Old-Timey San Francisco

Speaking of hipsters (weren't we?), I saw a TON of 'em last night, gathered together like sardines in the Hotel Utah Saloon.  Together, we banged the tables, drank our shots of whiskey, and partook in some banjo-plucking ambiance.  Because nothing says San Francisco circa 2010, quite like a bluegrass band from North Carolina.

The boyfriend and I arrived early, so as to get a good seat against the wall and rub some elbows with those of the elbow patches.  I've never seen so many fedoras and newsboys in the same room, and I half expected them to draw a line and pick their sides.  "I'll have you know, sir, this is an honest to goodness newsboy and I am dressed in my finest herringbone blazer for that touch of irony which you lack."  "Well fuck you, sir.  This is a wool fedora in JULY!  Now, gather 'round, my unnecessarily warm counterparts!  We shall have an ironic standoff!  You people in the newsboys, you can bob together by the stage, because as everyone knows, the real hipsters sit in the back."

I'm not sure where I fit in with this crowd.  I like to think I held my own, there on the sidelines, watching the magic go down.  In the meantime, I enjoyed me some good music.

We went there to support a friend and cheer on his awesome band, Walking in Sunlight.  Please do check them out.  But then stayed for the raucous twang of Emily Bonn & the Vivants, and finished the night off cheering for Chatham County Line.  All 3 acts were stupendous, and did me the favor of transporting me in time.  I felt like I was ensconced in Deadwood, and expected Al Swearengen to make his way into the room, bowie knife in hand.

Too Much to Share, Really

A foreword: this is more personal than I'm comfortable with, but it's real, as far as that goes.  Pouring something out has made me feel better and free of it.  Letting anyone else in goes against my better judgement.  Be warned, is all I'm saying.

I'm 29 now and have been thinking of you recently.  So hard to let go.  Like it'll be breaking off a piece of me.  Me beneath the covers.  You telling me I'm beautiful, and I disagree but believe, because the two can co-exist here.
Saying goodbye to you is saying goodbye to odometers, cold tiles beneath my feet, waves breaking, elton john sung at the top of our lungs, coils of smoke, october nights, first snowfalls, thunderstorms, red plastic cups, driving at night.
I wonder if in the moments I miss you, do you stop walking whatever sidewalk, in whatever city, and all of a sudden think of me?  Do you start to sing Elton John songs?
Or, maybe it's all reverse.  Maybe I get sad because you decided to stop and think of me.

Going for the Grammy

This morning I forewent coffee in favor of health.  I read that caffeine increases stress hormones, which can facilitate in the production of fat.  So, small steps, I thought.
And now, at 5:30 pm, I can tell you it was all a huge mistake.
Not a single interesting thought has entered my head, my preoccupation instead being with how comfortable my bed is and how happy it would make me.
Indeed, the most taxing thing I've done today is practice singing.  Arguably, it was much more taxing for anyone home upstairs, forced to listen to the death rattle below.

Singing is one of my bucket list achievements.  It is shaping up to be a slow, agonizing year towards 30. The dog began to cry in the midst of my octaves.  Believing he needed some bladder relief, I let him out, only to witness his mad dash to freedom.  Instead of trotting to the side yard, as always, he ran so fast down the drive that his front legs caved while the back two continued to push.  All the way to the car, parked on the street.

Once back inside, not even through my first octave, he pulled all the stuffing out of his bed, spun in circles, and then growled.  Puppy is a harsh critic.

How does this all tie in to my lack of coffee?  I have no idea.  Don't say I didn't warn you.