Sunday morning.
8:00 am.
Doorbell.†
No, no, no... wait. Let's get some background here:
Four weeks ago, I had a notice on my door, along with a release,‡ so someone could fix my deck railings,§ which look like a ramshackle country sheep fence.¶
"You'll have to be there for the first four hours so they can do some tests for leakage in the garage and house."
"Do your crews work weekends? I'd rather not missing any work if I can help it."
"No. NO weekends. NEVER. Idiot! Why would you even ask such a thing? Barbarian! Fascist!"#
So we agreed on Monday the 12th.††
You know where this is going.
In a spectacular, bruising, bloodying, life-sized game of Patio Furniture Tetris, I loaded out the deck and rendered my dining room useless for the next several days.
I'm pretty sure Manny and the Snow Removers do decks in the warmer months.
And I did more before 9:00 am than I had ever intended to do all day.‡‡
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Preceded by many, many backup signals. I hate backup signals.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Which I mention because I'd like to bitch about it as long as I'm bitching. Y'know, as an efficiency measure. I rewrote the release because it essentially said, "You agree to let our people in your house, now and forever, for the purpose of fixing, inspecting, maintaining bits of the house with no date or time restrictions and you agree to hold them harmless for any and all breakage or damage." I have finally discovered the practical application of being a Landman.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It was supposed to be fixed before I moved in. Then, after three years of asking, they let me know they weren't going to fix anything because the HOA was suing the builder for such things as wildly substandard deck rails and they didn't want to pay for anything the builders should pay for. Fortunately (since the giant set of patio furniture wasn't enough, then the planters weren't enough), the compost barrel was finally enough to trigger Murphy's Law so I could move the maximum amount of ungainly stuff into the house.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Great for a quaint rural sheep farm. Not so great for an urban townhouse.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, her mouth may have said, "Oh, no, I'm sorry, we don't work weekends," but I'm sure her eyes said "Fascist!"
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): i.e. - tomorrow, but most notably not today.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Hopefully getting out of Kim's doghouse in the beginning of a misery-loves-company trend.
Showing posts with label bitchbitchbitch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bitchbitchbitch. Show all posts
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Iggle Has Landed!
The pink† cashmerino‡ finally made its way home.§
For the record? No mail Saturday, Monday, Tuesday... seven copies of the weekly grocery flyer, a Nordstrom bill from November¶ and my yarn today.
I feel *so* lucky to have ever received this package. I believe it may qualify as a miracle.#
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): It's a lovely, lovely pink.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And the remaining two cones of green.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Home is where you hang your cashmere.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I went paperless in December.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): In the new theism, I believe my post office is Satan.
For the record? No mail Saturday, Monday, Tuesday... seven copies of the weekly grocery flyer, a Nordstrom bill from November¶ and my yarn today.
I feel *so* lucky to have ever received this package. I believe it may qualify as a miracle.#
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): It's a lovely, lovely pink.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And the remaining two cones of green.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Home is where you hang your cashmere.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I went paperless in December.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): In the new theism, I believe my post office is Satan.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Nicknames
A nickname† says one of three things:@
1) I like you so much, I want to name you myself, to have this tiny, personal link that I give from me to you. It's a token of my esteem.‡
2) You are so horrible and laughable that I feel a need to say something derisive about you every single time I mention you.§
3) Your name or occupation lends itself so readily to a nickname I must apply one, even if I don't know you well enough to determine rules one or two apply.
[SUMMARY: I am a master of useless generalisations.]
Under the black auspices of condition No. 2, I feel my post office needs a nickname.% Post Office of the Damned? The Post Office that Time Forgot? Lost Office?
[SUMMARY: Bitter much?]
Y'all chime in here anytime. I may be starting to lose my sense of humour where the mail is concerned.
Because my post office is trying to kill me.¶
I received HALF of my Colourmart shipment yesterday. Four cones of the blue and two of the green. Four pink and two green are... where? At the Jiffy Lube on South Federal# for whom I inexplicably get mail four or five times a year?†† A neighbour's? In the parking lot of Safeway?
[SUMMARY: The Travelocity gnome got nothing on my yarn.]
On the bright side, the yarn is gorgeous. The blue is almost exactly as it looks on my computer screen and the green has a brighter, more acid edge that brings it even closer to the ideal I was seeking when I started my quest.
I'll let you know how the pink is if I ever get it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Funny, we were just discussing nicknames in the comments. Not philosophically, just the surety that if I changed my name to Griselda, a certain portion of the population would resist "Zelda" and insist on calling me "Griz."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For the purposes of this rant, in any case.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even if I choose to call you Wombat or Fishlips.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Overwhelmingly childish and good for the soul.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, my PO has a first name, M-O-T-H-E-R...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Do they not know I'm prone to stroke?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Currently at least five miles away on SOUTH FEDERAL BOULEVARD, not, one would think, to be mistaken for WEST 37th AVENUE.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Oddly, when I lived on North Hooker Street, I also got mail from that same Jiffy Lube, prompting me once to write, "Do I look like a Jiffy Lube?" in angry red Sharpie on an envelope. A question, I might add, that I don't really want an answer to.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed):
1) I like you so much, I want to name you myself, to have this tiny, personal link that I give from me to you. It's a token of my esteem.‡
2) You are so horrible and laughable that I feel a need to say something derisive about you every single time I mention you.§
3) Your name or occupation lends itself so readily to a nickname I must apply one, even if I don't know you well enough to determine rules one or two apply.
[SUMMARY: I am a master of useless generalisations.]
Under the black auspices of condition No. 2, I feel my post office needs a nickname.% Post Office of the Damned? The Post Office that Time Forgot? Lost Office?
[SUMMARY: Bitter much?]
Y'all chime in here anytime. I may be starting to lose my sense of humour where the mail is concerned.
Because my post office is trying to kill me.¶
I received HALF of my Colourmart shipment yesterday. Four cones of the blue and two of the green. Four pink and two green are... where? At the Jiffy Lube on South Federal# for whom I inexplicably get mail four or five times a year?†† A neighbour's? In the parking lot of Safeway?
[SUMMARY: The Travelocity gnome got nothing on my yarn.]
On the bright side, the yarn is gorgeous. The blue is almost exactly as it looks on my computer screen and the green has a brighter, more acid edge that brings it even closer to the ideal I was seeking when I started my quest.
I'll let you know how the pink is if I ever get it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Funny, we were just discussing nicknames in the comments. Not philosophically, just the surety that if I changed my name to Griselda, a certain portion of the population would resist "Zelda" and insist on calling me "Griz."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For the purposes of this rant, in any case.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even if I choose to call you Wombat or Fishlips.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Overwhelmingly childish and good for the soul.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, my PO has a first name, M-O-T-H-E-R...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Do they not know I'm prone to stroke?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Currently at least five miles away on SOUTH FEDERAL BOULEVARD, not, one would think, to be mistaken for WEST 37th AVENUE.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Oddly, when I lived on North Hooker Street, I also got mail from that same Jiffy Lube, prompting me once to write, "Do I look like a Jiffy Lube?" in angry red Sharpie on an envelope. A question, I might add, that I don't really want an answer to.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed):
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Rats Dead... Bodies Everywhere...
Is "rat-killing" specific to the petroleum industry, or do all people use this term?
Call me the Pied Piper of Petroleum Problems, St. Marin of the Dead Rat.
Sheesh. I'm putting "exterminator" on my résumé.
Call me the Pied Piper of Petroleum Problems, St. Marin of the Dead Rat.
Sheesh. I'm putting "exterminator" on my résumé.
Friday, July 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Oh, Nifty
Looks like I'll be taking a vacation to Portland for very little reason in August.
While I'm there, I'll take a class on how to stretch my knitting muscles.
Stupid sparkly Sock Summit.
I am NOT happy.
I AM pouting.
Have a nice day.
While I'm there, I'll take a class on how to stretch my knitting muscles.
Stupid sparkly Sock Summit.
I am NOT happy.
I AM pouting.
Have a nice day.
Spoke Too Soon
I now have a shopping cart, but registration is a pipe dream.
Please send JellO shots.
Please send JellO shots.
A Wasted Education
All my hours and clicks and tears and swearwords and *headdesks* and shrieks and sturm und drang surrounding the fiasco with the Rockies World Series tickets and the more recent debacle of the Nuggets Western Conference Finals tickets somehow did not prepare me for the pain and frustration of being unable to get onto the Sock Summit website to register for classes.
And I have to pee REALLY bad -- racehorse style -- and I know if I leave my desk I'll lose the two-second window alloted me under the Sock Summit version of Murphy's Law and...
Oh. I appear to be in.
Never mind.
And I have to pee REALLY bad -- racehorse style -- and I know if I leave my desk I'll lose the two-second window alloted me under the Sock Summit version of Murphy's Law and...
Oh. I appear to be in.
Never mind.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A Casa Bonita con Doctor Fatalidad†
You may have heard of Casa Bonita.
You may have heard that I went there last week for Dr. Doom's birthday.‡
Ah, Casa Bonita, giant pink adobe palace of the Queen City of the Plains.
For those of you out of state and unfamiliar, here is what Casa Bonita is all about§:
Tallest, Hairiest Nephew had just learned about the history of Colfax¶ in school that day, so he hipped us to some Casa Bonita facts:
Casa Bonita has many, many live entertainment opportunities. Cliff divers, shoot-outs, wandering mariachis.
It keeps kids completely enthralled.
Until weaponry is offered.
Anyway, the purpose of the whole debacle was Dr. Doom's fifth birthday.# He requested an Army theme,†† so we had masks and helmets. I believe you've met Brother and Tallest, Hairiest Nephew.‡‡
I'd like to introduce you to the Peach, Dad's fiancee.§§
And I had to ask the FSIL@ if the cake was professionally done¶¶ because wouldn't this be an excellent Cake Wreck?
Of course, everything looks better by candlelight.##
Even Dr. Doom has that soft glow.
Once the candles go off, of course%...
There is a gift shop at Casa Bonita.†††
It looks about like you might expect a gift shop at Casa Bonita to look.
There is also an arcade at Casa Bonita. Apparently, Spider Stompin' is the Whack-a-Mole of the new millenium. If they came out with Spider Stompin' for the Wii, I could probably have the legs of a fencer.‡‡‡
Remember my rant about mash-ups? Not all mash-ups are bad.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Yes, I looked up "doom" in the English-Spanish dictionary.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Because I made a *huge* fuss about it.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Note the part where anybody over two has to pay $15 for a really, really bad taco salad to be at Casa Bonita.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm making the assumption they didn't include the hookers and blow part of Colfax in that. Then again, as my friend Jeff says, "If you make an assumption, you make an ass out of you and umption."
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): As he got in the Land Cruiser to go home, he said, glee painting every inch of his voice, "I can't *believe* that I'm FIVE!" Go on... make "awwwww" noises.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It appears the days of Disney Princess Death Match are behind us. Dr. Doom now has a disdain of all things pink and girly. I like to thnk that secretly, in the dark of night, he says good night to each of them, Walton's Mountain-style.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note the family resemblance.
§§FOOTNOTE (§hingles §uck): Dad was not, sadly, in attendance. I will believe to my dying day he got shingles just to get out of eating Casa Bonita "food."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): Former sister-in-law. Y'know... like FSO, only slightly less likely to drunk-dial at 2:30 in the morning.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (baloons and artillery): While the balloons were done by a professional baker, the tank candles were all eBeth.
##FOOTNOTE (the number of times I got it wrong...): Don't try to pretend you're not floored by the artistic majesty of this photo.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Then again, my flash-phobia leads to some pretty unmajestic work, so maybe it's a wash if you aren't floored by the artistic majesty of the candles but manage not to be wholly derisive about the wiggly, grainy shots.
†††FOOTNOTE (Easter's *over*): Of COURSE there's a gift shop at Casa Bonita.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (tracks of my tears meets tears of a clown, leaving tracks of my clown): Which would go nicely with the swimmer's arms I have hanging in the basement. *rimshot*
You may have heard that I went there last week for Dr. Doom's birthday.‡
Ah, Casa Bonita, giant pink adobe palace of the Queen City of the Plains.
For those of you out of state and unfamiliar, here is what Casa Bonita is all about§:
Tallest, Hairiest Nephew had just learned about the history of Colfax¶ in school that day, so he hipped us to some Casa Bonita facts:
- Casa Bonita was built in 1973 and opened in 1974.
- At a cost of $2 million.
- With no blueprints used.
Casa Bonita has many, many live entertainment opportunities. Cliff divers, shoot-outs, wandering mariachis.
It keeps kids completely enthralled.
Until weaponry is offered.
Anyway, the purpose of the whole debacle was Dr. Doom's fifth birthday.# He requested an Army theme,†† so we had masks and helmets. I believe you've met Brother and Tallest, Hairiest Nephew.‡‡
I'd like to introduce you to the Peach, Dad's fiancee.§§
And I had to ask the FSIL@ if the cake was professionally done¶¶ because wouldn't this be an excellent Cake Wreck?
Of course, everything looks better by candlelight.##
Even Dr. Doom has that soft glow.
Once the candles go off, of course%...
There is a gift shop at Casa Bonita.†††
It looks about like you might expect a gift shop at Casa Bonita to look.
There is also an arcade at Casa Bonita. Apparently, Spider Stompin' is the Whack-a-Mole of the new millenium. If they came out with Spider Stompin' for the Wii, I could probably have the legs of a fencer.‡‡‡
Remember my rant about mash-ups? Not all mash-ups are bad.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Yes, I looked up "doom" in the English-Spanish dictionary.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Because I made a *huge* fuss about it.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Note the part where anybody over two has to pay $15 for a really, really bad taco salad to be at Casa Bonita.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm making the assumption they didn't include the hookers and blow part of Colfax in that. Then again, as my friend Jeff says, "If you make an assumption, you make an ass out of you and umption."
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): As he got in the Land Cruiser to go home, he said, glee painting every inch of his voice, "I can't *believe* that I'm FIVE!" Go on... make "awwwww" noises.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It appears the days of Disney Princess Death Match are behind us. Dr. Doom now has a disdain of all things pink and girly. I like to thnk that secretly, in the dark of night, he says good night to each of them, Walton's Mountain-style.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note the family resemblance.
§§FOOTNOTE (§hingles §uck): Dad was not, sadly, in attendance. I will believe to my dying day he got shingles just to get out of eating Casa Bonita "food."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): Former sister-in-law. Y'know... like FSO, only slightly less likely to drunk-dial at 2:30 in the morning.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (baloons and artillery): While the balloons were done by a professional baker, the tank candles were all eBeth.
##FOOTNOTE (the number of times I got it wrong...): Don't try to pretend you're not floored by the artistic majesty of this photo.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Then again, my flash-phobia leads to some pretty unmajestic work, so maybe it's a wash if you aren't floored by the artistic majesty of the candles but manage not to be wholly derisive about the wiggly, grainy shots.
†††FOOTNOTE (Easter's *over*): Of COURSE there's a gift shop at Casa Bonita.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (tracks of my tears meets tears of a clown, leaving tracks of my clown): Which would go nicely with the swimmer's arms I have hanging in the basement. *rimshot*
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
: (
OK, I want blue.
Not this blue. Well, not that header. And the orange star... I don't really want the orange star.
Oh, why didn't I pay more attention in HTML class?
Not this blue. Well, not that header. And the orange star... I don't really want the orange star.
Oh, why didn't I pay more attention in HTML class?
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Tale of Two Wines
TTHFCIF
At last month's book club, when I was still estranged from wine, Tani served this†:
Unfortunately, I have no idea how good it was, but the bottle is certainly worth the price of admission.‡
[SUMMARY: Proving one can take enjoyment without partaking of the wine.§]
A couple of weeks ago, I was heading to the pay station of the parking lot I frequent downtown and I saw two guys on the sidewalk. All over the sidewalk, actually. They were gesticulating broadly and cursing at the top of their lungs and taking up the *whole* sidewalk.
I secretly hoped they'd be gone by the time I got there.
One was carrying a briefcase. Surely they had to go to work.¶
[SUMMARY: Silly rabbit.]
The Businessman awkwardly opened his briefcase just wide enough to extract a bottle of wine. He and his compatriot proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.
Just as I passed them, Compatriot sucked down the last of the wine, theatrically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Chardonnay!" in a gleeful voice.
At the time, I wished I had the guts to take a picture, because I was definitely blogging it in my head.
Lucky for me, people who carry wine in briefcases are not as environmentally conscious as you might want, and the next day when I struck out from the pay station, I saw the bottle sitting there on the sidewalk.
I got my picture. And there is a frog on it. So good things come to those who wait.#
[SUMMARY: Little life lessons here at the Rickety Blog.]
Also worth the price of admission.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And her homemade Tiramisu. From which I was also estranged. It was all very strange, being estranged as I was.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Hint: Admission was free, but don't let that distract from the whole Bitch experience.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The grapes are *still* sour.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): No, and don't call me Shirley.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): ...and are willing to be pushed into the gutter by sweeping arm gestures.
At last month's book club, when I was still estranged from wine, Tani served this†:
Unfortunately, I have no idea how good it was, but the bottle is certainly worth the price of admission.‡
[SUMMARY: Proving one can take enjoyment without partaking of the wine.§]
A couple of weeks ago, I was heading to the pay station of the parking lot I frequent downtown and I saw two guys on the sidewalk. All over the sidewalk, actually. They were gesticulating broadly and cursing at the top of their lungs and taking up the *whole* sidewalk.
I secretly hoped they'd be gone by the time I got there.
One was carrying a briefcase. Surely they had to go to work.¶
[SUMMARY: Silly rabbit.]
The Businessman awkwardly opened his briefcase just wide enough to extract a bottle of wine. He and his compatriot proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.
Just as I passed them, Compatriot sucked down the last of the wine, theatrically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Chardonnay!" in a gleeful voice.
At the time, I wished I had the guts to take a picture, because I was definitely blogging it in my head.
Lucky for me, people who carry wine in briefcases are not as environmentally conscious as you might want, and the next day when I struck out from the pay station, I saw the bottle sitting there on the sidewalk.
I got my picture. And there is a frog on it. So good things come to those who wait.#
[SUMMARY: Little life lessons here at the Rickety Blog.]
Also worth the price of admission.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And her homemade Tiramisu. From which I was also estranged. It was all very strange, being estranged as I was.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Hint: Admission was free, but don't let that distract from the whole Bitch experience.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The grapes are *still* sour.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): No, and don't call me Shirley.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): ...and are willing to be pushed into the gutter by sweeping arm gestures.
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