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ladyfalconSo, I am home for the rest of the year. Home is good.
Home is rather boring, actually. Sleep is good, and something that I had become distressingly unfamilliar with my last few weeks at school. At some point I realized that I had not managed more than four hours at a time for at least fourteen days. "Well," I said to myself at this juncture. "At least it will probably not kill me."
And I am happy to report that it did not, although things were looking dicey towards the home stretch. I wrote something like five papers (from three to twelve pages each) during that last 48 hours, and I thought I would either collapse or fail miserably or both, but somehow I avoided those fates. I was probably just being overdramatic anyway.
And now I am at home, which has much to reccommend it (my bed, my brother, food, sleep, time for reading and playing WoW), and much to un-reccommend it (boredom, work). We're moving house (more on that later), which is alternately tedious and heartwrenching.
Last night, however, was neither tedious or heartwrenching, as I had an opportunity to see Sean Lennon at the Birchmere, and man. That was kind of an awesome show. It may have helped that we had absolutely the best seats in the house, despite the Birchmere's kind of wonky method of seating people.
The opening act, Kamila Thompson, was one of the best openers I've ever seen (far and away better than the floaty-ditzy Lavender Diamond who opened for the Decemberists). She has a deep, smokey voice that is utterly surprising given her sprightly girlishness, and she's cute and funny and has a British accent and no sense of American geography (PA stands for... Pennsylvania. But then what is Philadelphia?), and she was basically amazing and I kind of fell in love with her. James and I spent the time between her set and Sean's debating which of the two of us would win in a deathmatch staged in order to determine who would get the chance to woo and ultimately marry her. We were dismayed to learn that she hasn't had a record made yet, and so we could not give somebody money in return for procuring a copy of said. In any case, you should listen to her stuff on myspace and keep an eye out for the inevitable (I hope) record. (I would friend her on myspace but I don't have one and also while I have the feeling we'd get along, I'm really not cool enough for the pretty cool smoking British rocker chick).
Then Sean Lennon took the stage. I have his new album, which is pretty fantastic, but I had not been prepared to see it sung by a silly little man in a funny top hat. Really, Sean Lennon is a certified star, because he's charming and funny and easy at the same time as being kind of unfairly talented.
I enjoyed myself so much that I didn't bitch at all when James wanted to wait around outside the venue to see if he could meet Sean and maybe get him to sign something, despite the fact that my feet were killing me. I, too, wanted to shake hands with this man in his top hat and thank him for a wonderful evening.
My good mood, however, wore off as I stood there for a half hour, not because of the length of the wait, or even the cold, but because I was enduring both amongst other people who seemed determined to work my every last nerve.
The crowd on the whole was older, probably with an average age of 50 or more, and so they were probably all former Beatles fans who were curious about the abilities of Lennon's progeny. But I felt it was pretty unfair to spend so much time after a really excellent show talking about how "he was really channelling John" and "They look so much alike!" Eventually I turned to James and said, "And they both have brown hair! And now that you mention it, he looks a little like Yoko Ono, too! It's almost enough to make you think that physical characteristics might be passed down from parent to child somehow. Imagine!" In my calmer, more sane retrospect this was a pretty rude and borderline shit thing to say, but I was annoyed on the behalf of a person who probably hears it too often that no matter how good he is (very), he's never going to get past the point where people are saying "Did you see how much he looks like...?" So, Sean, I'm sorry if I bothered any of your fans. Some of them are kind of cunts, though.
Kamila Thompson came out to the tour bus long before Sean did, and James and I tried our damndest to work up the courage to, I don't know, wave or something. Attract her attention. I wanted her autograph on my ticket stub just as much as I wanted Sean's, maybe more. We were standing off to one side talking to each other, when this woman with badly-dyed hair interjected herself into our conversation. Which, whatever. Then she followed where we were looking, into the lee of the bus where Ms. Thompson was having a cigarette break.
"Oh, is that the singer?" she said. "Why is she smoking?"
"Perhaps she's addicted to nicotine," I said. "I'm not trying to be flip. Honestly, it happens."
Again, in retrospect, rude. But considering my first instinct was to say, "Oh, are you trying to be pretty? Then why does your hair look like that?", it was really the best thing that came to mind at the time.
The woman, in any case, shook it off or ignored it, and launched into a story about how her sister was a singer who smoked and lost her voice. Which, okay. I'm glad to know that your sister's experience encompasses the entirety of all possible outcomes of singing in conjunction with smoking. All those hundreds of smoking singers from the last two hundred years or more are sure to be very interested. And yes, smoking is bad for you. Very, very bad for you. I wouldn't do it myself, but then, I'd never run for President either and yet some people seem to find that a rewarding and fun experience. There are, I have been informed, more things in heaven and earth than have been dreamt of in my philosophy.
So that is my story of the Times I was Rude to People Queueing for Sean Lennon's Autograph. (In addition, someone at one point said to James, "I really couldn't even look at him (Sean) for most of the show, because I kept seeng John (Lennon)." to which I replied, "That must have been a pretty strange show for you, then. What with you staring into your water glass the whole time." And then when I was goading James into getting closer to the tour bus in order to attract Kamila Thompson's attention, a man turned and made a "joke" about the nearby police officer shooting us, to which I said, "Hey, that's great," and turned my back on him, but that doesn't so much have a punchline and so I have wisely, I think, decided to leave it out. But as I said, a lot of people were working my last nerve.) In the end, we got Sean's autograph (though just barely, as we let other people go in front of us (including a little punky kid wearing a t-shirt reading 'I Hate Myself and Want to Die,' which, A-plus for the Nirvana reference, kid, but F double-minus for being a twat). Sean Lennon owes me a new pair of feet. It was an absolutely fantastic time.
Now there's nothing much to look forward to except my brother's gig on the 23rd (if you're in the Bowie region of Maryland you should check it out, it's for charity if that's your thing), and then New Year's and going back to school. And sleep. Lots of lovely sleep.
Erin
Home is rather boring, actually. Sleep is good, and something that I had become distressingly unfamilliar with my last few weeks at school. At some point I realized that I had not managed more than four hours at a time for at least fourteen days. "Well," I said to myself at this juncture. "At least it will probably not kill me."
And I am happy to report that it did not, although things were looking dicey towards the home stretch. I wrote something like five papers (from three to twelve pages each) during that last 48 hours, and I thought I would either collapse or fail miserably or both, but somehow I avoided those fates. I was probably just being overdramatic anyway.
And now I am at home, which has much to reccommend it (my bed, my brother, food, sleep, time for reading and playing WoW), and much to un-reccommend it (boredom, work). We're moving house (more on that later), which is alternately tedious and heartwrenching.
Last night, however, was neither tedious or heartwrenching, as I had an opportunity to see Sean Lennon at the Birchmere, and man. That was kind of an awesome show. It may have helped that we had absolutely the best seats in the house, despite the Birchmere's kind of wonky method of seating people.
The opening act, Kamila Thompson, was one of the best openers I've ever seen (far and away better than the floaty-ditzy Lavender Diamond who opened for the Decemberists). She has a deep, smokey voice that is utterly surprising given her sprightly girlishness, and she's cute and funny and has a British accent and no sense of American geography (PA stands for... Pennsylvania. But then what is Philadelphia?), and she was basically amazing and I kind of fell in love with her. James and I spent the time between her set and Sean's debating which of the two of us would win in a deathmatch staged in order to determine who would get the chance to woo and ultimately marry her. We were dismayed to learn that she hasn't had a record made yet, and so we could not give somebody money in return for procuring a copy of said. In any case, you should listen to her stuff on myspace and keep an eye out for the inevitable (I hope) record. (I would friend her on myspace but I don't have one and also while I have the feeling we'd get along, I'm really not cool enough for the pretty cool smoking British rocker chick).
Then Sean Lennon took the stage. I have his new album, which is pretty fantastic, but I had not been prepared to see it sung by a silly little man in a funny top hat. Really, Sean Lennon is a certified star, because he's charming and funny and easy at the same time as being kind of unfairly talented.
I enjoyed myself so much that I didn't bitch at all when James wanted to wait around outside the venue to see if he could meet Sean and maybe get him to sign something, despite the fact that my feet were killing me. I, too, wanted to shake hands with this man in his top hat and thank him for a wonderful evening.
My good mood, however, wore off as I stood there for a half hour, not because of the length of the wait, or even the cold, but because I was enduring both amongst other people who seemed determined to work my every last nerve.
The crowd on the whole was older, probably with an average age of 50 or more, and so they were probably all former Beatles fans who were curious about the abilities of Lennon's progeny. But I felt it was pretty unfair to spend so much time after a really excellent show talking about how "he was really channelling John" and "They look so much alike!" Eventually I turned to James and said, "And they both have brown hair! And now that you mention it, he looks a little like Yoko Ono, too! It's almost enough to make you think that physical characteristics might be passed down from parent to child somehow. Imagine!" In my calmer, more sane retrospect this was a pretty rude and borderline shit thing to say, but I was annoyed on the behalf of a person who probably hears it too often that no matter how good he is (very), he's never going to get past the point where people are saying "Did you see how much he looks like...?" So, Sean, I'm sorry if I bothered any of your fans. Some of them are kind of cunts, though.
Kamila Thompson came out to the tour bus long before Sean did, and James and I tried our damndest to work up the courage to, I don't know, wave or something. Attract her attention. I wanted her autograph on my ticket stub just as much as I wanted Sean's, maybe more. We were standing off to one side talking to each other, when this woman with badly-dyed hair interjected herself into our conversation. Which, whatever. Then she followed where we were looking, into the lee of the bus where Ms. Thompson was having a cigarette break.
"Oh, is that the singer?" she said. "Why is she smoking?"
"Perhaps she's addicted to nicotine," I said. "I'm not trying to be flip. Honestly, it happens."
Again, in retrospect, rude. But considering my first instinct was to say, "Oh, are you trying to be pretty? Then why does your hair look like that?", it was really the best thing that came to mind at the time.
The woman, in any case, shook it off or ignored it, and launched into a story about how her sister was a singer who smoked and lost her voice. Which, okay. I'm glad to know that your sister's experience encompasses the entirety of all possible outcomes of singing in conjunction with smoking. All those hundreds of smoking singers from the last two hundred years or more are sure to be very interested. And yes, smoking is bad for you. Very, very bad for you. I wouldn't do it myself, but then, I'd never run for President either and yet some people seem to find that a rewarding and fun experience. There are, I have been informed, more things in heaven and earth than have been dreamt of in my philosophy.
So that is my story of the Times I was Rude to People Queueing for Sean Lennon's Autograph. (In addition, someone at one point said to James, "I really couldn't even look at him (Sean) for most of the show, because I kept seeng John (Lennon)." to which I replied, "That must have been a pretty strange show for you, then. What with you staring into your water glass the whole time." And then when I was goading James into getting closer to the tour bus in order to attract Kamila Thompson's attention, a man turned and made a "joke" about the nearby police officer shooting us, to which I said, "Hey, that's great," and turned my back on him, but that doesn't so much have a punchline and so I have wisely, I think, decided to leave it out. But as I said, a lot of people were working my last nerve.) In the end, we got Sean's autograph (though just barely, as we let other people go in front of us (including a little punky kid wearing a t-shirt reading 'I Hate Myself and Want to Die,' which, A-plus for the Nirvana reference, kid, but F double-minus for being a twat). Sean Lennon owes me a new pair of feet. It was an absolutely fantastic time.
Now there's nothing much to look forward to except my brother's gig on the 23rd (if you're in the Bowie region of Maryland you should check it out, it's for charity if that's your thing), and then New Year's and going back to school. And sleep. Lots of lovely sleep.
Erin
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no subject
Date: 2006-12-19 06:18 am (UTC)my tenth grade world history teacher used to say that all the time. it became a sort of running joke with our class.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-19 03:40 pm (UTC)And way to go on the snarkiness. I always want to be that snarky to strangers, but I never, ever manage it.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-19 05:36 pm (UTC)WoW? You Play WoW? Really?
Date: 2006-12-30 04:43 am (UTC)-Kris
Re: WoW? You Play WoW? Really?
Date: 2006-12-30 08:51 am (UTC)However, I share an account with my friend Jim who pays for it and lets me play on sufferance with the understanding that he can kick me off whenever. If I had to pay for the privilege I probably wouldn't, although that may may may change when Burning Crusade comes out so that my friends and I can roll new characters and play together.
Re: WoW? You Play WoW? Really?
Date: 2007-01-07 05:54 am (UTC)Rawr.
Re: WoW? You Play WoW? Really?
Date: 2007-01-07 05:56 am (UTC)Rawr some more.
-Kris
j
Date: 2007-06-17 01:04 pm (UTC). Regards
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