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.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
*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.
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.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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.
Friday, October 8, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 1, 2010
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.
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.
“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.
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