Oh my gosh with the shows lately, you guys. I have not written about many of them, which is unlike me, and something that I will remedy right now.
My first review for three imaginary girls is up on the front page.This is why I moved to seattle.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes… ahhhhh!”
~ Jack Kerouac
Mon Frere came out to the West coast to brew some trouble for New Year’s. This included illegally and flamboyantly riding the wild ponies of Seattle with reckless abandon. We tried to stop him. I swear. Okay, I didn’t try to stop him. I just took pictures.
Sent: Wednesday, January 05, 2005 3:25 PM
To: Faculty and Staff
Subject: My name
I just thought I’d point this out because I received four emails today, two of which spelled my name wrong (though in different ways) and two that had my name wrong all together. Please just double check — I’ve been working here for six months and it would be great if you knew my name.
(not Kristine, Kiersten, Kristen, Kirsten, Christian, Christine or Christina)
Clementine loves carrot tops. She certainly looks harmless, right? Riiiight.
There’s nothing like a little good, old-fashioned television to seriously screw you up.
See, I don’t watch television. I don’t even own one. Most of the programming scares the beejezus out of me. Crocodile Hunter aside, I enjoy Animal Planet. But nothing else comes to mind. In the past I have been known to dabble in high-quality WB teen dramas, but that was only made possible by DVD; I can’t stomach commercials. The only television I’ve seen in the past 9 months is the election on NBC. And as you know, it was not uplifting programming.
Sometimes I feel out of touch with what everyone else in the world is talking about. It doesn’t help that I don’t listen to commercial radio, either, so pop-culture references are totally over my head. I still don’t know who the hell Beyonce is. And if I ran into Jessica Simpson in the supermarket, I’d only know it was her because her face is plastered all over People Magazine in the checkout line.
Check it out: January 14, 2005
Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie, James Mercer of the Shins, and Dave Bazan of Pedro the Lion play the Showbox to raise funds for the Tsunami victims. It’s a horrific disaster, but a heroic fundraising effort. It almost makes it okay for me to be squealing over those three musicians in the same room, never mind performing — to save lives. Tickets are $15 and it’s sponsored by Seattle’s kexp.org. God bless the Pacific Northwest.
All proceeds from the Showbox benefits will go to Northwest Medical Teams and will be used to send medical volunteers and lifesaving supplies to help people in Southern Asia.
Details here. You should go.
07/20/2004 8:23 PM
And there is amber Hawaiian guitar in a sunset window — a cold nectarine. Your airplanes making white fuzz in my night sky. I never noticed them before.
Three small bumps line my red right ankle — only three; the mosquitoes wouldn’t dare bite me last night ’cause I was with you.
I want my silver hair ribbons back. My nubby sweaters. My giggling at 11:23 PM. My throwing rocks at your window, my spitting cherry pits at the moon. My sparkle pink toenail polish, my love notes left on your bike, my wildpicked daisies in a wet napkin wrapped with tinfoil, my clamshell castanets. Our peanut butter and jelly picnics. Your, “need a lift?”, your silly translations, your dropped lyrics, your secret ceiling stars, glow-in-the-dark popsicles, your compilations and Canadians, pirates and pandas, ferry rides and raspberries. Tu límonada.
I brought you a raspberry that night — you didn’t know — but I chose the largest sweetest one from the pint, rinsed it carefully, and carried it down a narrow flight of stairs to the back yard, in the dark, where you were building a fire. I wanted to feed it to you with my fingertips, gingerly. But you flinched when I reached out to touch you — I thought better of it and ate it myself. I would have enjoyed giving it to you more.
What shape were your clouds tonight? Space ships, banana splits, ice cream sundaes? Mine were pink fuzzy bunnies.
How beautiful to slip out of our dusty used suits that no longer fit — to sew new clothes that look and feel exactly how we want. And we see that we always knew how to sew. We just forgot because someone else stitched us into their old patterns for so long.
We are born new every minute. And I have earned my innocence.