Archive for January, 2007

Where is my roadster? Where is my gin?

I have a secret passion for mommy blogs (I know, I know, they hate that term). What can I say? I may not be interested in babies, but their parents are fascinating, and also funny. One of my favorites, mimi smartypants, held forth on gin and fast cars in her latest post:

I also finished a book about Jazz Age women and it was very very bad for me in that now I feel a serious need to drive around in a roadster clutching a bottle of gin. Where is my roadster? Where is my gin? Nowhere. Instead I have frigid El cars and one sensible beer in the evenings, in that dreadfully thin space between Nora’s bedtime and my own overwhelming sleepiness.

This brings me to the cocktail playgroup controversy. I don’t get it. Why does everyone care so much? It’s not like this is a new concept. My sister and I’ve survived completely unscathed to the ripe old ages of 19 and 26, and our parents definitely had beer and wine with dinner and when family friends were over without a second thought. I really don’t see how this is any different. It’s not like anyone’s suggesting that parents should all get totally wasted and then run their toddlers in little steeplechases around the pool. We’re talking about a glass of wine and munchies. This is nothing.

In slightly (but not entirely) related news, my cognition professor told us in lecture on Monday that, according to a study run in a driving simulator with two sets of drivers, one set talking on cell phones, and the set  drunk just enough to set them over the legal limit (which, by the way, is significantly more than the one drink at a playgroup that the momtini people are talking about), sober drivers talking on their cell phones were statistically more dangerous than drunk drivers. Sobering, huh?

Keane is Keen

My Saturday night was great for two reasons:

  1. Keane is awesome
  2. *and*

  3. Despite there existing a vast number of things to go wrong, nothing actually did go wrong.

We drove to Berkeley in plenty of time with very little trouble, I didn’t get lost (thank you, excellent navigators), parking was a piece of cake, and there were no giant scary hills. We found the theater, despite the street changing names three times on the way, and we already had our tickets (and even though Lekan did almost leave them in the restaurant, Catherine saw them on the floor and saved the day with style and panache). Basically, it was a flawlessly executed evening.

Although, upon further reflection, we didn’t quiiite get the most socially optimal seating arrangement (we handily sat Lekan’s roommate Alex as far as possible from Lekan, the only one of us he actually knew*. Whoopsie. On the other hand, he was next to me, which is a position full of honor and glory, as you are all certainly aware…), since everybody likes everybody, it was non-traumatic (I think…yes? Non traumatic? Anyone feeling traumatized?).

*This statement was later revealed to be untrue when I was informed, much to my immense shock, that actually, Alex and Chris already knew each other and CHRIS DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING, allowing me to carry the conversation in the car ALL BY MYSELF because he is SOCIALLY MERCILESS. And also, this, not unlike Jessica’s theories about shot taking, will never be allowed to die. Cause dude. He didn’t TELL ME. There I was, babbling my head off about…I dunno, like, the weather or something, when he had a WHOLE BUNCH of relevant things to say. (Not that talking to Alex is bad. It was actually lovely, and I learned, for example, that he comes from a town with only one stoplight, which I think is pretty cool. Also, apparently people from Michigan like to show you where they live by making a little Michigan with their hands and pointing it out to you, which is impossible to do with Arizona and thereby leaves me jealous of his hand pointing skillz. (This whole “people actually reading my blog” thing is freaking me out. Next thing I know I’m going to piss people off without actually ever talking to them, and then I will have reached a whole new creative level of pissing people off, which is bad, and not even a marketable skill.) )

Anyhow.

So we got to the concert, and we organized oursleves, and we sat through the opening band, which was something that sounds like Rococo but isn’t actually rococo (“sat through” might be unnecessarily harsh here. They had a couple of songs I would voluntarily listen to again, and anyhow, some of us didn’t sit, we slept. Nikhil actually managed to FALL ASLEEP in the middle of a rock concert, I kid you not. It was pretty impressive, and unlike pissing people off, is probably a marketable skill.) And then Keane came on.

If you’re familiar with rock star gossip (which I admit, I wasn’t), you might have heard that Tom Chaplin, the lead singer has recently spent some time in rehab. I’m not sure it totally worked, cause the dude has got to be on something to have that much energy on stage. Maybe his power lies in the super tight black pants. All three central members of Keane wore surprisingly skintight black pants while prancing across the stage in their rock and roll glory, which wasn’t a look I’d really associated with their super-mellow sound. I can’t bring myself to hold the pants against them though, because even now, four days later, I can see the show when I hear their music, and it makes it better.

Although their classics (“Somewhere Only We Know,” “Bend and Break,” “Walnut Tree,” “Everybody’s Changing,” “Can’t Stop Now,” etc.) were memorable live, I think the two standout songs of the evening were “A Bad Dream” and “Bedshaped,” neither of which I’d spent much time with before the concert. “A Bad Dream” was impressive mostly because of the staging, complete with a poetry reading and movies of people bombing things in WWI and lots of dancing across the stage, but “Bedshaped” was incredible. It was the last song they played that I remember, and the crowd was incredibly into it. Everyone, even the people who didn’t know the words, was singing along, and even now I can’t lose the picture in my head of a brilliantly yellow light bursting out over the crowd as they screamed out “You’ll follow me back / with the sun in your eyes…” followed by a switch to bright white on the words “in white light, I don’t think so.” It was probably hokey and obvious, but it was nonetheless incredibly cool.

The last standout moment for me happened during a song I can’t remember towards the end of the set. Now, to really get this, you have to know that one of my favorite things about irresponsibly loud music is that you can feel the bass vibrating your own chest  like a musical heartbeat. It’s a totally cool physical demonstration that what you’re doing is probably killing off the hair cells in your ears, and I find that fascinting. Anyhow, in one of the last songs there was a bass note so low and so powerful that the whole crowd could feel it ripple across like a physical force. You could hear everyone go “whoa” in unison after it hit. I don’t know how they did that, but I want them to do it again. SO COOL.

Overall grade on the night: A+

Room for improvement: Had I not been driving and the concert not been held in what was actually the largest high school auditorium I’ve ever seen, a couple of beers with the show would’ve been nice…

Desert Island Lists

In a long delayed response to Walt’s desert island songs (with a Claire modification, cause dude, she’s right. 10 or 15, not 12.), I now bring to you the 15 songs I would insist on taking with me to a desert island:

  1. “No Children” – The Mountain Goats
  2. “Ruby Blue” – Roisin Murphy
  3. “The Quiz” – Hello Saferide
  4. “Mr. Blue Sky” – Electric Light Orchestra
  5. “Say It Ain’t So” – Weezer
  6. “American Girl” – Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers
  7. “You Remind Me Of Home” – Ben Gibbard
  8. “Closing Time” – Semisonic
  9. “You’re So Damn Hot” – Ok Go
  10. “Rock and Roll Girl” – The Icicles
  11. “The Luckiest” – Ben Folds Five (but only if I get to have people with me, cause if I don’t then this is too depressing and I’d rather have “Underground.”)
  12. Fuck Was I” – Jenny Owen Youngs
  13. “Gotta Have You” – The Weepies
  14. “Alleluia” – Dar Williams
  15. “Closer I Am To Fine” – The Indigo Girls

Now, I should make clear here before you attack me for, say, the absence of the Beatles, that the formation of a desert island list has to take into account the nature of the desert island question. The Beatles I can sing myself. This stuff would just never be quite as good without the background stuff.

Plus, it would keep me from getting all mopey.

Any of you got a desert island 15?

My Proverbial Internet Forehead

I’ve been kind of delinquent in posting here, but let it suffice to say that I have never been so exquisitely aware that the internet is the ultimate public place. I have a couple of new projects going, neither of which is ready for unveiling, and there just hasn’t been anything else going that I’ve felt much like getting tattooed on my proverbial internet forehead, except that life at the moment seems to require a previously uncontemplated quantity of Nutella to be survivable.

Anyhow.

The quarter is well underway, and so far, I think I have a pretty solid grip on everything academic. I’m liking the parts of my schedule I anticipated liking, and I’m sure learning a lot in Biology. It’s a lot of things I’m glad to know, but it’s pretty damn hard to cram them in here sometimes. This is why I’m glad I’m not pre-med, although to be honest, if I were pre-med, at least I’d have taken the classes I’m expected to have taken by the time I get to this one. The professor keeps tossing off things like “of course, you all know ALLLL about the chemical reactions here, so I won’t dwell,” and I, sitting in my tiny seat with my feet curled up under me (these desks are SO not intended for people over 5′ 8″) cry out silently “NO! NO I DO NOT! I DO NOT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THEM! DWELL, PLEASE.” It’s the acronym ballet, people. GTP becomes GDP via GEF and GAP, and they all swirl happily through membranes, attaching and unattaching and becoming each other, and that’s all in ONE TINY REACTION. ONE. At least they should make the acronyms different enough from each other that I can keep them straight in my head without long ponderous decisions about what exactly that “e” there stands for.

I love gothic fiction, though. I come home from class all excited to do my reading, and that alone is worth the occasional long, slow tangent from my professor. He’s about a million years old, and so, despite being deeply charming and ultimately very good at his job, he does tend to ramble a bit. The shakespeare class is taught by Professor Orgel, a man who reminds me of no one so much as Woody Allen, minus the hefty creepy factor I’ve always attached to Woody. He wears small, perfectly round, black glasses and stands at the front of the room, lecturing about Shakespeare, which seems to involve much more sex and violence and political innuendo than I’d previously thought possible. In short, it’s very cool.

Psych 55 (Cognition and the Brain) is taught by a woman who, should I meet her in any other context, I would assume to be no older than 22. She’s tiny, with crazy hair and much cooler clothes than I have ever attempted. She wears the kind of sparkly plastic rings I can only aspire to, and shoes of which any college student in her right mind would be wildly jealous. Despite all this, she’s actually a well respected scholar. It’s just hard to keep that in mind when she’s gesturing with the world’s smallest snow globe attached to her finger and wearing the most perfect jeans ever envisioned by man. So far the topic is at least as interesting as her clothes, so I have high hopes.

I think that about brings you up to speed, and I promise to be more interesting shortly!

The Secret Safeway

Usually, I don’t go to the secret Safeway. I go to war-zone Safeway, which until recently was merely mildly war torn. However, in recent days, conditions at war-zone Safeway have become intolerable. Not only is most of the parking lot torn out, but also large swaths of the indoors have been replaced with strange walls and weird smells, and in place of the shelves, they’ve put out strange rolling bins for the bread and the tuna, and some of the pasta. Things are not good at war-zone Safeway. I fear we are losing the war, and that soon the Safeway will be replaced with a bomb shelter, or perhaps a missile silo if we’re especially lucky.

Today, though, I found the secret Safeway. Outside the secret Safeway, in place of the clanks and thuds of construction to which I have become accustomed, there is gently piped in classical music. The aisles are softly, dimly lit, and far enough apart to drive a semi through. The produce department is designed to emulate a french outdoor market, and the check-out clerks are soft spoken and refined. They comb their hair, and wash their faces, and wear perfectly pressed pants. No one speaks above a whisper, or when really agitated, the traditional library voice. It is paradise in grocery store form. If god were going to go to the grocery store, he would go to the secret Safeway. It is safe to say that despite its intriguingly underground parking garage, I am officially ditching war-zone Safeway. I hope it will forgive me someday.

Never leave roommates unattended

A quickie, since I have lecture tomorrow (at the dignified hour of 11, never fear):

When I left my apartment tonight, at about 8:30, my roommate Aj and her “friend” Ch were sitting politely at the table, finishing the meal she’d cooked for him (little did I know she was so domestic–usually her repertoire starts with “heat for 5 minutes” and finishes up with a grand finale of “go eat at tri-delt.”). It smelled delicious, and they were very civilized–silverware, napkins, chairs, the whole bit.

When I returned 10 minutes ago, all was dark in our humble abode. The first sign of unusual things afoot was the smell. No longer did the odor of Indian food linger temptingly in the air. It had been replaced with…was that…popcorn? No. Not quite…Clorox? No. Ahhh…the passed out boy on the couch and the half full bottle of Captain Morgan’s on the table tip me off–what we have here is eau du vomit, plus Clorox wipes, and perhaps a bag of microwave popcorn–the buttery kind. The trifecta.

Roommates, left to their own devices can make some verrrrry interesting changes in your apartment in a mere 5 hours, apparently.


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