Kia His Car

The frog was the payment. $3000 to replace the car battery. But the walk over was pleasant, at least. ApplePay feels magical when you’re buying a little treat and evil when you’re dropping an entire paycheck. BEEP there goes the money.

Bopped to the coffee shop with the big windows. Promoted my book, promoted my essay, and then Beef showed up. She munched a small croissant as we gossiped, right until I had to rush away for a lunch, at the wooden patio with the exec who said she wanted to pay me five figures to develop an idea and then ghosted my manager for five months. Whatever, now she’s buying me a $20 sandwich. That’s showbiz. In line we see another exec and then we talk about Taylor Swift for most of the meeting.

At home I fire away business emails. I spent the week working on a climate PSA, a Toy Conglomerate script, and my newest play. Plus continued negotiations and a new project. I rush down to the pool by 4 to read and dip before throwing gold glitter on my eyelids and Ubering over to some friend of a friend’s house. It’s where we’re meeting up to carpool to Olivia Rodrigo at the Kia Forum. Buckle is a great concert seat mate. He really lets his emotions out. I don’t take many photos or videos, opting to remember things instead. I am impressed by how much more of a star Olivia has become since I saw her six months ago. She lets the crowd take over, she offers up commercial insights. She is doing a show in a show now. I like the part when we all scream, “LIKE A DAMN SOCIOPATH” and I love knowing whoever she wrote that song about assuredly has friends in attendance. I order mozzarella sticks on the way home. They’re sitting on the ground, waiting for me when I make it back.

I sleep in Saturday, do a dance workout, hustle to the same coffee shop by 11. I clock two hours on my new play. It’s way too long. I’m 2/3 done and it’s already 150 pages. This one is a beast, but I think about it all the time, now that I’ve slotted it into first position. Not a day goes by some line or new accent doesn’t pop into my head when I least expect it.

I eat vegan buffalo wings and carrots, watch part of the John Travolta movie Phenomenon with Puhg. It’s so boring, but I am curious how it will end. Drive to Trader Joe’s for a variety of snacks, read at the pool, hop in, get my hair done. My guy gently checks my political temperature then conspiratorially informs me he thinks 45 is the literal devil. I read Miranda July’s new book under the heater. The highlights look splotchy, which they always do, but who really cares? I like getting shampoo’d in a teal wonderland with a fountain and paying $90 cash.

I shove a hoodie and blanket into my backpack and grab a beach chair and head to the Hollywood Forever cemetery to watch Bring It On. The friends of friends had invited me and I think they’re all surprised when I show up. I talk about ceramics with one, camo pants with another, the ethics of using certain homophobic slurs cheekily with a third. Kirsten Dunst is there and knowing that does enhance the experience. The crowd keeps screaming when her teen character makes good choices. I munch brie and dried apricots and cotton candy grapes and about 20 cookies. Puhg picks me up a few blocks away. I stay up, listening to a YouTube video about changing your mindset and eat about 30 more cookies. In the middle of the night, Sweet Potato gets scooped, and I pet her nose.

At our traditional morning spot, Puhg and I do New York Times puzzles and chat with a barista about The Egyptian. I plot out my week’s goals. I have a deadline Wednesday and I am torn between working on it all day (to get ahead) or "enjoying the weekend." I decided on the second and go to the pool. Almost done with my feminist literature book, dive in, float around. Puhg has a lot of news, but it’s mostly good, I think. Buffalo wings and carrots and then I drive over to the friends of friends joint birthday. Tarp says, “Three days in a row!” And it’s true. We buy bingo cards, and a chicken is in a coop, and the sun is blazing. I pay for valet, drink half a watermelon slushie, am only a little in my head when I gab with my friend who became a gatekeeper who is maybe back to a friend.

Home just in time to Zoom with Cobra. She’s going to work on herself for the next six months, she declares. We laugh about the state of our industry. I wear my lavender romper and head to our Mexican restaurant for a double date. Everyone talks about who they were in high school, we eat four bowls of chips, a plane pens ‘SHERRY” across the blue sky. We walk down to the cabaret theatre to see ____’s work in progress solo show. It’s more heartfelt than I anticipate, a pleasant surprise. I enjoy seeing a dozen or so people from my past but I am relieved when I’ve said all the hellos and can walk home listening to Radiohead. I post photos to Instagram and after Puhg explains Sweet Potato is refusing to come out, I fall asleep.

Olivia Rodrigo February 24th

Moments after walking into the area we saw purple blurs all over. In people's hands. We stopped a girl and asked, where did you get that? She pointed to a little snack cart. I want one, I said to Pookie, do you? She shook her head, no, no. And she was right. Because who needs a small purple cup shaped like a butterfly? She agreed to wait in the merch line for t-shirts. We parted ways, but not before Pookie yelped out, desperately, "Wait! I want one too!"

And so twenty-five minutes later I was face to face with a guy who was used to slinging beers at basketball games, who now, inexplicably was explaining to me the cups were sold as vessels for purple glitter lemonade, with or without vodka. I just wanted a Diet Coke and Pookie, an iced tea, which wasn't available. I asked the man if we could get the butterflies filled with Diet Coke and water. He frowned and explained, that would still be $44 dollars. I said that's okay, we just want the dumb little cups. He asked, "What?" So I repeated myself, "We just want the dumb little cups." He nodded, "Got it."

Am I morally opposed to plastic? Yes. Am I morally opposed to overconsumption? Yes. Am I human? Yes.

The singing at the jumping, the stickers on our faces, applied in the bathroom at the pita restaurant we went for dinner, later traded with the cuties in our section. The excitement of a setlist we'd never heard tell of, only guessed at! While taking the train as the sun set. The huge moon that loomed over us, the tiny squeak of the girls behind us. Sisters, possibly. To our right college besties? In front of me a teen boy mouthing quietly to every word.

The way Miss Rodrigo stomps in those boots. A specific knee-high splat splat splat. The rush of realizing there are no men on stage! The bullhorn and the square bed. The screaming into the void in the darkness. I wondered what everyone else was screaming about. I always do. The confetti of purple stars and the warm evening and the okayness of always staying up late. In the morning there were macarons and iced coffees and a particular bush, in bloom, that smelled like pine and flowers at the same time.

church folks had a fish fry, mustard, hot sauce

Saturday. I woke up concerned. The insomnia has been killing me. I think it persists because it knows I have no good argument against it. Nevertheless I did two tough workouts back to back. I felt good after, chemically for certain. It's too hot in LA, but our new AC hides it. Puhg lifted weights on the balcony and came in drenched in sweat. He suggested we go down to the pool for a morning swim. Clear blue water and blazing sun. I felt refreshed and like my head was my head.

I spent most of Friday revising a play to send to a colleague. I sat down at the table with an oat milk coffee and gave it a final once over before attaching the email. I was tired and deserved kettle korn. I ate two bowls while watching the Merrily We Roll Along doc, which I, not surprisingly LOVED. That's a good afternoon.

And then it was time to lay down and play Animal Crossing for the first time in a month. All my fake fruit trees were ready for harvest, and I found an acorn in the forest. I muted the sound to listen to the Invisible Brain podcast about preconceived notions. Also for the first time in a month (much more?) I got dressed up. I wore my leopard unitard and put on some makeup. Puhg and I went to a drive-in concert. It was free for customer service reasons, including a generous menu comp. We danced and danced because although the temperatures were high, the sun was low. Fitz and the Tantrums isn't a band I would have chosen to see, but in some way that made it even more fun. I legitimately forget they sang Moneygrabber, so it was like a surprise right in the middle of all these songs I maybe had heard once. Plus the hits. Obviously the hits. The family in front of our blocked off space brought a tent for their kids to poop in. We scuttled inside our cool car while the manager made them disassemble it and chuck the bag of feces into their trunk.

I got a gigantic lemonade in a souvenir cup and jumped around sloshing it over the asphalt. Puhg got a beer and, being deal-lovers, we ordered exactly three soft pretzels with jalepeno cheese to meet our coupon amount. The bandleader asked us all the scream on three because this has been the most stressful year of our lives. There were two songs in the encore and we clapped, honked, cheered heartily for both. I kept thinking I caught the moon out of the corner of my eye, but it was a Shell sign in the distance. Right as we were about to pull away the real moon made her debut--just as bright yellow as the mistaken moon.

The long drive home was a comfort. A time to reflect and share and laugh. We stopped for Taco Bell and I ate it while watching an episode of 90 Day Fiance.

Or It Didn't Happen

What would you do if there would never be photographic evidence? My whole job exists because my boss has a phone addiction. I'm not knocking it (totally) but I am wondering how much we do for the proof alone we did it. I know this has never not been the case. Band t-shirts and ticket stubs and just the story "I went to Paris" even when you've got nothing to show for it. An 80 year-old man in my summer improv class never let up explaining how proud he was of his family, his former career, all the old person tours to Asia he went on. I feel bad for people who need to stuff as much as they can into the year and also live by solstice days. I guess I think intention is everything. You don't need to do something remarkable. You need to feel remarkable about the things you do.

I remember leaving a high school party, and right as I got to my car another pulled up. It was a pile of decoys from my exit--the couple everyone "will they/won't they"d, a wild boy determined to streak, maybe music? I knew as I pulled away I was missing all the things that the locker hall would buzz about in the morning. I thought about turning around, but the truth is I didn't actually care about the party anymore. I had decided to leave. I just wanted to feel included, or, honestly, more than included. I had the chance to be in the tightest circle of experience. I remember I drove home with the windows down listening to Imogen Heap. I read through my old text messages and went to bed.

It hadn't been twenty minutes since I made plans with Lo for tomorrow, but the plans were nevertheless made. Tira knocked on my window with news. A secret pop-up concert for an indie  queen. The place to BE. I know what's cooler to do on a Wednesday night. I obviously know! And Lo wouldn't mind rescheduling, but if I was being honest, that concert wasn't for me. I know it would look good in a picture, and I would probably bump into someone famous, and my friends who love that singer would be jealous, but something tugged me away.

What is a gut reaction? Sometimes it's that Malcolm Gladwell thing where your fear moves faster than your logic, sure. But sometimes it seems divine. An idea plopped down from above. I went to my jewelry cup yesterday and a strong voice said, "Do not put those rings on." So I didn't. Why would I argue? This happens sometimes. There have been times I have thought the voice led me astray, but when the dust settles, I find it never has.

Andrew to the Ninth Power

Halloween was the first day it snowed in Chicago and I saw Andrew McMahon for the 9th time in concert. It was, like always, a sturdy, clean set. Some SoCo, some new record, sending us off with the Jack's of pulling friends through. The Vic buzzed. A scarecrow next to me, a deer wandering near the bar, Severus Snape in the back row. Andrew himself was in full astronaut garb. He crowdsurfed his helmet. A Pikachu riffed guitar. The openers ran onto the stage in skin-tight Power Rangers 'tumes.

It was Bisque's first Andrew concert. He arrived right before doors opened toting cups of cocoa for my waiting-in-line fingers. Little stories about the commuting back to Echo Park. Mentions of the recovery, a few old tracks from People and Things, almost forgotten. Of course, "Astronaut"--thanks to attire.

The final finale was "Synesthesia." Our star crouched down to the front rows (where we were) and serenaded us. "So I never made a gold record," he sang. It was true when he recorded that song, but since his 2005 single went gold. I pointed to him and said, "But you do have a gold record!" He nodded and mouthed, "I do!" He joked with the hecklers, jumped off the piano, ended his show early enough for us to wait in coat-check, make the windy walk home, and watch Amityville Horror until we fell asleep. You're a good man, Andrew Mc.

The stars are out tonight,

One million fires burning.

Andrew McMahon at the Castle Theatre, 7.17.14

1. Opened with "I Woke Up in a Car." First song of Andrew's I loved. Driving in high school fall. Windows rolled, owning the world. The first notes plunked. I was there.
2. He always plays with his feet. He always jumps off the piano. Scottsdale to Bloomington, I applaud his earnestness to be his brand.
3. He doesn't body surf anymore. Now he just stands in the crowd. And that is somehow more electric.
4. This time, I decided to be in the waiting line. My fanship has changed significantly in the years I have adored this music. I recognize bits of it in other fans. I troll the Instagram posts with his hashtags and see our happy faces among the desperate souls who cried, who had to tell an important story, who couldn't speak. These things are okay, but I did not want them to be me, and now they aren't. So now I am ready to happily shake hands and say thanks and go on into the night and not think about it think about it think about it.

5. There are songs I can barely hear. This is the 8th time I've seen him. 8th time I've heard "Dark Blue" live. Billionth time not live. It has been stretched like taffy. But this time was pretty exciting because this crowd was insane. I could barely hear a word of the song from the speakers. The screaming, the screaming.

6. His new single about his daughter is fantastic. This could be the year this name means something to the universe. Fitting as he's the satellite.
7. His music is still my favorite. That doesn't change. It is not him, though. He is the pane through which I have lived. Yes, SoCo is nostalgic. Yes, I heard the new Jack's in Japan, then my first year of grad school on a walk to the lake. This EP in a cabin in Maine. That single in my St. Louis bedroom. I know exactly where I was. Like these songs are a natural disaster (come on, sweet catastrophe). So, yeah, my arms fly up during "Resolution." I jump at the sight of the telltale harmonica. We all know what that means.
8. The song for a long goodbye sends us away, off, into the night.

I can see the colors runnin'
when I hear the music play.

The Backstreet Boys: September 5, 2013

"I'll be the one to hold you, and make sure that you'll be alright."

Pop stars are the saints of this century, and BSB is Jesus. I'm not trying to be funny. Those boys worked their buns off last night. They seriously danced (in miraculous sync) for two solid hours. While singing. While singing five part harmony. And while sometimes wearing those stupid fedoras from 1995 that I'm positive they tried to talk their costume designers out of.

Shellz and Meep witnessed three hours of my fan-girling.

This was an event. This was big. Larger than Life. And I've really got to hand it to them. I suppose I could say I shelled out a lot of scrilla ($70) to scream at Brian Littrel from my very mediocre seat, so I deserve to want things. These men have made their living off of me after all. But, truly, what I expected of these guys, what everyone expected, was not what they wanted to do if they truly had it their way. I want it that way. I wanted them to sing every hit, nothing from their new albums, dance just like they did in 1999, and generally be charming, and thank me for, you know, just standing there. And for the most part, that's just what they did. How could you not despise "We've Got It Goin' On" after singing it for literally 20 years? And, yet, it was their first single. They do the body rolls, the exaggerated "AhHhH!" Their cross to bear.

The PR work for this concert was phenomenal. This was not just a comeback tour. The dudes have all learned instruments--stating they're not "just a boy band" anymore. And we're like, uh. Yeah you are. They were good to us! They would do a huge laser-light shooting, ground-stomping hit and then explain a little about the success of their new album. (I mean, it got to Billboard Top Ten...their 8th consecutive record to do so. Only two other musical acts can brag that in the world.) They'd give a sentence about what the song means to them (so we can try to care) and say which guy wrote it (they wrote this whole new album themselves, and, frankly, it shows). But, the audience still would sit down, literally be checking e-mails, go to the bar. If we had it our way, they would just perform Millennium in full and never progress. Our saints aren't supposed to change. That's the point. They're saints. We change, and they ground us. And when AJ and Kevin talk about being dads? We're like, "Uh uh. No way. You're not a dad. You stick to that chair routine from 'As Long As You Love Me.'" Which, by the way, was done extremely well--the backdrop looked just like the original music video, all those metal fans and bluewhite waves.

"Jam on 'cos Backstreet's got it." 

The truth is I will always love BSB. Incidentally, I actually don't know who they are, where they're from, or what they did...but I still love them. And as long as I (collective I) do, they'll still be poppin' out from backstage in that unified "Alright!" and doing the exact same typewriter arm movements I mimicked off MTV when I was in fifth grade. I mean, it was hilarious to me that I was there...and then I'd look around and realize...there are literally thousands of people here, arms raised in worship, chanting, taking pictures, feverishly trying to document the moments. We have come to collect something we think is ours. We clap at the alter, and the saints perform the same garbage city to city year after year lest we lose our faith.

They sang it on their first album, and they couldn't have known how true it would be:
As long as there'll be music, we'll be comin' back again!

Back Alright

YEAR: 1999.
SETTING: 6th grade locker hall.

CAST OF CHARACTERS:
    Fran--11, artsy middle schooler, wearing flared jeans and a Limited Too cat t-shirt
   Alice--11, jubillant best friend, wearing leggings (potentially a horrendous yellow) and a different Limited Too cat t-shirt. Perhaps one that even says "Cool Cat" on it.

SYNOPSIS:
    Act One--Fran has just told Alice that her aunt got her two tickets to see The Backstreet Boys. This launches Alice into a frenzy of excitement...until Fran says she is inviting her next-door-neighbor to take the other ticket. Internally, Alice crumbles into a pile of 90s concert confetti. Fran explains! Neighbor and she have been friends longer! (A mere technicality! thinks Alice.) Neighbor is the biggest BSB fan ever. Everyone knows that! (But you're not, Fran! You, in fact, don't even really like them. Give me your ticket. Alice attempts to Jedi-mind her friend.) Neighbor's already been told. And there's no arguing with that. While probably realizing somewhere in the back of even her dinko junior high mind there are far worse problems, Alice cannot help but gulp the tear stings away.

DRAMATURGICAL REFERENCE:
     On concert night I sat on pins and needles waiting for my mother to come home and report there had been some last minute tickets available at the box office. She's a trooper for trying, but no dice. And I was so unbearably sad. I drank a Mott's apple juice. I imagined all the girls in my class singing along to "I Want It That Way." I sound like an entitled child (and I was when we're considering, you know, India), but it is so rare that I ever truly wanted things as a kid. Like, really really wanted things. Maybe I felt hurt by my friend, maybe I was predestined for this MFA in theatre by prioritizing all other wants and needs against a live performance, maybe it was hard because I "worked" for those tickets that never came. I lived at the radio--handset ready for callers, maybe the music legitimately spoke to me. My mom told me "next time" but I knew there wouldn't be one. Boy bands are a fad. I felt it in my gut.

EPILOGUE:
     Where will you be in exactly two weeks? Oh, me? I'll be AT THE BACKSTREET BOYS CONCERT IN PHOENIX! BOUGHT THE TICKETS LAST NIGHT. IT TOOK FOURTEEN YEARS, BUT I WILL BE JAMMING ALONG WITH NICK, BRIAN, AJ, HOWIE, AND KEVIN SEPTEMBER 5TH. AM I EVERYTHING YOU NEED, YOU BETTER ROCK YOUR BODY NOW!

Sigur Ros (3.12.13)

Bisque took me to see the Icelandic sensation Sigur Ros. I don't know very much about SR. My first introduction was my junior year of college watching a music video that featured mentally handicapped people dancing to their music. First impressions, y'know?

Truly, I would describe the concert better as an experience. It stimulated all my senses--fog, a giant television screen with images and some itunes visualizer-esque film, tiny lightbulbs foresting the stage glowing and dimming in unison, and, of course, the incredibly instrumental lead vocals.

Photo by Bisque

I say instrumental because the vocals are what make the music the music. I mean, there was a symphony on that stage, which was lovely and all, but MAN, this guy (Jonsi Birgisson) sounds like his own instrument. So clear, so pure, so (for lack of a better word) pretty.

It was a big theatre, and it was filled filled, and that is saying something because you can't really sing along to SR. The lyrics (if not in Icelandic) are in a made up language mash that encourages the listener to interpret her own meanings. As someone who loves lyrics, this Hopelandic (the language) thing is not my jam. I own one SR album, and I use it as, like, studying music. If I'm bumping tunes, I want to be singing. Objectively, this is a fantastic concept, and I can see SR going down in the post-modern history books as a champion of Fish's Reader Response.

In terms of the lyricness live, I have to say it felt interesting to not be able to sing along at a concert. I've done it before when I just haven't know the words, but it was particularly strange to look around and see no one singing. There was a wild man in the middle of the theatre waving all his limbs around in a semi-religious tongue-speaking experience. So, maybe we just weren't doing it right.

It has been a busy week, and if there is a concert to see at the end of a busy week, it's SR. Bisque and I were basically lounging standing up. The pit provided room for a little dancing at a couple appropriate times, but was mostly filled with couples puddled on each other swaying. Every long day should end as such?

My favorite part of the whole evening was a song (and I couldn't tell you which, because even if I knew the album and track the titles are all, y'know, "HarvaheimmIceland" or whatevah) that was cool, slightly dark, mellow. The TV projected black and white waves crashing against the camera. There was something off-setting, uncanny about the imagery to me, but something attractive as well. In the moment I remember thinking to be grateful for the moment. I couldn't understand it, but there's nothing we can ever do about that.

Andrew McMahon at Martini Ranch in Scottsdale

Last night I saw Andrew for the 7th time in concert. Some things:

-While Ro and I were parking, we missed a turn and had to double back a couple blocks from the venue. Stopped at a light, a thin, blond man in a button-up crossed us. It was Andrew. So, of course, my natural reaction was to open the car door and SCREAM, "YAY!" He turned around, laughed, smiled, pointed, and said "hi." I am so glad I've met him before. Otherwise we would have had to stalk him, which I'm sure, you know, isn't his favorite thing.
-The show was probably oversold. And it was a teeny bar. People were spilling out the door. And it was so hot. I sweated harder last night than when I ran a marathon.
-Openers were both excellent! Barcelona and Schematic! What opening bands should be! Barcelona did a cover of "Fast Car" that was da most beautiful.
-I've been tweeting at Andrew for a month periodically asking him to play my favorite song at the show. I know requests AT concerts are usually pretty hard for musicians because they're just not ready, and they have a setlist, and like, also, can you just not be a jerk and command your entertainment? So, Twitter. The thing is my fav Andy jam is not on any records, and it's not well-loved by fans, and, look, I don't know why I love it so, BUT I DO. Um. And then. UM. HE WALKS ON STAGE AND OPENS WITH "LAST STRAW." SO LIKE WHAT?! I was floored. The crowd was NOT diggin' it. I could see about fifteen people in my entire crowd who were singing along. Andy launched into "Mixed Tape" right after as an apology. BUT MY DREAMS CAME TRUE!
-Andrew is just a fantastic performer. And he's not letting 30 take him down. He still jumped off the piano, played with his feet, rocked hard into that mic. Was a friend, told the stories.
-I want people to stop making him play "Konstantine." He did it well, but he was obviously resigned. And he skipped the piano solo. He's over it, y'all.
-By now, between SoCo and Jack's his discography is pretty immense. There's just so much I would have loved to hear, but I need an eight hour concert. The set was mostly the big hits, which obviously makes sense. But. You know. This was my sixth time hearing "Dark Blue" and my zeroth time hearing "If I Die."
-I DID hear a couple newbies. He played two new tracks from an upcoming EP, and I had never heard "Television" or "What Gets You Off" live before.
-OMG dancing. Especially during "The Resolution" and "If U C Jordan." Holy North, was it a work out.
-I will never forget Ro's arms and mine to the sky wailing I've got friends who help me pull through.

It's all jumbling together, but I think this was the setlist:

Last Straw

Mixed Tape

Straw Dog

Television

She Paints Me Blue

Learn to Dance

Watch the Sky

Resolution

What Gets You Off

Bruised

Swim

Holiday From Real

I Woke Up in a Car

New Song: Schesia (?)

Dark Blue

If U C Jordan

Konstantine

La La Lie

The height of my Andrew obsession has passed, but, come on. He's the Mahon.

Well I'm always comin' down from the night before when I met you.

Muse! Concert! Phoenix! 2013!

-brilliant performers in terms of filling a fat stadium with energy

-visual aspects of the show: rad x a milli (lasers whaddup)

-so darn danceable--and dance we did--hop, sway, twirl!

-best song: "Madness" (for singability, technical effects, colors)

-worst song (but honestly still not even that bad): "Liquid State"

-I feel like a part of history now that I've officially watched the lighter evolve into the flashlight app for iPhones

-the line "this ship is takin' me far away/far away from the memories of the people who care if I live or die" is so amazingly romantic in every sense...and live, it made me consider the people who do care if I live or die, which is, like, the point of art

-called my sister during "Supermassive Black Hole" and she texted "SUPER MASSIVE JEALOUS KISSES"

-sound quality: crystal clear

-as always with huge concerts, I wish there was more personability, but Muse tried their best with the thematic set-list, with the friendly retorts, with the stark and sad video footage of our current world

-people always rave about how Muse is da best live band ever, but, like, yeah...they have an extremely valid point

Video Pyramids!

The night was warm! The night was young! Bisque and I drove off to meet with our other concert-goers. Everything was perfect, so I said so. And our windows were down. We approached three people  on foot. "They should know," he said. So I yelled at them. I yelled, "EVERYTHING IS PERFECT." And one yelled back: "Woo!"

How much are you worth?
You can't come down to earth.
You're swelling up, you're unstoppable.

I Love You, John Darnielle

Kicking myself for not writing down the setlist as it happened. The Mountain Goats. Such a good, loving, happy concert. I've never seen a performer so absolutely sweet to his adoring fans. Even in the midst of screeching his lil heart out, John was smiling like "Oh, you guys, it's alright." He sounded absolutely beautiful live and often prefaced songs with "This song is about--" which from a post-modern standpoint is insignificant, but, from a personal This Man Is Such a Beacon of Talent standpoint was riveting.

Favorites were the opener "White Cedar," "Cry for Judas," and, of course, the encore finale was "This Year." Ro and I jumped and danced and beamed as this creator beamed down on us.

There is a True Grace in love, and you don't have to know who you are loving to love them. For them to feel loved. That is what I learned last night in the pretty little Crescent Ballroom on December 8th, 2012.

I don't have to be afraid. Speed that day on its way.
And you can't tell me what my spirit tells me isn't true, can you?

The Ataris: March 16, 2012

Yucca Tap Room is a d-i-v-e. I arrived alone--the curse of liking a crappy at best pop-punk band that hit its stride in 2003. I scooted right up to the front and planted myself by the mic.

Kris didn't start setting up until midnight. It was hot. I stood with my arms crossed, but I was inadvertently in the middle of a group of friends. Two super husky girls and two nice guys. One nice guy chatted with me. I was uninterested in making friends, but I couldn't walk away since I had to save my spot. This guy ended up asking me out and gave me his number. This doesn't really happen anymore, and I complain about it: "Remember when guys used to just ask you out at random?!" But, I will not call him. "He doesn't know anything about me. It's too random." Cake--eating it too--something something something.

The Ataris opened with "In This Diary"--highly surprising. And then BOOM EXPLOSION OF CRAZY. I had been to bonkers punk shows in high school, but I always stood far far away. The other times I've seen The Ataris, there was bopping, but not bop-ping. This time? I was shoved, beat, knocked--all before the first chorus. The crowd was insane and moshing like mad. The husky girls were being shoved against the speakers. I understood their husk. Survival!


Kris.

Things that happened:

-As I got ping-ponged around, I noticed a solid hand on my back. I followed it back to a large Mexican woman who looked at me with maternal love. "That's me!" she yelled. "I'm okay!" I yelled as the crowd jostled me. She shook her head. Her arm served as a wall around the hooligans for the first three songs. I was willing to get swept away, but she pulled me close. Said "NO!" to a scrappy little kid with gauges trying to worm his way front.
-When the major crowd-surfing started during "Your Boyfriend Sucks," I got knocked into the middle of the pit and almost fell backwards, but I grabbed the hand of some guy, and he covered me in a bear hug and pulled me sideways. I felt like he had dove from a lifeguard stand to pull me out of the undertow. All these people, holding each other, but then pushing. Like some real drama, but it was self-created. Is that how all problems are. We must rely on one another to save us from the catastrophes we've made for ourselves.
-I felt safe on the side by "Takeoffs and Landings," but, no. Out of nowhere, some guy shoved me right into a moving crowd and I fell the ground. I was about to be tramped when three guys rushed to pick me up. The Mustafa wildebeest scene, people. It occurs to me how absolutely lucky I am to be a girl. People will save me. I did not have to worry about saving anyone else. Unfair, but true.
-It was an all-star setlist, which was kind of a bummer. i wanted some older weird stuff, but the crowd was happy. By the end, I was safely in the very back patch of folks who weren't even singing along. I jumped up and down to "San Dimas." It was over.
-In the bathroom, I checked-in. I was covered in sweat, an earring had been ripped out, my headband long gone, hair everywhere.
-I left and breathed deep in the fresh air. I biked the three miles home unable to hear a darn thing.

Stay who you are. Stay who you are.

RADiohead

Last night I saw Radiohead in concert. Here's what I think:

-It was huge. 20,000 people huge.
-This band has been popular, like, really popular, with all sorts of people for 20 years. What what what?
-The tiny little Tom moved his body like wild, but he was still so tiny.
-It was good, but my mind wasn't blown open, which is what people said would happen. Don't get me wrong, it was good. But my mind is chillin'.
-There are many parallels to Brecht and what happened last night. The A-effect, cigar theatre (people eating nachos pre-show since it was in a stadium), the purposeful cliche being loved by all ("High and Dry" and Brecht's Three Penny Opera).
-My favorite songs were the slow ballads. "Paranoid Android" was, of course, wunderbar, and "15 Step," but I liked "Lucky" maybe the best?
-Skars saw it with me. He sat on my left and yelled "Woo. Spring Break!" as we rallied for the inevitable encores.
-When its so big and bold and packed, I guess you just want music, but I would have liked some banter, some chatting. Let me know you, Radiohead!
-There are a lot of Radiohead songs that melt me right into a puddle of goop. Listening to those today--ones that weren't played last night--seemed...brighter? More electric? Like, I love this song, but now it's underscored with a personal...THING. I was there. I've been in a room with this voice. This stringy sweet voice.

Bloom
15 Step
Airbag
Little By Little
Myxomatosis
Gloaming
Magpie
Pyramid Song
Daily Mail
Arpeggi
Packt Like Sardines
Identikit
Lotus Flower
There There
Feral
Idioteque
How to Disappear Completely
Kid A
Lucky
Bodysnatchers
Give Up the Ghost
Reckoner
Paranoid Android



And for a minute there, I lost myself.
I lost myself.

Self-Date, August 12th

Martini Ranch was freezing. All the doors were open too. "How do they manage?" I wondered. I wondered as the air conditioning and fans ruffled the bottom of my brown sundress. I clutched my clutch--it's clasped, white cloth with goldfish on it.

I shuffled to the front of the stage past fans and non-fans who were milling sheepishly. Kris was happy. Scottsdale was the last planned stop on his acoustic tour. His van is breaking down, it's the homestretch. He played a couple new, a couple old, a couple covers.

He showed us the Arizona flag on his arm, the horseshoe below. "I'm running out of time," he told us looking down at the setlist at his feet, "so I'm just going to play as many as I can for you." The fifteen or twenty of us in the bar who cared started feeling anxious. The group of guys with huge gages and nose rings to my left started whining "So Long, Astoria," and other 2002 songs. Kris explained his voice was too shot for some of those notes. It wouldn't be pretty.

"I O U One Galaxy!" the one with spiked hair negotiated. "Ha. No," said Kris. And then the timid blondie to my right with the pretty and uninterested date asked, "Summer Vacation?" Oh. Kris looked up. Oh, yeah, he was thinking. "I...I like that tune." He looked down and recalculated.

"'Alone in Santa Cruz!'" I said, "It's so short!"
"Oh, that? I don't even remember...I wrote that fifteen years ago!"

"San Dimas High School Football Rules" and "Your Boyfriend Sucks." When there were two songs remaining, he played something from his 2007 album, which no one liked. Good for you, Kris. Good for you for doing your own mic checks and entitling yourself to play what you want to play--even when no one's going to sing along.

He closed with "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," pointing to Blondie. "So lucky!" I told him. He nodded, proud. I stuck around to buy a cd. Kris came out with a plastic bag full of naked silver discs. ("Yeah, I just made these and didn't really have time for anything else.") I told him thanks for writing my 16-year-old soundtrack. He said, no, no, no, it means a lot. Sometimes it's not really about who takes the compliment in, it's about getting it out.

You make me smile so wide, when I look into your eyes.
When I'm not around, know you're somewhere stuck inside my mind.

In Light

Final Council Fire, 2010

I am so filled with love right now. The universe hasn't aligned and all my problems haven't been solved, but I still feel full of love. I'm not sure what it is. It's not The Avetts--who I just saw. They were good, but that wasn't it. It might be a mix of the perfect FroYo, eating it with Pookie, driving along the Mississip.

I know we are supposed to retort "And why not?" Why not be full of love every minute. I mean, I know, Why Not? But also, I know why not--'cos sometimes we're unhappy and sometimes there's a lot more than there is or a lot less than there needs to be is Why Not. But. Not now.

I try to hold on--onto the buttery reigns--even for just a few minutes, a few days. I can't take it with me it seems. I'm bulging at my seams.

There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what's wrong and what's right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

When nothing is old, deserved or expected
And your life doesn't change by the man that's elected
If you're loved by someone you're never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it.

There was a dream
One day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage a broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid, with a head full of doubt
So I scream till I die and don't ask for those bad thoughts to find me out

There's a darkness upon you that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell you what's wrong and what's right
And it flies by day and it flies by night
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

Whitney, don't you understand that what I say is true?

Dance-Off LZ Show 2010 (note me doing "The Blender")

Danced as hard as my cheepy sheepy shoes could handle last night. The venue was sketchy and smokey. The company was Pookie. The band was The Ataris.

Oh! The Ataris. So many memories. The band I played obsessively while lazing in bed the winter of my 15th year daydreaming on my crush and our recent hook-up. The band that made me thirst for love. Oh! The Ataris. The band I played obsessively after my first major heartbreak.

It was surreal. The Ataris had some big hits half a decade ago. Their music videos were on MTV. They were on the radio. Since then the rest of the band besides lead singer/song-writer Kris Roe dropped out. He released a terrible album in 2007, and now he's apparently on tour in the worst venues of the United States.

Poor guys had to set up all their own equipment and get yelled at by an audience that knew barely half of the set. Kris was pissed, saying his bandmates didn't know the requests, saying the songs being shouted for were terrible in the first place. Regardless, I was overjoyed. He played some excellent old favorites--namely "San Dimas High School Football Rules" and "Your Boyfriend Sucks."

I went up to meet him after, as he was busy shoving his stuff in boxes, but he was so tired and grumpy. I wanted to say, "Your music has really made a difference to me." But, I wanted to say that to help, and I decided just leaving would probably be better.

Dear God,

please make this a good year for Kris Roe.

Warmly,
Alice

I'm still waiting for the world to come crashing down again.
I'm still waiting for someone to call me up and tell me you're dead.

This Has a Good Punchline (So Hang On)

When Pookie and I were in London last spring we decided while tromping around the city we would spontaneously attend the theatre. We checked for cheap tickets in the square and hemmed and hawed before I saw MOUSETRAP gloriously lit on the electronic screen. I squealed! MOUSETRAP! WE HAVE TO GO! She bit her lip and furrowed her brow, "Alice, that's the one show that doesn't get discounted. Full price tickets?" The emotional blow must have registered immediately as she agreed to appease me. When I was in third grade my dad told me about when he saw Mousetrap in his army days and how it was spectacular and how a real mouse ran across the stage and at the end they make the audience promise not to say whodunnit! We hoofed to the box office and purchased two tickets for the evening. I was beside myself with glee. We took a relaxing stroll for sandwiches and window shopping when we ran into a small bakery that looked like a rainbow threw up inside. It was called Candy Cakes, and the window displayed all sorts of ridiculous Dr. Seussical baked-goods. I dragged a drooling Pookie away. There was a long line, and I would scream if we were one minute late to the show. I could see her attempting to calculate how much of the play she would miss in exchange for one electric blue cupcake. She huffed and rushed along with me.

Pookie was late getting to the concert last week. Traffic hit her harder than expected, and she was still on the road during Motion City Soundtrack. I had her ticket, and there was no reentry to the venue. There was no cell reception in the ballroom, so I was in this limbo of just standing right at the entrance waiting for my sister to show up, so I could hand her the ticket. As Motion City played on I got increasingly antsy. What if Andrew came on, and she still wasn't here? Oh God...would I just make her wait outside in the cold until his set was over? It wouldn't be more than forty minutes. But she's my sister. But, it's Andrew. And then I heard her yelling at me with an angry ticket taker waiting. I passed it into her hand and we ran to Mia with only a few minutes to spare. Afterwards I pondered what I would have done if given such an ultimatum.

Pookie: Thinking of you choosing between me and Andrew makes me think of me choosing between Mousetrap and Crazy Cakes.
Alice: Was it called Crazy Cakes?
Pookie: Candy Cakes. I was the crazy cake.

Gettin' It Out

Your touch is a heartbreaker.

I just have to write something somewhere about Andrew McMahon or I'll explode. I can't write it to myself because everything gets just too creepy...jotting notes in my diary about art and Andrew blah blah blah. No, let me just barf some ideas out right here and right now before I clunk into a heavy heavy sleep that is WELL deserved. Holy Toledo, Weezer was a work-out. I was sweating buckets. BUCKETS. Irrelevant.

Important Ideas:

-I like to have a discourse with things and people and ideas. Not everyone does, but it's also not unique. It kills me to not have a discourse about Andrew's music with him maybe because I like it so much (God knows why--objectively, honestly, I know it's trashy) so much of it doesn't make any sense and I. Want. Answers. But, he's not famous enough that I can find answers...making me feel like I need to investigate them personally. Or, I just want my appreciation to be noticed. Either way, discourse denied.
-Seeing him as an opener tonight was so sad! Hardly anyone cared, and he couldn't be interesting or charming at all. He played a snappy set of seven songs--the most well-known of his bunch, and high-tailed it off for the much less sharp but much more loved guys of Weezer to take over.
-How much as an artist are you indebted to fans? What is the proper way to show respect (if any)? How would I like to in my life in any forms of art?

Mother of pearl, I have got to go to bed.

My love is a life-taker.