who rented kayaks to me, everyone who sang karaoke to me, bowled with me, ching’ching’d with me, my heart is with you. If you’re reading this and you pray, please pray for them. If you cross your fingers and toes, do. If you sing in the shower, do it for them. If you send vibes or whistle into the dark, do it for my Thai family. They would do it for you, in a heartbeat.

In honor of Thailand, I’ll leave you with a journal entry I wrote a few weeks into my yearlong stay… my first trip of about 2 dozen to Bangkok.

***

An afternoon in Bang Kok. As the 13 Baht (roughly 30 cents) train snaked and squealed its way out of Chachoengsao (my city), though the lush, green farmlands, and eventually to the outer mud piles of Thailand's capital, I began to question the work ethic of the municipal laborers. Maybe they all forgot to stop for coffee this morning, or maybe they were on some sort of Spanish schedule where everyone gets a siesta around mid day, but it is quite certain that these people were not working. And why would they want to? Re-arranging piles of mud mixed with plastic bottles, old shoes, dog feces, and other indistinguishable trash sounds much less enjoyable than a nap. One man lay in a hammock suspended from the rails along the top of the bed of his pickup. Others squatted amid scraps of cement (which I assume are what will eventually become pillars for bridges and highway interpasses), sucking on cigarettes and cokes. I wondered how long those piles had been sitting there, and also, how long these men had been squatting for?

As the train neared the city even more, it clamored past scrap metal houses seeping into the mud. Children played barefoot on dilapidated swing sets and waved to the travelers on the train whizzing by. Some searched for treasure hidden beneath the trashy mud piles, and some chased their friends and siblings along the glass-bottled/graveled train tracks. ...I thought back to the soundly architectured wooden swing set of my childhood. Set in a glistening sandbox and placed in the corner of our acre-large yard next to the garden and alongside the massive field of grass, it entertained me until I became too heavy for the monkey bars, until I got one too many slivers, until dinner was called...The differences make me shudder.

We managed to orient ourselves when we finally got off the train, Lonely Planet guide book clutched in our sweaty hands. "If we're standing here, and that fountain is there, then that must lead to a street that leads to the place we want to go." Ahh, the refreshing confusion of setting foot in a new foreign city. There's nothing like it. This foreign city, though, proved to be quite different than the seemingly pristine London, Oslo, and Paris that I had traipsed a few years back. This foreign city is large, loud, and imposing. The streets are clogged with an incessant traffic jam, and my contacts dried up instantly as the polluted air closed in on my eyes. The buildings once were all white, but it rains so much in Thailand, they are all stained with brown drippings and black soot. After about a mile and a half of squeezing ourselves though the sidewalk hugged with kneeling vendors selling glorified junk, we arrived at the city's historical centre, our destination.

We encountered many amazing temples and gardens which starkly contrasted those dilapidated tin huts on the outskirts and rain-stained apartment complexes on the walk over. Buildings sparkling with whites, reds, and golds-and people bustling around, stopping at each one to "wai" (bow with closed hands), and carry on. We realized that we were there on Buddha's birthday, May 31, and we were at the centre of the celebration. Every other person wore an orange cloth wrapped around their body, their freshly shaved heads glinting in the pouring sunlight. Today, in this part of Bang Kok, you are either a monk or you are a devout Buddhist.....or an American holding tightly to your guide book and snapping fervently at your camera.