Giant Loping Steps of Joy†

Last weekend's foray to the Mile High Music Festival was educational in so many ways.

For instance, after discussing the merits of music festivals, I claimed to have never been to one, though that's patently untrue. But the music festivals I attended were very different from this one. I'm sure people who arrange music festivals or play music festivals or attend many music festivals have names for different formats.

Mostly I just call the other ones "not music festivals."

Like Lilith Fair. I went in 1999 at Fiddler's Green. The national acts were on the one big stage in the amphitheatre while the local bands were outside the venue on small stages in the grassy areas to the north.

Inside, there were just the musicians onstage and the people in seats or in the GA grass. Outside, there were vendors of all kinds interspersed with the tiny little bands on the tiny little stages.

The KTCL Big Gig a couple of years ago was much the same way. It was at Coors Amphitheatre‡ with a clear delineation between what was centre stage and what was simply booth-worthy.

Brother tells me Monolith Festival is much like Mile High, though there are four stages at Monolith vs. five at Mile High, and that§ allows scheduling such that you can see half of every band by judicious stage-hopping.^

Due to a certain dumbassedness, MHMF is arranged such that you can miss almost all of three bands two or three times a day with ease.

At least there were plenty of ATMs.




I'll give them points for the spiffy water feature. I didn't take advantage, but it looked festive and it gave many hippies the chance to act out some of their Woodstock fantasies.¶




It should probably be noted that I generally loathe stoner music -- jam bands, reggae, Pink Floyd.# All my snippy little comments should probably be filtered through that revelation as you make your way through my version of this festival.††

Fortunately, Brother isn't any more echanted by the music of the baked than I, so we made a pretty good music-going duo for purposes of festival scheduling.

Band of Heathens was playing the Main Stage East when we got there. We quickly determined we didn't need to stick around and listen.




We wandered through the vast plains of the soccer fields+ to get the lay of the land. In the middle were the food vendors and the Mile High Music Festival arch.




It was nearly 1:00. There weren't a lot of people yet, and the temperature was climbing.

I felt kinda sorry for the Tool fans who had to wear their Tool uniforms all day waiting for Tool to take the stage at 8:45.




It's a lot of black, a lot of hair and a for-crying-out-loud HAT for ninety degree heat.

A quick tour of the various stages confirmed we didn't need to see Matt Nathanson‡‡ or Rocco Deluca, so we ducked in to the Westword tent to check out The Duke Spirit.

Musically speaking, this was the high point of the day for me.

We had alread heard knock-offs of Led Zepplin, Cream and Lynyrd Skynyrd and Brother informed me Duke Spirit was Bowie-influenced. As there's nothing new in the world, I figured at least Bowie was more my style.

Pleasantly, delightedly surprised.




Liela Moss, the lead singer, sounded a bit Björkish and I asked Brother if they were Icelandic. Turns out they're British. They were energetic and glam with a 90s alternative sensibility around the edges. I got more T-Rex from them than Bowie -- and that's not bad at all.

We stayed for the whole Duke Spirit set, then toddled in the direction of Gomez.

On the way, we had to stop and muse that we were not allowed to bring in a Frisbee, but apparently the hippies could bring in hula hoops.§§




My dork brother stopped to take a very important phone call along the way, giving me a chance to snap a pic of his inimitable self.¶¶




Perhaps it should have been a sign that the phish## phlag was phlying at the Gomez show.






I took pictures of the bird-shaped cloud and tried to pretend it didn't irk me to no end that a couple of chicks were taking up space suitable for eight or ten people doing their exotic hula hoop dances.




After a mercifully short††† couple of songs, it was nearly time for Ani DiFranco, one of the two acts I was really excited about.‡‡‡




No, really, that's Ani.

She was energetic and very Ani DiFranco, beating the crap out of her guitar and singing of tampons and egos and generally emitting rolling waves of ironic good cheer.

Our next stop, we decided, was for lunch. Dinner. Lupper. Whatever.

The food was pretty good and not exorbitantly expensive. Gyros, Mad Greens, buffalo brats, pizza, Steuben's, Mexican food, funnel cakes... all well and thoroughly represented.

One of the FAQs was, "Will there be vegan and vegetarian food?"§§§

Yes. Yes, there will.




It was about 4:00 by this time and bloody hot.

Most of the soccer fields at Dick's Sporting Goods Park are made from shredded, recycled tires. Walking across, I could see how its bouncy-yet-firm surface would be marvelous if one were actually playing soccer. The heat, however, was wafting around my ankles -- it felt like I was wading in ten inches of hot water.

My feet were burning from the bottoms up.

We looked for a shady place to sit, but there were few available.§§§

One of the complaints from the first year of the MHMF was that there wasn't enough shade, so several radio stations and the local alternative paper put up tents here and there to give respite from the heat.

They didn't put quite enough up.

People were gathered in any scrap of shade they could find. Knots of bodies were clustered in the shadows cast by cell towers and stadium lights.






We found a place on the far west end, right against the fence, and ate our Lupper. The sweet little Goths sitting one square of shade over offered hash. They left and were replaced by a couple of uniformed Tool fans, who also offered hash.

We wandered over to see Lyrics Born, which was pretty good, but hot.




The fashions around Lyrics Born were some of my favourites.

I wondered how this chick stayed on her feet on her wooden shoes all day.




And whether this was ironic glitter or if these shiny, sparkly girls were serious.




When Lyrics Born closed out, we wandered all the way back to the other side of Dick's to see if Paolo Nutini was to our liking.

The answer was a resounding NO, but at least we go to see the big, bamboo art installation on the way.




We already knew we didn't need any time with Big Head Todd,¶¶¶ since we both know them from way back and have never been particularly impressed. So we decided to settle in early for G. Love & Special Sauce. We were both looking forward to G. Love, though Brother more so than I.

The day was starting to wear on some people, causing them to take up too much damned space in the Rhapsody Tent.




We were also offered hash AGAIN. Apparently, hash is the drug of the moment.

Turns out G. Love has become more phishy over the years and was boring the spit out of us with twenty-minute galactic versions of already borderline-jamband songs.

So we sat.

This is pretty much what G. Love looked like to me.




As you can see, Brother is also thrilled.




Deciding we didn't need all of G. Love, we hit up the Westword Tent again to see what was the ups with The Black Keys.

We passed more art on the way.###




And a water station.§§§




The Black Keys, it turns out, are fantastic musicians. There are two guys, a drummer and a guitarist, and they sound like two guitars, a bass and a drum. They're very bluesy and not my cup of tea, musically speaking, but clearly talented to the rafters.

We sat outside the tent in the long shadows of the early evening and watched the fashions go by.

The boots on this chick really caught my eye, then she stopped right in front of me and I got the full effect of the off-white lace tights and the hippie jumper thingie.




I was fumbling for my camera, and I have to thank this guy...




...whose picture I had taken earlier while waiting for The Duke Spirit. He flagged Elf Boots down and delayed her long enough so I could get a picture.

Most of the attire was neo-hippie, as you can see both by the subject of this photo and the spatterings of tie-dye around the background.




Speaking of t-shirts...




What the hell do you suppose that means? And I'm sad to say I didn't get pictures of the I ♥ BOXED WINE@ and VODKA connects us t-shirts.$

The best t-shirt of the day was the brown one with the gold outline of the state of Wyoming and the legend, "Wyoming Skeptics Society: Putting the "why" in "Wyoming."

We finally puttered over to the Main Stage West for our primary reason for being: Tool.

I'm sad to report that Tool has also become Phish, and after starting 15 minutes late, stopped 15 minutes early and only played six or seven songs. Six or seven TEN MINUTE songs. That all started like Aldo Nova's "Fantasy," all swinging dicks and arena rock bravado and build-up.

At least the lights were pretty.




The horror of the aftermath... I can never adequately describe it. They turned the stage lights out and there was precious little light on the fields. We could barely see where we were going and I was feeling a sort of low grade panic about being knocked over and trampled.

We went straight to the car under the unusual auspices of a perfect sense and memory of where we'd parked. Our elation was short-lived.

There were no signs, no lights, no directions, no directors. We joined the main vein of traffic fairly quickly, but then parking lot etiquette drove most people to let the ever-growing number of feeder lanes in. It wasn't long before it looked like two parking lots trying to merge.

When we finally got to the exit, there were cones to guide our way -- along with NINE police officers, mostly standing around talking to each other and making half-hearted hand gestures in the direction the cones were already sending us.

This made me froth at the mouth.

Now, when you catalog everything I've said here, you're going to come to the logical conclusion that I hated my stay at the Mile High Music Festival. Oddly, I had a great day.

Like a blanket of fresh snow will make even a landfill seem magical, I think getting to hang around all day with Brother, the smorgasbord of music, the people watching, the colours and the overall energy blurred the black lines I could've drawn around the whole thing and made me happy.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Late in the afternoon, when I'd had my fill of joyously destructive, holier-than-thou, oblivious hippies, I was grumbling about the Phish dancing: "Go ahead, hippie man, take one of your giant, loping steps of joy and I'll hook your ankle with my foot and take you to the ground."

Brother, snickering: "Giant loping steps of joy?"

Me: "You know EXACTLY what I'm talking about."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Formerly Fiddler's Green Amphitheatre. Only it's not Coors Amphitheatre anymore; it's back to being Fiddler's Green Amphitheatre. Fiddler's Green was once an earth sculpture and part of the Museum of Outdoor Art funded by John Madden (different John Madden). It was a large, sweeping, open park in the middle of a massive office complex (Denver Tech Center -- the second downtown of Denver). Before they fenced it off and put in a formal stage and seats, it was a place silicon chip guys and accountants would go to have a nice picnic lunch during the work day. A Colorado Symphony concert series started, during lunch hour at first, but then they added electricity for evening concerts. A few years later, they fenced it off and turned it into a large (17,900 capacity) outdoor concert venue called Fiddler'd Green Amphitheatre. Then Coor's bought it and it was the Coor's Amphitheatre. Live Nation bought it some time in the last couple of years and it's Fiddler's Green again. You're welcome.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Probably a sophistication on the part of those scheduling it as well.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Speaking of stage hopping, Brother was in charge of our schedule Saturday. At one point, he asked to be called, "The man with tha muthafuckin' plan." I said I was inclined to call him, "Julie, my cruise director." We compromised and I referred to him as, "Julie, my muthafuckin' cruise director."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): But since the turf is made entirely of petroleum products, a little less mud.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Y'know... music that bores me to tears and I can only assume the stoned find it deep... because they're stoned and their brains are all slow and sticky like warm tar.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I know some of you, and you probably love Phish and their ilk and I'm not saying you're wrong, I'm saying I HATE PHISH.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed): Best use of a soccer field EVER.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Who, from what we could hear from the Westword Tent, was funny as hell. As Brother said, "I don't want to listen to the guy's music, but I'd kinda like to have a beer with him."

§§FOOTNOTE (two swirls): We also saw a guy with a bike and a guy with a twelve-foot bamboo pole with a bandanna tied on the end. It was a day of random but constant, "Why do you suppose he could bring *that* in when we can't have a Lara Bar?"

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two gophers): He is NOT flipping me off. He's just covering his ear to hear the very important message on the other end.

##FOOTNOTE (two pounds): Please to pronounce "Puh-hish." Or, if you're PETA, "Sea Hippies."

†††FOOTNOTE (triple cross): The songs themselves weren't short. No, they were the standard ten or twelve minutes of rambling, arhythmic guitar prose. It's just that we only listened to most of one and part of another before we left twenty minutes later.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (track three): I asked Brother, "In an ongoing effort to prove how special I am, how many other people do you think are in the Ani DiFranco/Tool demographic?" just as a guy wearing Tool shirt walked into the tent right in front of us. He was just cutting through on the way to somewhere else, as it turned out, but his timing was perfect.

§§§FOOTNOTE (multi-purpose multiple swirls): From the blogs and articles leading up the the festival, the three biggest gaffes last year were not enough water, not enough shade and not enough vegan options.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (gopher triplets): Seriously. In the early 90s I had a brief and wonderful stint as a band manager just before Todd broke nationally. He'd be at our practice space (well, someone else's space, but same building) and on the same ticket now and then. Brother also has a really nice little "Do you KNOW who I AM?" story from a party he attended as "Bittersweet" was rearing its ugly head.

###FOOTNOTE (pound pound pound): This one was solar powered. One that I couldn't get near to get a decent photo was a miniature wind farm. And by miniature, I mean, "Not as big as the one in Palm Springs." It was pretty big, as art goes, but the windmills were only about five feet tall.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Hand decorated. In those fuzzy iron-on letters.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Neither the vodka shirt nor the boxed wine shirt had any corporate logos or context whatsoever. I believe the observer was meant to take them at face value.

Damning the Saint

Brother called Friday morning to say he and The Gov and Fuzzy G and maybe Magnet† were meeting for happy hour at the Coral Room.

I thought, "Why not?"‡

I debated over whether I would have a drink or try to stay true to my own idea of Lent.

Guess how long that debate lasted.§

I believe Ben was two tables away when I shouted, "Tempranillo! Please!"

[SUMMARY: Sainthood hasn't changed me a bit.]

Actually, I had given myself an out for emergency situations: if I'd hurt someone's feelings by not having a bite of birthday cake, if someone got engaged and anything but a champagne toast would be inappropriate, if someone got pregnant and a jug of Wild Turkey seemed wholly appropriate...

For someone who gave herself that many loopholes, I think I did remarkably well.

[SUMMARY: Auto-aspiratic horn blowing.]

Anyway, wine.

Wine.

Wine.

After the old Corral, grabbed a bite at Chipotle,¶ peed twice# and headed for the Hai Bar.

Shot.

Vodka.

Vodka.

Talk turned to getting brother a little action, seeing as he's wounded and divorced and needs to get back on some horse, maybe any horse. We were right in the middle of extolling the virtues of rebound sex when what to our wondering eyes should appear but a young woman who, in the dim light of the bar, could best be described as the love child of Robert Smith and Amy Winehouse.

Black chaos of hair, eyeliner as wide as a Wyoming sky. Lanky. Gawky.

So Bruce grabbed her and said, "Have you met my friend Bill?"

She told us her name was Erica†† and she was going to see Z-Trip and we should come. This excited the young folk to no end.

The old folk sucked her vodka ice cubes and tried not to feel her grey hairs glowing in the dark.

Brother and Bruce thought Z-Trip at Beta sounded like a *fantastic* idea.‡‡ Greg was interested in going home early, but allowed as how maybe he could be talked into it. And your dear ol' AntiM shrugged and said, "Sure. I can hang."

[SUMMARY: Enthusiasm is my middle name. Some of you may think it's Elizabeth, but that E is actually for Enthusiasm.]

So we cabbed to LoDo§§ and stood in line at the club.

Once inside, Crown and ginger ensued.¶¶

I tipped the bathroom attendent $20 because it was all the cash I had and nobody is going to work my soap pump for me and not be rewarded for it.##

We ran into Erica and she and I did a brief, happy girl dance together.†††

Later that evening, a very young, very drunk young man chose me for his own. I danced with him for a moment, then tried to get him to go on his way.

"You were really mean to him," said Brother later.

"I wasn't mean. I danced with him for a minute."

"Then you said, 'Make him go away.'"

"I believe what I said was, 'Step on him.'"

"Dude, you got hit on by a 22-year-old. You should be happy."

"Yeah, that was pretty cool."

[SUMMARY: That really was pretty cool.‡‡‡]

Z-Trip was interesting. He uses songs I know§§§ much of the time, which is an important component for my DJ well-being.

Y'know, the whole DJ-as-concert thing is a little weird. I can see a good DJ at a dance club being worth a following, but *watching* someone put other people's music together is like paying a premium price for a signed, numbered photograph of Starry Night.

Weird.

[SUMMARY: Old and feeble and you kids get off my lawn!]

Ish.

*************

Incense Rosé - Tauer Perfumes

Marin says: I totally fell in love with this. I think it is the hallmark of my undistinguished scent palate that I love big, spicy things.¶¶¶

With the spices, this is a tangy rose -- like a Tropicana -- rather than the prickly velvet of an American Beauty. The woods give it a darkish depth that makes me think of an opium den. There's something camphorous in the mid-hours of the perfume that speaks patchouli, but not too high and medicinal -- tempered by woods, for sure.

The incense isn't too churchy. In fact, I'm really impressed by the way the incense, wood and rose balance each other out. Nothing every shrieks or submits, they just fit together like a snake eating its own tail.###

The scent lasts for a long time and stays true to the core of itself through most of the journey. Oh, there are moments of higher camphor and moments of deeper woods and when it all boils off, it's more resiny that it was through the rest of the trip, but that tangy, spicy rose stays the course.

Andy Tauer says: Incense rosé is a mysterious fragrance built around smoking frankincense,$ with rose$ and citrus notes, and dark balsamic resins.

First, you might find a few rose petals, from a dark and spicy rose. The natural bergamot and Clementine essential oil, together with just a hint of cardamom play there with the natural rose absolute from Bulgaria.

The fragrance is lifted by orris notes, rendering it vibrant and clear. At the same time it is dark and rich, with castor and woody notes playing on the skin.

It is the Texan cedar wood, vetiver and the balsamic, dark and mysterious notes of myrrh and patchouli$ that are all dancing with the incense. This natural frankincense, CO2 extracted Boswellia serrata, is softened by balsamic labdanum and ambrein.

Brother says@: Woody.

[It's "Incense Rosé."]

Yes, it is.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): People actually call them by these names, though their parents probably still call them Adrian, Greg and Bruce.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): If the heathens are going to party in my house of worship, shall I not join them?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Just about as long as it takes to say "Maundy Thursday."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Except me. One side effect of drinking is it kills my appetite. Then I'm starving the next morning -- that's my version of a hangover.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Maybe that was just me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Erica was actually lovely, just sporting unfortunate choices in hair and makeup.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Brother and Bruce may have had more to drink than I had by that point.

§§FOOTNOTE (just turn around and go home): LoDo on a Friday night is almost always a bad idea.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (that's me, sticking my tongue out): Not a fan, it turns out. Thought you should know.

##FOOTNOTE (pound that soap!): Heheheheheh...

†††FOOTNOTE (my cross to bear): You know.... squeal, air-kiss, boobboobboobboob and away.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (what are those things anyway?): Even if he was really drunk.

§§§FOOTNOTE (earworms): I haven't been able to get "Take On Me" out of my head since.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (that's me, bob-bob-bobbing my head): Heheheheheh...

###FOOTNOTE (tic tac toe in 3D): I've wanted to use that image for weeks. Thanks for giving me this opportunity.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): This was Friday night. I thought it an appropriate review for the occasion. The occasion being, of course, Friday night.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): I would never have gotten Boswellia serrata, but by golly, I managed incense and rose.

How I Got Back from Rush

Or: Three Tails are Better than Two

The saga continues...

*************

From: BillT

Hope you all enjoyed the show.... I have attached the pic of Ben and I with the boys.

*************

From: Marin

Does anybody else wonder where Bill's left hand is?

*************

From: Ben

All I'm saying is that he needed TP afterwards. Even though I have both hands behind my back, I couldn't stop him. I feel so violated.

*************

From: Marin

You're smiling pretty big for someone who was just violated... just sayin'.

*************

From: Ben

I don't remember saying it had already happened at the moment of the photo. Sure, blame the victim you heartless slug.

*************

From: Greg

Can't we all just get along?! Come on everyone, group hug. Bill, hands where we can see them please.

*************

From: Ben

You're next Greg.

*************

From: Marin

And I'll blame Greg too. Society makes me what I am. Besides, did my brother not tell you Heartless Slug is my middle name?

For the record, this may be the poorest writing ever on my blog (and that's really saying something), but if y'all want to see me gush and slurp and fail to complete sentences over Rush:

http://theantim.blogspot.com/2008/06/three-rs.html

Hey, Bill... can I put your picture on the blog? All six of my readers would love to see y'all with the band.

*************

From: BillT

I don't know if that's a good idea.... it might be considered "evidence" if Ben decides to press charges. If Ben vows to keep his mouth shut like a good little boy, post away.

*************

From: Marin

Take back the night, Ben.

*************

From: Ben

Hmmm...something salient...how about, “Knock, knock boys?” “Who’s there?” “Fuck off!!!”

*************

From: Marin

Bill, can I take that as permission from Ben to post the picture?

*************

Fuck it. I'm posting the picture. Let this be a lesson, boys and girls: Never do anything in front of a camera you wouldn't want to see on the Innernets.

Alex and Bill and Ben and Geddy

Three Rs

Rush. Red Rocks.

[SUMMARY: Do it. Do either. If you get a chance, just take it.]

I had to put the summary first. Who knows how long I may gush on† about this concert?

I didn't take my camera. I watched the guy in front of me take photo after photo, and I decided it was a good thing I'd left the camera home.

For an obvious one, when you‡ spend your life behind a camera, you miss the actual connection with the bits you're recording. I wouldn't trade a hundred flat, still recordings for a single real memory of the concert.

For a less obvious two,§ there is an internal exclusivity that I store for my own joy. I don't know why or how it's related, but it gives me the same frisson of pleasure an exclusive, one-of-a-kind, goody bag thing gives me. Nobody can ever have this feeling but me.

There have been a handful¶ of times in my life I've just opened everything wide -- my eyes, my ears, my nose, my skin, my heart, my mind, my soul# -- to something because it's a one-of-a-kind and I don't want to spill a single drop.

This just happened to be one of those occasions.

[SUMMARY: Duh.]

We're on the train to Bangkok
Aboard the Thailand Express
We'll hit the stops along the way
We only stop for the best
-- A Passage to Bangkok, 2112

There are elements that make this kind of lingering magic. If you miss any element, you may miss the whole thing.††

Rush still qualifies as one of my top two favourite bands of all time,‡‡ even though I don't like the later music nearly as much as the pre-Power Windows stuff.§§

So there's the nostalgia.

And Red Rocks.

Brother went to the concert. We've seen a few concerts together, but they're generally bands we both really like, or in one instance, an educational experience for Seester.¶¶ Brother doesn't like Rush. Brother doesn't hate Rush,## but Brother doesn't like Rush. So I feel like I got to play big sister in some instructive way.

Ben and Bill and Greg and Mike and Drew... and the utterly prurient exchange with Ben via email. Priceless.

Tailgating.

Thunderstorms out over the plains, clearly visible from the 26th row and seemingly timed to the drums.

Rain in the lights.

Fire.%

The videos -- including the South Park short††† leading into "Tom Sawyer."

The playlist that included a bunch of songs I would never have guessed they would play.‡‡‡

[SUMMARY: Really. Magic.]

Wheels within wheels in a spiral array
A pattern so grand and complex
Time after time, we lose sight of the way
Our causes can't see their effects
-- Natural Science, Permanent Waves

Red Rocks is a gorgeous place. Y'all caught a glimpse of it on U2's "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" video, but... but you have to see it.

The rocks are, indeed, red, and hoisted nearly vertical by some cataclysmic tectonic event prehistory. They create a natural amphitheatre that has the best acoustics you'll probably ever hear outdoors -- maybe anywhere.

Until about 1987, all of Red Rocks was general admission. This caused people to camp out all day and drink in the hot sun and swarm the bottom rows... there were injuries.

Now it's nearly half reserved seating.^

I found years ago that I really like the last couple of rows of reserved seating just for the view. If you're up that high, you're just above the top of the rocks that form the backdrop of the stage and you can watch the entire front range.

You can almost see the curve of the earth, the horizon is so vast.

The first time I saw Robert Plant§§§ was July 3. We could see thundercells and lightning, rainbows and fireworks for miles.¶¶¶

Every concert at Red Rocks is a Grateful Dead concert. I think you could go see the London Symphony Orchestra at Red Rocks and someone would offer you pot. This doesn't do much for me on a practical level, but there's something charming about the vibe.

I've never been miserably hot or cold or wet at a Red Rocks concert. Even when it's a hot night, even when it rains, there's an insulation that keeps you safe and dry.

It's in the foothills, away from the city. There's a ruggedness and a freshness that comes from being out of the pollution and clamour of the population centre.

[SUMMARY: Suddenly, I'm outdoorsy.]

Begin the day with a friendly voice
A companion unobtrusive
That plays that song that's so elusive
And the magic music makes your morning mood
-- Spirit of Radio, Permanet Waves

Rush is just good in concert.

There are artists with personality, who can talk a ho-hum perfomance into a memorable event. There are artists who are so exacting they play through their lack of personality.

Then there are artists that can just flat perform.###

Without telling jokes and stories, without doing back flips, Rush just draws an audience in. I'll admit, the pyrotechnics and techo-pirates don't hurt a thing, but they don't overshadow and they certainly don't make up for a lack of compelling talent on the part of the band.

There was no opening band. The music before the show was orchestral versions of Rush songs piped through the stacks. They played for nearly two hours, took a break and came back for another hour or so.

The tickets were expensive, but I'd say they gave us our money's worth.

[SUMMARY: Rush at Red Rocks was like a cookie... on a lily pad.††††]

As I was drifting to sleep Wednesday night, I was making playlists in my head. I wanted to send each and every one of you a Rush CD so you could hear the brilliance I hear.

Only, you'll never hear the brilliance I hear. You may never think "brilliant" and "Rush" in the same sentence. You may think it's brilliant in a different way, for a different reason.

And that's why the camera and the iPod and the DVD will never, ever be an adequate substitute for the sheer joy of that one perfect night on the Rocks. It's mine, all mine and it's so much better 'cause it's all mine.

[SUMMARY: Greed isn't always about money.]

He's noble enough to know what's right
But weak enough not to choose it
He's wise enough to win the world
But fool enough to lose it
-- New World Man, Subdivisions

Oh, hell. I can't be that selfish. My birthday present to you:

May you find your own Rush at Red Rocks.



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): "Gush on, Garth." "Gush on, Wayne."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): You, me... whomever.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Buckle in, Betty, this could get abstract.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): More than several, less than a rash.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Or whatever it is we heathens have.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Which does make me wonder how many experiences have *just* missed and I'll never know because... well, because they missed.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): In fact, I usually just go with "favourite." They were there for me long before The Sisters of Mercy recorded "First and Last and Always."

§§FOOTNOTE (wheels within wheels...): You can look it up if you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm planning on just cruising in Rush Dork mode for awhile here, so I may lose you here and there.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (microphones): That would be the hip-hop concert I asked Brother to take me to for the joy of putting the vibe with the music. There were no black people at this concert, so I question the full validity of my experience.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like bass amp turned up to eleven): Unlike Beavis & Butthead, who broke my heart with, "This is pretty cool. Is this that video where... oh, GOD, it's RUSH."

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Still twelve.

†††FOOTNOTE (high hats): "I'm Geddy Lee and I'll sing whatever the hell I want."

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (the long climb up the ramp -- if you've ever been to Red Rocks, you know of which I speak): i.e. -- older stuff that they didn't play on the radio.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Which I like. Not sitting in the hot sun all day, not fighting a bunch of fucking kids for my spot... old. I'm old and feeble and I deserve reserved seating.

§§§FOOTNOTE (oh, my curly head... how many footnotes are we going to have?): Yes, I'm a Plant Dork too.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (Canadian trio): The second time I saw Robert Plant, he was just heading into the last verse of "Big Log" when a shooting star went from one side of the sky to the other, right over the rocks. Everybody high enough to see cheered and screamed. Everybody down below wondered what the hell was wrong with us. Kinda like when the entire section at the top of the Pepsi Center cheered when the Rockies beat Philly during the Genesis concert and the people who paid mad green to sit on the floor weren't in on the celebration.

###FOOTNOTE (ok... turned up to TWELVE): Neil Diamond is one of these. Yes, I'm a Neil Diamond Dork too.

††††FOOTNOTE (record!): I love that commercial. See? Rush gave me a chance to use one of my favourite commercials. Rush is magic.

How I Got to the Rush Concert

... a tail tale in two parts.†

When last we left our heroine,‡ she had pinned the bemused male and was waiting for the count.

*************

From: Greg

Ben, I hate to see you surrender now. It just got interesting!

*************

From: Ben

OK, well, I was going to say that Marin gives a whole new meaning to "On a train to Bang-kok."§

*************

From: Ben

Of course, were I to say such a thing, I'd run the risk of getting punched in the face by, well, Marin. And maybe Bill too.

*************

From: Marin

I'd worry more about Bill than Marin. Marin appreciates a good pun. And a dirty joke. And never starts anything she can't finish.¶

(I was talking about the conversational thread, of course, but y'all can take that any way you want.)

*************

From: Ben

I’d be more worried about Bill if he didn’t owe me one (oh man, here we go...).#

By way of penance:

Husband and wife had just finished a particularly sweaty session in bed. Husband says to wife, “Honey, why don’t you ever tell me when you have an orgasm?”

Wife responds, “Because you’re never here when it happens.”


Now if y'all will excuse me, I need to go call Brother and find out what he did to Ben's sister.



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): It's like a dirty SAT test: how many filthy little jokes are in this sentence?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Keeper of the Twelvehood, Queen of Discomfort, Mistress of Bad Taste... and when you're talking blow job jokes that takes on a whole new meaning.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): This is a Rush joke. If you are a Rush dork, you got that. If not, there's this song...

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And apparently feels a sudden need to talk about herself in third person. Who does Marin think she is... Deion Sanders?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Oh, Brother, you got some 'splainin' to do...

Sick and Twisted

Talking literally, here, folks.† I had a really spectacular flu the last three days. Poor Steve had it first, and I had to call him Monday to say, "Hey, hope you're feeling better, but I really need to know this is going to be over soon."

It was one of those where I spent a significant amount of time thinking I was going to die and another significant amount of time thinking it may not be the worst thing.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

I've been gone so long... today I feel I'm a stranger‡ in a strange land.

It's going to be disjointed, but we'll all get there together. Without joints.§ And you know what that means...

That pig is gonna get the tongue-bath of his life.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

*************

First, happy Super Tuesday. Go read this book:




I'm a big fan of the "Click Clack Moo" series¶ anyway, but this isn't really a kids' book. Well, maybe. But you'll get more out of it than your five-year-old.

And you can read it standing up at your local B&N.

[SUMMARY: That's what he said.]

*************

Second, happy Super Bowl. Don't drink this:

Me and My Main Shanny doin' what we do best



And maybe you think you have no call to drink Boone's Farm Sangria-Flavoured Wine Product Food Stuff, but, hey... this isn't what I thought I'd be using my college degree for either.

See, our Super Bowl is about tradition. The Elks have been Super Bowling for nearly 20 years. In fact, next year is our 20th anniversary.# Because most of us were just out of college when this whole mess started, a lot of our traditions revolve around alcohol.

Because we're all still wildly immature and in denial about our age,†† we've seen no reason to delete, modify‡‡ or render symbolic+ any of these alcoholic traditions.

These traditions include the National Anthem Chug, in which the *stated* object of the game is to begin chugging a grossly cheap beer§§ at the first note of the anthem, finishing as the anthem finishes. Around, "...does that star-spangled banner yet wave..." it devolves into a highly competitive race to finish first.

These traditions also include the Lonely Guy Hour, which used to mean passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm at half-time, but now means everybody brings four or five bottles, which are cracked right after the national anthem and somewhere around the post-game confetti explosion, someone says, "Gorrdamit! Where's the best of the Roone's Flarm?"

After years of delicate tasting, we have highly sophisticated Boone's Farm palates.

Thusly:

"Where's the pink?¶¶ The pink is really good!"

"Are you high? The pink made me barf. Now, the blue..."

"Oh, dude, the blue SUCKS! Ya gotta get the orange."

"You'd drink that peach shit?"

"Not PEACH, dumbass, ORANGE..."

"Ha! That's what she said!"

Anyway, our verdict is the Sangria is just bad. It actually tastes like blood.##

Also? This year we may have started a new tradition. Y'all twelve-year-olds will appreciate it: just about anytime anybody says anything, answer with, "That's what she said," or the occasionally snarf-worthier, "That's what he said."

Funniest thing ever. I still giggle every time I say it.

Maybe you had to be there.&

[SUMMARY: That's what I said.]

*************

Soldier Boy called Friday night. I think I'm gonna get me some this weekend.

[SUMMARY: WOOOOOOOOOT! I mean... That's what she said!]

*************

At one time, I had a lot of words to impart on the whole Queensryche/Dokken experience. Because it's so far gone, I'm going to give you some bullet points:

• Look! Bullet!
• We got our tickets under face value from a scalper. I didn't know that happened. I felt dangerous and hip and savvy.
• It was the first time in (probably) twenty years that I haven't been vigorously frisked going into a concert. 1) Damnit. It would have been the most action I'd seen in months, and 2) if I'd had a clue, I'd've brought my camera.
• Don Dokken now looks like Kenny Rogers.
• Don Dokken did an all-acoustic set, and all of Dokken's Greatest Hits sound pretty much alike, acoustially presented.
• Don Dokken pulled a Tragedy Vampire on the whole Heath Ledger thing with, "I wasn't going to play anything off the new album,% but this is for a guy... a guy who liked music. And he used a lot of music. And I met him a couple of times..." I will never forget the chorus to the alleged song because I was so intent on memorising it just so I could share with ya'll:

I've been driven by wild horses, dragged beneath their feet.
Why do the children cry? How can we get relief?

• All that said, Don Dokken was personable, friendly, cheerful (other than the Tragedy Vampire portion of the program), played the hits and got off stage. I think I could have a beer with Don Dokken.
• Queensryche rocked. Geoff Tate has lost the tiniest bit off his highest wail, but mostly just rocked like an antiformal syncline.$ They did not do "The Lady Wore Black," though I had a dork moment when I thought they were going to and I turned to Greg and said, "No way. No fucking way." Later, I had to confess I'd failed to recognise some Queensryche hit that sounded a lot like TLWB and Greg said he thought it was TLWB too. So... vindicated.
• Geoff Tate is DEADLY serious about his work. While that often makes art and culture more laughable, I came to the conclusion that if he wasn't so very, very serious, his work would be a joke.
• Geoff Tate doesn't cuss. Not so much as a "hell" or a "damn." Particularly in contrast to Don Dokken's every-other-word-is-fuck, it was kinda refreshing.
• Reservoir tip ski hats are back in. Half the roadies were wearing them, but I also saw a couple of escaped Abercrombie & Fitch models in front of us and one was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana reservoir tip hat and I have a strong feeling that if it was five minutes passé, the boy wouldn't be caught dead in it.
• I'm pretty sure the couple to my left at the encore actually had sex. Right there. Next to me. And she was wearing this strappy, complicated, dominatrix thing that took her about ten minutes to get straightened when the lights came up.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

*************

THIS JUST IN:

I received an plane ticket sales email thingie* from Frontier under the heading, "Why Hibernate?" and saying you could escape with low airfare. On the "to/from Denver" list? Anchorage. Chicago. Billings. Rapid City. Detroit.

What exactly am I escaping? And why would I leave hibernation to do it?

[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]

*************

Speaking of concerts, did I mention Rush? At Red Rocks?@ I got my ticket last week. $120. Fuck me.^

So I guess I won't be leaving the eighties any time this year. It's a total celebration of lack of maturation.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

*************

While I was sick, I spent a lot of time in front of the TiVi,††† and this is on Comcast On-Demand. Watch it:



*************

Dang. I'm sure there's lots more. I'll probably have to lick that lucky pig tomorrow.

[SUMMARY: All together now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I know you're used to my metaphorical... um... flights of fancy and purple prose whatsits, but there I was, sick (throwing up every hour on the hour for 22 hours) and twisted (wrapping myself around the toilet in new ways I never I could manage).

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, even stranger than usual.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not those kind. If you ever saw me stoned, you'd know why I never, ever mean *those* kind. Mentally, I went straight to Lyda's zombies.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Don't judge. Anyone who has kids or has bedtimed for, "Read it again. Read it again. Read it again," appreciates a book you can both appreciate.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There will be T-shirts.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Except for some of the guys whose daughters are rapidly approaching teenage-hood. Ah, Mateo... this is where you get it back for all your slick, horn-dog years.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): At least not to save our souls and livers.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed): You know... like substituting Crystal Light for Boone's Farm or tossing confetti instead of our cookies.

§§FOOTNOTE (now, there's a nice, tight spiral... that's what she said): In honour of our humble beginnings.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two bottles for the price of one!): Because Boone's Farm, like Gatorade, doesn't so much come in flavours as colours.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a Patriot): Well, Blood-Flavoured Wine Food Product Stuff, in any case.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I will, of course, be forcing it down your throat for the rest of the post. *pause* *think* *giggle* That's what he said!

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Yes, Don Dokken has a new album coming out. Acoustic. All new stuff. Seriously.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): A little geology humour for those of you who are so inclined. Or synclined. Or anticlined, if you'd rather. Gosh, I think I'm funny.

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, if you can believe that): Plane Ticket Sales Email Thingie® Frontier Airlines. All saints preserve us.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): The place where U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" video was shot. You know, where the girl in the polar bear jacket mauls Bono, then he waves a flag.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): That's what he said.

†††FOOTNOTE (triple your pleasure): Except for Monday, when I spent a lot of time in front of the toilet and the rest of the time chasing ducks in fever delusions. Fever delusions are kinda cool.

Trolling Amongst the Young

Ah, commingling with the twenty-somethings. Teen-somethings. Children and their handlers.

Red took me to the KTCL Big Gig Saturday.

We dutifully checked the Coors Amphitheatre website for forbidden materials and packed accordingly. As it turned out, they were letting cameras, backpacks† -- indeed, entire people -- in without hassle.

In other words, I coulda brought my camera.

I did get a couple of pictures outside in the parking lot.

Red with Cutest Little Car


Um... Red said, "Get sassy," so I emerged from my chrysalis, a full-feathered dork.

AntiM with cutest little car


Look! CRANES! Two of 'em!

If anybody knows a crane operator who wants to get lucky, give him my number


Red took a whole bunch of pictures on her camera phone, so I bet she'll post them later today. Or tomorrow. But if you need to see random Big Gig pictures, the radio station called for fan photos for their website.

Yep. Not only did they allow cameras, they encouraged them.

Right now, you could be looking at pictures of the band we affectionately called Josie and the Pussycats. Or the girl in the Typical Whore t-shirt. Or the foot-tall mohawk. Or Big Dot Girl. Or Red knitting. Or the really hot guy behind us‡ who definitely is allowed to take his shirt off§ any ol' time.

ETA: Red has posted. And she has pictures of mohawks and Big Dots. And I completely forgot about the Aspiring Male Model. How could I forget him? He had the coolest shoes I saw all day.

I was a tiny bit worried about taking knitting, not because, say, it was on the banned list,$ but y'all know what it's like going through airport security: it just depends on who you get, what their level of assholedness may be on that day and whether they got the memo.

Of course, with people bringing in full backpacks, bongs and cameras, the knitting was probably a shoo-in all along, though I like to think the sweet young boys¶ that checked my bag on the way in are telling their friends RIGHT NOW about the goofy old broad who brought knitting in to the Big Gig.

During our lunch in a secret, shady hidey-hole in the trees, Red and I began playing, "How many people are older than Marin?"

We stopped at 62, which means I was no older than the 63rd oldest person there. The fact that most of them were there escorting tween offspring should not be taken into account.

I was blinded about six minutes into the day by my sunblock. For the time being, I hate Neutrogena# and their lying, betraying ways. Sweatproof, my ass.%

Water is four dollars a bottle at the venue. Most food booths don't take plastic.

I worked on Lizard Ridge, starting the second set of bumps for the third time. I was counting out loud†† because I figured the pattern may very well be wrong.‡‡

Turns out, it's written kind of oddly and is not wrong, per se. It just gives some of the directions twice. In two different ways. The pattern thinks it's clarifying, I think I have to do the same thing twice and then I run out of stitches. Simple misunderstanding.

Now I get why Tani hates it when I give her directions and give her too much information.

The music? Oh...

My favourite band in the lineup was the first one, Tickle Me Pink. Turns out§§ they're a local-ish band (Ft. Collins). Imagine.

I really liked I Hate Kate.

Plain White T's were pretty good.¶¶ Single File (a Denver band) was about 50/50 for me.

Motion City Soundtrack was too Death Cab for Cutie for my taste, and yet not quite Death Cab for Cutie enough. There's only so much piano-based wuss music I can keep in my collection -- and it has to be lyrically compelling and musically lush, like Death Cab, rather than simply wussy like Motion City.

ETA: Red has admonished me that Jack's Mannequin (whom I completely forgot, which may tell you something about the caliber of music as I see it) is the wussy piano band. Motion City apparently rocked, but I don't much remember them either, so meh.

Oh, wait... it's coming back to me. Motion City was the one where we said, "With that many guitars on stage, you'd think we'd hear more... guitar."

Blue October was awful. Sucked the life right out of me.

Now, I don't like most country music (no, Blue October is not country and, yes, this is going somewhere), but I can appreciate that it actually *is* music. Blue October? Just sucked. I'd rather be locked in a room for a weekend listening to Kenny Chesney or Alan Jackson than four songs of Blue October. Since Red felt the same way,## we beat our retreat before song three had even begun.

This meant we missed Social Distortion, the headliner, which may have been a shame. They've been doing the same song for thirty years, but it's a pretty good song. And I've heard from (albeit very biased) people that they put on a hell of a show. But Blue October ruined it for everybody.

Besides, what we lost in Social Distortion, we gained in massive traffic convenience.

Shit. How old *am* I?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which they CLEARLY stated we couldn't bring backpacks, food, cameras... and we're just too law-abiding to put it to the man. Or sweet little boy who mans the front gate. Boys the front gate?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Who was on the list of people older than AntiM. Imagine the thrill.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): After seeing several poor examples of men with their shirts off, we began developing rules:

1. Stand straight. Relax. Look down. If you can't see your feet for your gut, put your shirt on.
2. Look down. Can you count your ribs? Put your shirt on.
3. Look at my breasts. Are yours bigger? Put your shirt on.
4. Take your Tevas off. Run the scratchy side of the velcro closure from your shoulder as far as you can down your back. Are you combing? Put your shirt on.

Yeah, catty doesn't begin to describe it. God on our side, to be sure, but catty.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): What I should have been worried about was the sixteen-year-old boy behind us who was trying to talk his friends into moving closer to the stage, using as one of his reasons, "They're, like, knitting."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I can't imagine they were even shaving yet and they were in charge of front gate security.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Big target.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): As opposed to "sweatproof my ass," which really wouldn't have been such a bad thing on Saturday. Too much information?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): "One, two, three, four... one, two, three, four twice... one, two, three, four three times... one, two, three, four four times... um... um..."

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): 'Cause you know, knitted by thousands, foiled by one knitter who can't count to four.

§§FOOTNOTE (watch those curves!): They won a battle of the bands to get the opening slot on the mainstage instead of playing the crappy high school choir platforms outside the amphitheatre proper. We couldn't find out who they were. I had to wait until I looked online Sunday. Mystery band!

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two paragraphs!): And I really, really like their song, "Hate (I Really Don't Like You)" with the chorus, "All I wanted was your love love love love love love... Hate is a strong word, but I really, really, really don't like you."

##FOOTNOTE (totally pounded): Thank the katzen in himmel for small blessings, like friends who are on the same page just about the time you're ready to jam a knitting needle in your left ear to make the pain stop.

Weebles Wobble

TTHFCIF

So I went to the gym this morning...

Don't laugh. It could happen to you.

I'm finally taking advantage of the five-pack of personal training sessions I got† when I signed up with 24-Hour Fitness. In my defense,‡ it's not as bad as it sounds.

They were building the gym less than a block from my house and they put a flier on my door saying, "Join now! Pre-sale! Spectacular deals! We'll sex you up and be your slaves and clean your floors! Call now!"

Naturally, I did.

And they sent me to Highlands Ranch, which, for those of you not in the know, is not quite the other side of the earth from northwest Denver, but damned close. It is close to the office though, so, y'know, I went.

And the gym across the street was supposed to open in March. I think it finally opened in mid-May, about the time of the 40 days/40 nights thing which 1) sapped my will to gym, and 2) took up a LOT of "free" time.

That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

[SUMMARY: The sun was in my eyes. Nobody told me we had a deadline. I didn't see the sign, officer.]

But I'm all jimmy§ now. And it was such a good morning for it, right after going to see Rasputina last night and staying out late-ish and indulging in a little blueberry vodka (and gallons and gallons of water, not to worry).

How was Rasputina? Glad you asked.

I love going to these shows. Two girls on cellos and one odd guy with a flask and an enormous-and-ever-increasing¶ percussion set.# Gothy. Rocky. Costumed.& Funny. Music? Outstanding!

Plus, the concert shirt has a big ol' skull on it. And they had knitting bags$ with the big ol' skull too. Thus:



And the crowd... oh, the crowd. The standard goths, dripping mopey black haircuts into broad black eyeliner; the fey and elegant white-skinned girls with improbably-coloured hair in fitted velvet jackets and frothy white dresses; the handful of jock types with their super-coiffed fashionista†† arm candy; the emogranola kids, all goth below the waist and ill-fitting bright t-shirts above, slinging Himalayan-weave hippy messenger bags across their bodies; the row of high school geometry teachers sporting short-sleeved plaid seersucker dress shirts and implied pocket protectors; the three neo-disco goth children up front who banged their heads and made the international hand signal for devil music‡‡ the whole concert; the Art Garfunkel look-alike (smaller fro) in a black dress shirt, brown shorts and Doc Martens looking like an escapee from IBM...

[SUMMARY: The circus is in town. Come one! Come all!]

I'm not sure Red was as into it as I was, but I know she'd agree with me that the sheer pageantry of the crowd was worth the price of admission.

Ah, people watching. Who needs birds?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In *coughdecembercough*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Yes, I feel a little defensive. Did you catch the part where it's taken me seven months to set foot inside the gym for which I've been paying for... well, seven months?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I started with "gymmy," but it looked wrong. Ditto "gymmie," "gymmee" and "gymmiee." To say I'm jimmy seems kinda hip and street or something. At least like something from Heathers. It'll be very.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): We speculate that Melora (read the history if you want to know more), who seems to rule her concept with an iron fist in a barbed-wire glove and sports a rolicking revolving door of second-chair musical talent (Melora, always and ever, being first chair), has allowed the drummer to have more bits on his trees every year he manages not to piss her off enough to fire him. Or perhaps he just sneaks them on when he hopes she's not looking, in which case, she may trade him in when she figures it out.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): More cowbell!

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Thus (Melora on the right):

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): OK, maybe not exactly what the designer intended, but it was clearly meant to be my knitting bag. Y'all know.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Prompting me to sing, "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." Of course, I was wearing olive green cargo pants and a red split-neck tshirt, so there's probably some little goth version of me blogging her heart out about the muggles that showed up on her turf last night.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): You know. Like Beavis and Butthead. Shout at the devil. Blizzard of Oz. That shit.