My Soundtrack

Thanks for all the lovely tales of songs that have memories woven between their melodies! It was fascinating to think about which few notes bring up a rush of images for different people. 

Before I get into the musical peephole to my brain, though, I have a few loose ends to tie up for my First Annual Holiday Mix-Tape Contest (which I really could have named something far wittier than that. I'm a little disappointed in my serious lack of puns).

There were 39 comments in total, representing something closer to 36 entries. Using the magic of Randomizer.org, I selected four random numbers, which represented the comment number. 

The winners were:

Comment #1- Nutty Cow of Parlez-vous moo?

Comment #23- Hope of Hope Dies Last

Comment #28- Daisy of Fresh as a Daisy

Comment #35- K of Off the Record

Nutty Cow and Daisy win Hijinks: A Soundtrack (Vol 1), which has 18 of my possibly less well-known favourites, and Hope and K win Vol. 2, including 20 of your favourites. 

(Psst, if you haven't gotten back to me with your address, please do as soon as possible! I'm heading out of town on Wednesday morning and would like to have them sent off before I leave... plus,  most of them are flying across the ocean, and I would love for them to make it your way by Christmas!)

***

Smell is routed differently than the other four senses. The dorkish explanation has to do with the fact that the sensory nerves in the nose go to a different part of the brain than the other senses, and are thus closer to the area responsible for memory. Anyone who feels the rush of memories fly in when they catch a breath of pine or the scent of perfume can attest to this. Although, ostensibly, sound is not processed in this way, I wonder if music may have a trap door somewhere by the nose, because, for me, the first few notes of a song can take me back in time in an instant.

Here are a few of those songs with more direct routes to the past...

I Think We're Alone Now- Tiffany

Picture two girls, aged 8 and 5, their oversized shirts tied in knots, dancing in a semi-coordinated fashion in a hallway in front of their parents sitting in kitchen chairs. Don't forget the two feet tall teddy bears their uncle won for them at a carnival serving as the "boyfriends" in this little dance number, thus having the lyrics directed at them.

Yep, that's me and my little sister. I was ever the performer, hitting play on my Fisher Price tape deck, and telling my sister what her new back-up dancer moves were. After our Cyndi Lauper number on the bed, my mom officially relegated all future performances to the hallway.

Our performance of "I Think We're Alone Now" was probably us at the top of our game, complete with hand acting out exaggerated heartbeats to "The beating of our heart is the only sound". In fact, even now, nearly twenty years later, we still remember the moves. And are more than happy to demonstrate them for anyone who is lucky enough to be around during the combination of us two, alcohol and Tiffany.

You Oughta Know- Alanis Morrisette

I am fourteen, with bloodshot eyes, my blackest shirt, my back hard up against the lockers. As of yesterday's lunch hour, I have been dumped. I am surrounded by friends, chattering away, trying to distract me. Still, as I see him coming down the hall towards me, my fingers press down hard on the play button, so that angry lyrics fill me ears and don't allow me to hear the sound of his sneakers on the linoleum floor.

(The funny thing is that I hadn't the slightest clue what she was referring to when she said "Would she go down on you in a theatre?")

Smoke on the Water- Deep Purple

My mom does not sing in regular fashion. She makes up words and lyrics, she hums, she do-dos. Because of this, I do not know Smoke on the Water due to the lyrics, but rather the baselines as sung by my mother as she made tea in the morning.

Do-do-do... Do-do-DO-do.

Another Lonely Day- Ben Harper

I sometimes make stupid decisions. An hour after I spoke the words I never imagined would roll off my tongue, ending more than six years with one man, I made one of them. Our tiny apartment seemed so empty that it echoed, so I, in a deceptively nonchalant move, decided to listen to Ben Harper and finish putting together some neglected photo albums.

And promptly squeezed every last tear I knew existed into pools onto the glossy images below, as Ben read my mind, singing "It wouldn't have worked out anyway, now it's just another lonely day."

A Man of Constant Sorrow- The Soggy Bottom Boys

As I was packing my last box to move to the proverbial big city, my father was discovering bluegrass music. This was one of the first songs he asked me to print out for him.

These days, it seems hard to imagine him without a guitar in his hand.

Sublime- Santaria

Nothing ever quite captures how carefree summer is in high school. 

Barefeet, wind through your hair as you sing at the top of your lungs, camp fires, night swimming, popsicles, sweaty kisses, and working just enough to buy a new swimsuit or to pitch in for gas in your friend's 1986 Hyundai Pony.

Mix CDs for the holidays!

Not too far back, I asked for your recommendations for some new tunes, and, indeed, you all delivered. My iTunes bill has been skyrocketing ever since, and I still haven't had the opportunity to listen to all the artists that have been selected! I have already found several new favourites, though, so thank you! I was also surprised at how many of you were right on track, as shown by the fact that you suggested other music that I already own.

And, as promised, I'm going to dole out the tunes to you...

I've made up two mix CDs that I want to give away. One is a collection of the tunes recommended by you-- blogger's choice, if you will. The second is more of a soundtrack to my life, with artists you may or may not have heard of. 

Though I wish I could bestow you all with a bombardment of new music, if I am to realistically get it to you before Christmas, I had to restrict myself a little. As such, I am going to give away four CDs in total, two of each mix, as a thank you and happy holidays to all my lovely readers. I appreciate you all a lot for making my little corner of the internet that much more warm and fuzzy!!

However, I still need to make you work for it, at least a little...

So here's the deal! If you are interested in winning one of these CDs, comment on this post with two piece of information:

#1- Tell me a story about a song that holds a special meaning to you.

#2- If we haven't been in touch before, or your email address isn't clearly posted on your blog, please include your email address!

You have until midnight (pacific time) on Saturday December 13th to enter. At that point, I will pick four commenters at random as winner, and will be touch to get your mailing address (I promise you I won't mail you a steady supply of tear soiled love poetry, just a single CD).

Lurkers, you should come out and play, too! There's some good tunes to be discovered!

I'll post the track listings and my own tales about meaningful songs with the winners.

(and I'm crossing my fingers I get more than four entrants so I don't have to start making up comments, like Pierre from Versailles who lost his virginity to Elton John)

Tra-la-la (or the one in which I seek my lovely readers' input)

I got the internet at home for the first time in 2005. Up until then, it had remained a little exotic. I did have my first hotmail account nearly 10 years prior, and used to visit "Teen Chat" at the public library (and wondering why every time I talked to a boy he wanted to "cyber"). However, paying for all my tuition out of pocket meant for little money for a computer for most of my undergrad, making me on of those students in the library until midnight, and only enough money for monthly internet a few years later.

Of course, gaining everyday access to the internet is like a rainstorm of information for one who is used to stolen minutes of email checking on one's friends' computers. Once the novelty of games and chat and random Wikipedia'ing died down, however, the thing that likely changed my life the most was music.

Though I downloaded some CDs here and there, what really sparked my interest was going to an artist's online forum to discuss a concert I had recently attended. Suddenly, I was bombarded by artist recommendations, links to MySpace pages, concert dates. It was deliciously overwhelming. I would discover a new artist almost daily, and would hop on the bus to the local record shop and stock up. Suddenly, the listings in the newspaper were full of bands I used to flip past, but now wanted to see. My busy life suddenly felt as though it had a few more minutes in each day.

And though I felt more connected to something, I also felt more separate. My relationship had been going downhill for a good year, and the gap began growing as I found myself in crowds alone. I couldn't convince my friends to spend $20 on a band they'd never heard of.

Perhaps it may sound ridiculously cheesy, but I really do think the music was the boot I needed to realize that my life was stagnating before my very eyes and that something needed to change. Music also brought me to a concert where I turned around at the right time during an encore, and look into with those very same blue eyes that sleep beside me today.

Why do I recount all this? Because I've just realized that despite several thousand songs, my iPod is starting to bore me. I am heading into concert-hibernation season as well, so I would love to have some new music to make those busy yet dreary winter day a little more sunny. As such, I want to hear from all of you! What album do you whole heartedly recommend? What band do you love that no one else has heard of? What song are you rocking out to right now?

A bit of background on my taste may be useful, I suppose...

I'm not terribly into mainstream radio, pop, punk, country or rap. I don't know that what I like has a particular genre title, though iTunes recently labeled it as Alterna-pop, whatever that means.

Some of my faves?

Bands like Arcade Fire, Radiohead, Tegan & Sara, Rilo Kiley, Stars, the Decemberists.

More mellow artists like Tristan Prettyman, Jack Johnson, Damien Rice, Kathleen Edwards, Jenny Lewis, Elliott Smith, Feist.

Some good rock-ish stuff, like the White Stripes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Metric, MGMT.

So, yes.... suggestions please!!

Also, if there is enough interest, I may be inspired to copy Your Ill-Fitting Overcoat and send out a few mix CDs-- maybe even one of the great new recommended music and another of my own favourites. You can pretend I'm that dreamy artsy band boy/girl you had a crush on in junior year who you always wished would make you a mix tape. 

And you wished would write a song about you.

(Though I can't guarantee I'll do that.)

Miss M

Where was I this Thursday night??

Perhaps the picture below may provide a clue...

In case you can't ready the reverse writing, my enormous lollipop says "Madonna: Candy Shop". Fitting considering it was part of the free swag I got as part of my Madonna VIP passes!

(eeekkk!)

In general, truthfully, I am not a huge pop music fan-- but growing up in the 80s, I have to make an exception for Madonna. I lipsynced to "True Blue" in on my bed, secretly watched "Truth or Dare" with my girlfriends,  and danced to "Ray of Light" in living rooms at parties. I remember being forbidden from going to see "A League of Their Own" for a friend's birthday party simply because Madonna acted it in, and parents were therefore convinced it had to be salacious. As such, when I heard she was making her first appearance ever in my city of residence, I decided I was going to be one of those people, waiting in line the day tickets went on sale and spending atrocious amounts of money.

My friend ended up picking up a number of VIP packages, and thus I ended up spending more money than I am comfortable admitting for 12th row tickets.

But you better believe it was worth it.

There was a banquet beforehand, with a ridiculous spread... oysters, roasts, wine, cheesecake. Then, instead of waiting in line outside in the rain, we danced to a DJ with middle aged women in bustiers and an array of gay men.

The show itself was a spectacle and a half, especially considering I usually just go to smaller venue shows. The stage was bedecked by two huge looming Swarovski encrusted M's. She came out on a throne, made six costumes changes, was swarmed by countless talented dancers, drove a rolls royce around the stage, along with the moving boxing ring and stripper pole. And that body? Holy Christ. The woman is cut, and has endurance of an entire high school basketball team. I was sweating and exhausted just from dancing and singing along, and she was still going without skipping a beat. She played for two hours, and touched upon most of her career stages-- I went nuts when she played Like a Prayer.

Sure, she may be oversexualized and overplayed, but dammit, Madonna had me starstruck.

The One in Which I Drag Surfergrrl and Ultra Toast into my Bad Luck Bubble (or When Bloggers Collide Part Six)

It is funny how themes emerge in your life with few prior clues. As I have already whinged about on many occasions, this year seems to be splattered with random ripples of bad luck. This week, in all its chaos, was no exception. What was unique, however, was the fact that I managed to suck not one, but two bloggers in for the ride.

Wednesday evening, after having been caught in an odd holding pen, an unyielding crowd, an epic rain storm, and a massive traffic jam, in that order, all for the luxury of seeing the utterly phenomenal Radiohead live the night prior (seriously—best live band ever. No question.), I meet the lovely Surfergrrl at my place. She had come up my way to visit some friends and for a Jack Johnson concert for which we had been lucky enough to procure aftershow passes. We go to a much hyped Indian restaurant for a delicious dinner and some catching up, as it had been two years since our last encounter.

Cue Thursday. As the two of us are grabbing our morning caffeine dose, I get a familiar ring on my cell phone. Ultra Toast and Patch have arrived at our front door. By force of sheer coincidence, after not having an overnight visitor other than a drunken friend passing out on our couch for a few hours, we have three out-of-town visitors scheduled at the same time. We set to catching up on the latest wing of the traveling Brits' journey. It turns out they have spent the night in an airport, discovering the best terminals for Frisbee throwing. I make the world’s largest batch of eggs as Ultra Toast decides that Febreeze is in fact a great replacement for a shower. I catch a whiff of citrus every time he walks by.

The five of us pile into Surfergrrl’s rental car, where we discover that my reassurances that we never see a parking patrolman in our neighbourhood were for naught, as she was ticketed less than an hour after arriving at our apartment. We head to an ocean side park, and wander around the perimeter, soaking in the sunshine. We learn that, for the British, everything falls into roughly two categories: rubbish and brilliant. For example, children’s waterparks are brilliant, whereas Ultra Toast’s stone skipping skills are rubbish, as are herpes of the eye.

Parking in the city also turns out to be supreme rubbish, as we attempt to return to our neighbourhood for a late lunch. It takes us over half an hour to find parking, and end up having to pay exorbitantly at a pay lot that requires a new ticket be purchased at 6am.

After lunch, Surfergrrl and I hop a bus to the concert venue. We anxiously wait at the Will Call booth, cautiously enquiring if there was a package left there for us. No luck. They send us to another tent. On the way there, we convince ourselves that the backstage passes are merely fictional, and we will look utterly pretentious sauntering up to the VIP tent. Much to our surprise, her name is on the list. We are giddy, and take multiple pictures of ourselves grinning and posing with our passes.
We are told that we can slip through the back entrance. As we walk along an empty field, applause suddenly rings through the air.

“The opening act must have started.”

Pause.

“That sounds a lot like Mudfootball.”

We reach the top of the hill.

“Holy Christ, Jack Johnson is right there.”

Because, yes, a mere few feet in front of us, in the midst of the environmental group booths, with only a wire fence between us, Mr. Johnson is playing a song. As we rush up, he turns to look at the two of us, and smiles.

As the song concludes, he slips back out behind the fence—less than five feet away from us.

And the two of us just freeze.
And watch as he chats with another fellow, and casually saunters away.

At the time, we both feel as though it would be rude to approach him when it was clearly not a mingle-with-fans type of time. But you better believe we were kicking ourselves with some spiky boots five minutes later… and even more vigorously when we saw how thousands of fans reacted to him up on stage.

The concert is fantastic, and the two of us croon and bob along to each song.

As the encore gradually winds down, we beeline to the security gate, showing them our Aftershow badges. The security guard informs us that they just need to wait for someone to escort us through. We wait. Someone makes a bad joke about the double meaning of the word escort. We wait. We watch people fly through the other entrance seemingly unencumbered. We wait. A “security-is-serious-business” type tells us we are to wait in a certain location in the stands instead. We have to squeeze through the people flowing out of the stadium to make it there. We wait. There is no one there but us. We wait. Official looking guy tells us he is just figuring things out. We wait. And about half an hour after the show has conclude, he makes his way back, a shamed look on his face we can readily spot in the dimmed lights.

“The good news is, you’re at the right spot to get backstage. The bad news is, all the bands are gone. You shouldn't have been given aftershow passes, as there is no aftershow.”

Tails between our legs, we slink out of the stadium, cursing ourselves for our lack of assertiveness when Jack was a mere few feet away. 

Friday morning is hectic. Surfergrrl and I awaken at 6am to stumble two blocks, me in my pajamas, to add time to her parking spot. It is only through sleep glazed eyes that we see that we could have paid via cell phone. We slip back under the covers for another two hours, at which point I arise to finish some last minute packing and prepare for the Duke and I’s morning flight. An hour later, we call a cab, and bid our houseguest adieu, with Surfergrrl leaving soon afterwards, and Ultra Toast and Patch setting up camp in our apartment for the next few days.

It is just as our cab arrives at the airport that my phone lets out a frantic ring. It is Ultra Toast. The supposed spare keys we have given him, which we have never used ourselves, do not work. Thankfully Surfergrrl was still in our apartment after he and Patches returned from coffee to find they were unable to regain entrance. As such, I am reduced to navigating bag check line ups while desperately calling my landlady to obtain any extra keys. No such luck. We ask an Air Canada worker if there was a help desk or somewhere we could leave our keys. He denies that there is a help desk even exists. We are darting around, looking for anywhere we could reliably leave our keys before we had to squeeze into through security. I am about to bribe a Starbucks worker when someone in line points out the obvious—an Information desk. Turns out they even have a formalized procedure to deal with such incidents, and we are able to hand over the Duke’s keys without incident. Unfortunately, it means that Ultra Toast and Patches are now granted another exciting tour of the airport-apartment route of the city.

And, now I’m at my parents place in HomeTown, and hoping that a little small town air will cleanse me of this apparently infectious bad luck cloud following me around….

Trusting my feet

My mouth is tart with the taste of sangria lingering on the backs of my teeth.

Hands are clapping.

Spanish melodies are swimming through the air.

And up on stage, she dances.

She is an exercise in contrasts. Her face is cold, focused, disdainful, yet she moves passionately, with fire. 

She could rip someone's heart out and stomp it to pieces on the hard floor without batting a lash and somehow make it look tempting to hand over your own.

He whispers to me "I can't tell if she is improvising or this is routine."

I murmur back "Isn't that the magic?"

I am envious of her feet. They take every step with utter certainty. Even if she only decided a moment prior the place in which they were landing, they hit the floor with the conviction of a thousand times practiced. As though she has profound confidence that every instant is exactly as it should be.

I want feet like this. Feet that sense where they are going, and even if a puddle appears before them, or they take a wrong turn, they do not pause-- they artfully swerve, without missing a beat. They do not stop to ponder the implications of the next step. They do not wonder if they should have detoured two blocks ago, or if it was worth the bother to even put on shoes today. They just trust the force propelling them to move.

Please me like you want to (read to the very end before you judge!)

Some more confessions:

-The first time I got drunk, it was off tequila, with french onion crackers as chasers. I was with my much cooler cousin, who had been drunk several times before, so I was too embarassed to tell her it was my first time. Instead, I choked back the tequila and tried to keep a smile on my face, like this was something I'd done many a times before.

- I never return my DVDs on time. I used to live right by a chain that allowed up to a month with no late fees... and they spoiled me. I don't think I have ever went to rent a video over the past few months without cringing when they tell me how much I owe. And the store is only 4 blocks away!

- With regards to my prior post on smart girl stereotypes... my ex really did have me convinced for a while that being intelligent and opinionated was a bad thing. I'd always been told I was too modest about things, so it was such a slap in the face to be denigrated for the one thing I felt I could express any confidence in.
Our last fight was about when I dared to disagree with him in public about politics... in front of all of his guy friends (I was the only girl present, making it even more courageous for me to feel like speaking up), he got up, and patted me on the head. Like a dog. As though I was there to be seen, not heard. Although we dragged it out for another month, that really was the end.
It was painful to realize that someone I'd spent six years with cared so little about the real me and so much about how I appeared to others.

- I loathe doing the dishes. There is in fact a sink full of suds waiting for me... and I "suddenly" had a burst of bloggie inspiration.

- I always faked an orgasm with my first sexual partner because I thought that was what you were supposed to do.

- Too much of my identity is wrapped up in being the person people go to for support. I actually get offended when a friend doesn't confide in me-- yet I have noticed that I don't confide in many people at all. Maybe I bring the psychologist role too much into my day-to-day life.

- I'm a bit of a neurotic monogamist. I'm either single, or not. I've only ventured into dating once, when I was in my first year of college, when I dated two guys occasionally during the same month. It was a bit of a mess, as one couldn't grasp the notion that I had asked him out and told him I wasn't looking for anything serious, yet I wouldn't sleep with him, while the other just couldn't get around that I didn't want to be his girlfriend, and kept on acting as though I wanted to .
(Excerpt of conversation-
Him: I'm so sorry I never called you.
Me: That's okay, you'll notice I didn't call you either.
Him: It's just that I can't really get into anything serious right now.
Me: Neither can I. I told you that before.
And so forth....)

- I am blessed with lots of amazing close friends, but ever since I was burned really badly by my best friend of 9 years when I was 19, I have no one best friend. As such, I hold back on relying too much on any one person... I try to balance it out across various friends, which doesn't feel natural at all.

***

On a completely different tangent...


So I've been tagged by the lovely tbf.love for a musical meme aka. psychic experiment. If anything, it should be good for a few giggles and a secret look into my iTunes, however embarassing!

The Rules:

1. Put your iTunes/ music player on Shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER WHAT
(this is in capital letters, so it is very serious. No hiding your showtunes, folks!)

After you’ve answered all of the questions, tag 5 other people and then let them know they’ve been tagged to do the meme themselves!

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Lesson learned- Ray LaMontagne
(sounds like a bit of a guilt trip!)

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Only Got One- Frou Frou
(no multiple personalities for me, apparently)

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Real Men- Tori Amos
(haha!! No metrosexuals for me!)

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Morning Sun- The Beautiful Girls
(though I didn't see it... ahhh, sleep)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
The Drugs Don't Work- the Verve
(that's depressing!)

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
The Coo Coo Bird- Be Good Tanyas

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Handle with Care- Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins
(wow... that's inspiring. Apparently I'm vulnerable!)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
Soft Revolution- Stars

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Dreamworld- Rilo Kiley
(I am a daydreamer)

WHAT IS 2+2?
Secret Spell- Tori Amos
(the answer is apparently not so simple)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Good Feeling- Jack Johnson
:)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Me and Mr. Jones- Amy Winehouse
(huh?)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Only Happy When it Rains- Garbage
(wow, depressing)

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Apres Moi- Regina Spektor
(I want to be after me when I grow up?)

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Better Be Heaven- Stars
(he better be!)

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
You Can't Always Get What you Want- Rolling Stones
(haha! Damn!)

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
505- Arctic Monkeys

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Walk Alone- Jack Johnson
(seems a bit appropriate)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Pacific Theme- Broken Social Scene
(I do like the ocean)

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Uphill Battle- Sarah McLachlan
(This is really making me sound depressed)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
The Grass is Green- Nelly Furtado

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
Please me Like You Want to- Ben Harper
(oh dear)

And five people to tag...
Yoda
Libby
Miriam
Frog Princess
Ashley

Ways to tell I am drunk (or how I spent my Friday and other weekend lists)

- Tequila seems like a good idea. I need to have a few drinks in me to even consider taking a shot of tequila that is offered to me. It is a whole 'nother story when I actually volunteer for it.

- My friend tells me that everyone is checking us out while dancing to "Life is a Highway", and I believe her. Because, at that moment, nothing is sexier than me grooving to Tom Cochran.

- I make a whole series of new friends in the woman's bathroom, and profess my friendship to them by offering to share my drink with them.

- I decide that everything I have to say is inherently interesting, so I fill in my friends about my internal debate about whether to eat a bagel after we leave the bar.
Pro: Bagels are tasty. And bread soaks up booze.
Cons: I'm not even hungry. And one bagel is equal to approximately a loaf of bread in carb values.

- I shout out things such as "That's Doctor Marion Jones!" (Referring to myself. Don't even ask. I'm not on steroids, I just was doing some stellar sprinting.)

- I send my boyfriend text messages saying things such as "Yay for love from drunk Princess!". And then, after I crawl into bed with him that night, he wakes up to the smell of vodka.

So, yeah, that was pretty much my Friday night. Unintentional on all parts, as I was just gonna have a quiet movie night with a girl friend before we got the call about a birthday celebration. We broke into the sake over dinner, and it was all downhill from there, I'm afraid. I tend not to be a big partier, so it was good fun. Except for the next day...

***

Ways to tell you are the most obnoxious concert-goer ever:

- You wear what must be steel-toed boots (or perhaps even tap shoes) to a concert hall with wooden floors.

- You frantically stomp off key to every song... even the slow ones, to such an extent that everyone is looking around to find out where the random vibrations are coming from. As such, you gain the nickname Riverdance.

- You flail your elbows in close proximity to others, to such point that people are spending more time dodging you than watching the show.

- During the songs, you randomly shout out bad 70s punch-lines, like "Ooooh, yeah, that's the spot" or "Yeah yeah yeah drop the bomb!"

- When the lead singer is explaining the meaning of a song, or talking about something otherwise important to them, you shout out into the silence "Get on with the song, man!". Double points for calling the singer by their first name as you bash them, such as "Come on, Amy, get the words out!"

This was luckily the man standing behind me. My friend actually turned to him and said "Just stop." It worked for a few minutes, at least.

Anyways, other than Riverdance's focused attempt to ruin the concert experience for those in his immediate vicinity, it was an absolutely stellar show. A fabulous Canadian indie rock band called Stars were playing. They actually played two encores, the crowd was so hyped.



Words can't really describe what a great live show will do to you. It is the most amazing feeling to just lose oneself in the music and become oblivious to everything around you and just move.

I go to a lot of concerts, and one of the things I have learned to be true is that every live show you go to should leave you feeling differently about the band than prior to the show. It's horribly wrong to leave with the same sentiment, as it means the band didn't do their job-- it's almost better to go out with a bad taste in your mouth then for it to be so unmemorable.
Obviously, this was not the case here. In fact, it was the opposite- such a great show that for the next while, each time I listen to their music the songs will have new meaning and set of memories.

Songs for a broken heart

No worries, bloggie land, my heart remains intact.
However, broken hearts have been a topic of conversation in bloggie land as of late. One such conversations discussed the importance of having a good playlist during such events, as music can sometimes be such an important resting place when the mind is weary.

Lisa of her very own Lisa Show was the originator of this idea, and put together a pretty damn spectacular list. However, I spent such a substantial of a period of time responding to her post whilst going through my iPod that I decided it may be worth of a post of it's own.

Without further ago, here is my semi-comprehensive list of songs to nurse you threw heartbreak. Please notice the conspicuous absence of Alanis Morisette's "You Oughta Know", which was my #1 break-up song in adolescence.


Amy Millan- Baby I
Baby you turned a clear night sky into a dark, dark hole
And when I see a sunset now I'm just looking at a painting in a cheap motel.

Be Good Tanyas- In the Past

I was trying to wave to you but you wouldn't
Wave back
Now you know I understand you're with me only
In the past

Beck- Guess I'm Doing Fine
It's only lies that I'm living
It's only tears that I'm crying
It's only you that I'm losing
Guess I'm doing fine

Ben Harper- Another Lonely Day
Yes indeed I'm alone again
And here comes emptiness crashing in

Damien Rice- Delicate (or pretty much every single one of his songs)
So why do you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've known

David Ford- I Don't Care What You Call Me
Rain it on down,
What else can you throw at me?
I haven't heard before?

Feist- Let It Die
The saddest part of a broken heart
Isn't the ending so much as the start

Fiona Apple- O' Sailor
Everything I have to look forward to
Has a pretty painful and very imposing before

Frou Frou- Hear Me Out
I'm a slow motion accident
Lost in coffee rings and fingerprints
I don't wanna feel anything but I do
And it all comes back to you

Kathleen Edwards- Back To Me
A little depressed so far? This one is a nice confidence building interlude.
I've got ways to make you hear me
Just by whispering your name
I've got ways to make you think
You'll never be happy again
...
I've got ways to make you come back to me

Martha Wainwright- Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole
Bet you can guess the sentiments of this one!
And you have no idea
No idea how it feels to be on your own
In your own home
with the fucking phone
And the mother of gloom
In your bedroom
Standing over your head
With her hand in your head

Matt Costa- These Arms
The salt burns my skin
And your eyes were cold as the ocean
This is our day today
Can you find the way back to these arms

Norah Jones- In the Afternoon
I tried to quit you
But I'm too weak
Waking up without you I can hardly sleep at all

Ray LaMontagne- Empty
I never learned to count my blessings,
I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.

Tristan Prettyman- Breathe
Cause you're only taking inches
When I'm giving you miles
Did you maybe think that I wasn't worth your while?

Tori Amos- 1000 Oceans
I can't believe
I could keep you from flying
And I would cry
1000 more
If that's what it takes
To sail you home

What would you add to the list?

***

A total aside...
I am about to conduct my first experiment of extending bloggie friendships to the real world. Tomorrow I am meeting that ever-so-charming Scottish blogger Ant.

I am excited and curious about what the day will bring. Ant is one of the folks I have known the longest since I began writing, and thus I feel as though I have at least some sense of him. I am intrigued to see what it will be like to interact with someone who knows some of my more innermost thoughts, but yet not my most basic of mannerisms.

Weekly snippets...

Ahhhhh... the return of September. One sometimes forgets, with the flexibility of grad school summer hours, how you are completely beat by the time Friday rolls around. I feel like I've returned home almost daily with a headache. This Wednesday, for instance, I woke up at 6:30am, and didn't manage to stop running around until I returned home at 9:30pm. I think I may have to use some of my grant money to convert a testing cubicle into the ultimate power napping zone.

A natural side effect of all this is that my blog visiting abilities are often a little lacking... so if I'm a little slow on the commenting, I promise, it is not some complex web version of the silent treatment on my part!

However, busy-ness does not mean that my extreme powers of observation have been shut off. I will try to spare you the boring details of "what I've learned in school this week"...

***

Fact #1 - There is a direct correlation between the professionalism of my outfit and the likelihood of me spilling coffee on said outfit.
(which would be why my sweatpants remain flawless.... which cannot be said about the blouse I bought this week)

Fact #2 - Fancy words or words from other languages in the name of an apartment building does relate to how lavish the actual apartment is. I submit as evidence a grey stucco two story building called Casa Sophia.

Fact #3 - Contrary to what you may expect, having a black light in the bathroom stall of a dive bar does not increase the classyness factor.

Fact #4 - When an individual wears a shirt declaring "Yeah, I have a PhD... a pretty huge dick!", the shirt is lying. This individual in fact has a pretty small dick and IS a pretty big dick.

***

One of my more fatal flaws has come to the forefront this week-- my need to have everyone like me, even if I don't really like them. You'd think if I didn't really enjoy a person's company, I could perhaps agree, in my head, to some sort of mutual disinterest. Instead, I find the notion of someone actively disliking me really disheartening. I want to win them over, even if I don't really want to be their friend.

***

Coincedence of the week:

Remember our friend the Muscovy Duck, who is currently competing in the exceedingly prestigious Ugly Animal Pageant?
He was actually on the menu at the Tapas Bar I was at last night!
(as a side note... how pretentious is the word tapas? Seriously... they are appetizers.)

***

Against my better judgment, I went to see Hairspray this week. I know some of you found it entertaining, which I did at first. However, jokes surrounding John Travolta looking ridiculous in a sequined or salsa outfit got a little old. But what I found most (unintentionally, I'm sure) offensive was their portrayal of the ease of changing racist behaviours. It went from a town full of racists, with only a few white person offering obvious support, to a sudden rush of solidarity after seeing a few African-Americans dance of television. I just felt that it really trivialized a complex issue that is still, horribly, in the forefront today, as can be seen in atrocious cases such as the Jena 6 and beyond horrible case that just occurred in West Virginia. While, yes, overcoming segregation is something huge to celebrate, it's just hard to swallow the rosy picture we often get in the face of all of this.

***

After walking by an open bay window with a group of people, last night, I made some random comment about how I found it interesting to look into windows, and just see the living spaces of different individuals... and people reacted like I was an utter creep! No matter how I explained to them that I wasn't skulking around in backyards, peering through blinds, but rather just turning my head while walking by on the street, there seemed to be an active denial that they would do such a thing.

I felt as though this was utter bullshit, for several reasons. First off, I find it too depressing that grad students in psychology would not have a natural people watching drive. As I've discussed here in the past, I fantasize about being able to be a fly on the wall in some many different and random scenarios. Secondly, people in apartment buildings are always talking about the weird behaviours of the porn loving fellow across the street from them. Also, people with ground level windows on busy streets are always remarking how everyone looks in as they walk by. Finally, this just seemed a little implausible considering we are in the society of reality TV and obsessions about the day-to-day lives of celebrities.

***

Lastly, I provide you with a link to the Duke's reflections on a concert we attended last weekend, as he articulated the surrealism of it all better than I could havvery nicely.

Rock shows and other long weekend antics

Happy September, everyone!
Post-Labour Day, there always seems to be something qualitatively different in the air. Paired with the first leaves tumbling to the ground, I am afraid that autumn may indeed be creeping up on us.

But I digress... because I'm sure you are all biting your nails with anticipation of my long weekend antics!
(humour me, okay?)

My weekend kicked off with a proverbial bang, for certain...

A friend from a previous city of residence recently moved my way. On Friday, he invited me to meet him at an infamous clothing optional beach. I highlight the optional, as while I don't have a problem with nudity, I'm also a little hesitant to disrobe in front of just anyone, especially in the days of cell phone cameras and voyeuristic websites. While negotiating the plans, he asserted that he, too, would remain clothed. However, on the actual day of, as I was on my way to meet him, we exchanged a series of text messages, starting with him saying "I have to warn you, there are naked people here", to "Actually, I decided to go naked, as it felt too awkward to be clothed", to "Do you mind if I am naked when we meet?"
I told him that, if he was comfortable with it, I could handle that.

All the same, it is definitely one of the odder experiences in life to witness a completely platonic friend of several years (who, I may add, I have never been attracted to-- and is also married and a completely unskeezy guy) striding towards you, completely nude. Especially one who always fell more into the bounds of conventionality than myself. And although the awkwardness dissipated rather quickly (the fact that he was so nonchalant helped), I still kept on having "Oh my God, I've seen S's penis!" run through my mind for the rest of the day.

***

After dinner with my now non-nude friend, I met up with some girl friends, who escorted me to a friend's house for some drinks before we made our way out. Which was all fine and dandy... except for the fact that it was the DIRTIEST. HOUSE. EVER.

Our city is unfortunately on Day 47 of a garbage worker strike, which means that, along with being randomly blasted with rank odors as you are walking down the street, most houses are experiencing greater than normal fruit fly populations. I have about five buzzing around my kitchen that seemingly don't seem to care whether my dishes are clean or not, as do most people I know who live in this city. However, that is no excuse for over 50 fruit flies in the bathroom alone!

I seriously cannot imagine why people can not only live in such squalor, but not even be embarassed of it! Laundry all over the living room, hundreds of wine bottles in the kitchen, odd wet looking stains on the rug, mold in the bathtub... and you invite people over? I was creeped out by the fact that I hadn't worn socks and had to place my bare feet on their possibly contaminated floor that had never seen the gentle touch of a mop.

***

However, lest you get the impression that my long weekend was all about a general sense of discomfort...


Whilst flipping through the channels on Sunday afternoon, I came across not just one, but TWO Freddie Prinze Jr. movies on at the very same time! Ah, Freddie, your puppy dog eyes and ability to play a teenager despite being around thirty years old make me yearn for the days of yore. Your films also make me wonder why my prom didn't have spontaneous choreographed dance routines. Or even an epic battle for prom queen, and, of course, your heart.

***

The main theme of the weekend, however, was not heartthrobs, but rather rock concerts!

Saturday night, the Duke, his roomie and I went to see Queens of the Stone Age. We were a little apprehensive-- not at QOTSA's ability to rock, but rather about the venue, which at the last minute had been relegated to a suburban arena typically used for Triple A hockey due to the very same strike that has also resulted in garbage pile-ups also resulting in the closing of the concert venue. However, the show did not disappoint-- the band rocked out for a solid two hours, and I danced my ass off.
One of the most entrancing things ever must be watching a mosh pit in flickering lights-- it looks as though it is entirely its own entity.
A non-highlight? Drunks teenagers trying to mosh while in hockey arena stands-- in between doing the spin your partner, do-si-do square dance move.

We also went to see Tokyo Police Club on Sunday night. Fitting with one of the weekend's subthemes-- that being lack of cleanliness- -the floor was so sticky it pulled my slip-on shoes off. Although they probably suffered in contrast to the night previous' performance, the band still put on a solid show, if a little short.

I'm actually in the midst of a rather lovely concert bonanza, with another four shows this month alone.

***

But now, alas, with the return of fall comes the return to school. My eighth year, to be exact, which is a little intimidating to realize. Kicking off with a 6:30 rise tomorrow and a return home some 13 or so hours later.

Freddie.... come rescue me!

A morning in the life of...

On the days that I see clients, I wear semi-professional gear. I don't know if any of you felt this way when you had to start wearing blazers or ties to work, but this brings out mixed feelings in me. I enjoy, in some senses, striding around in my high heels, tweed skirt, latte in hand. It feels like I am playing dress up. Sometimes I think I am fooling people, and they believe me to be in their little young professionals club. Other times I feel like a fraud and am convinced that everyone can see the girl who can't hold a coffee steady and squeals at spiders beneath my big sunglasses.

Today I felt rather styling with my black heels. I took two steps out the door, and realized that if I was going to make it through 'til tonight, I'd better slip some flip flops in my bag.

I lasted all the way 'til the coffee shop in my heels.
And nearly spilled coffee changing out of them.

You can dress me up, but you can't take me out!

***

At this coffee shop, while dumping some sugar into by cup, I listened to a mother explaining death to her two daughters, who were probably around the 5-7 range. She said "You girls know that when you die, your family never forgets you, right?" She then held up the obituaries, and pointed to a picture of a very young boy. She said "This boy has been in heaven for twenty years, and his daddy put this ad in the newspaper because he still loves him so much."

It was a strangely beautiful moment.

***

Two things that shouldn't exist: leather baseball caps and banana flavoured milk.

***

On the bus, coffee in hand, I sat down on a forward facing seat directly behind a woman on a sideways seat, who was writing on some formal looking reports. I was appalled to notice that, as was clearly visible over her shoulder, she was actually editing people's therapy reports on a bus! At first, I was hesitant as to what to do, as of course anyone who sat in her vicinity could and would read them- as I was doing at that very moment. However, as she pulled out a second report, and I was confronted with the full name of a father who was coping with the trauma of his child's death, I decided that I had to say something.

"Excuse me."

She looks at me, irritated, without a word.

"Just so you know, I can clearly read the report from over your shoulder, so you might want to be careful."

She turns around, and indignantly folds the paper over so the initial title with the client's contact information is covered, and continues taking notes. After the first page, she continues marking it up without even attempting to shield the information.

What I wanted to say, "Listen, you disrespectful bitch, I'm a therapist, too, so I know how unethical you are being. I can't believe anyone would present themselves as caring about someone's well-being, and then be callous enough to expose the confidential details about a grieving father's therapy to anyone and everyone on public transit. Furthermore, I can't believe that you aren't even ashamed that someone caught you doing this. I wish that I had stayed silent a moment longer so I could have read your (or whoever's report it was) identity on the last page, and reported you to your college, because that is probably sufficient to get your license revoked. You don't deserve to work with these people."

***

On the bright side, I am going to see the fantastically delightful Feist play tonight. I officially command you all to watch the clip below of My Moon My Man, which is my current favourite song!

Boxes and smatterings of other such notables

Ah, moving.
How I love the grey stained fingers from endless wrapping of breakables in newspaper, how quickly and masterfully I am now able to construct a box, the random odds and ends I have discovered and discarded (how many bloody candles do I own? and why do I keep all the address labels that charities continually send me?), and the horrible piercing stench of oven cleaner.

I am very very eager for this week to be done. Unfortunately, further box-ing (not the fun kind!), cleaning (I am seriously petrified of under my stove- I swear a mutant band of spiders is probably waiting for me), and dealing with my building manager stand in the way of that.

Between that and the study-fest that proceeded my ethics orals (and, okay, a few fun sojourns, too), there's been little time for blogging, unfortunately. As such, I bring you the highlights and lowlights (I don't know if that counts as the opposite of highlight except in hairdresser speak, but I'm rolling with it) of my week:

Highlights:

Chasing ducks across the street. As we were on our way to dinner Friday night, the Duke and I came across a random duo of ducks clearly out of place on a relatively busy street. They were precariously waddling in and out of traffic, and a woman on a cell phone was frantically trying to save the ducks, with others walking by, oblivious. We put forth a joint effort, and we chased them across the street from different angles until they reached the safety of the parking lot (where, I'm assuming, the mallard put his mack on... the lady duck was surely turned on by his risky behaviour).

With hindsight, they probably would've flown away if they were in too great of danger.

Random sibling adventures!. My little sis is currently on a solo figuring-out-her-life road trip. She happened to come into the city a day later than planned, meaning that she was leaving for a small town a few hours away the day I finished my massive exam. She convinced me to come along for a day of the road trip with her, rather than celebrating the test completion by, yes, packing more boxes.

We ended up having a fantastic time. Her and I, who share the tendency of being a tad bit overcontrolling of our surroundings, decided to just completely play things by ear, and venture down some random roads in the hopes of finding something worthwhile (she was actually on a desperate search for tidepools, being a current prairie resident). Sometimes this turned out better (we saw enormous sunstars at a little pier in a small town), others not so much (driving over 30 min down a twisty road trying to find a park, only to find a sign telling us we were at the wrong spot-- apparently we weren't the first to make this mistake-- then finding the park entrance, only to discover we needed to hike several kilometres to get to the ocean!). I headed back to real life early afternoon the next day, but it was nice to get a quick escape with my sis, who I miss very much most days.

Concerts! This week I had the immense pleasure of seeing both Regina Spektor and Damien Rice in concert. Regina has an incredible voice that holds up amazingly well live, and is utterly adorable on stage-- she seems very much at ease. I was extremely impressed.
Words can't even express how amazing Damien was, though. I had goosebumps for most of the show. It was one of those shows where I still feel on air when I think back to it. There's something about live music like that which gets me to a place like nothing else-- hard to explain to those who don't have that same connection with it.

***

Lowlights

People who talk during concerts. I really want to know who the hell pays to go to a concert, and then holds on a conversation through the whole thing. How is it in such obvious poor taste to talk through a movie, yet, during a show that people have paid several times the cost of a movie ticket, reasonable to chat about how drunk you were last weekend when the artists is playing *gasp* not their single, or, heaven forbid, a b-side?
Almost as bad are the amateur vocalists. For those of you not familiar with the stylings of Regina Spektor, she tends to be quite, um, vocally flexible, and will do odd things with her voice, like singing ridiculously fast, hitting very high notes, or interjecting some odd noises. She is, generally, the only person in the venue who can get away with this-- hence why she is up on stage, and you are not. So, please please, do not attempt to croon along to her every note at the top of your lungs while standing directly behind me. I shouldn't be laughing hysterically during a serious song.

Ethics oral exams. I know it is of vital importance for me, as a future-psychologist, to be impeccably ethical in my professional behaviours. It is still just plain mean to make me sit before a table of three alternatively unblinking staring or frantically writing professors and answer how I would resolve ethical dilemmas for an hour.

Lettuce-less salads? Since when did lettuce become an optional component of salad? Is it really an unfair assumption of me to make that my ten dollar salad will contain something other than ten cherry tomatoes and ten half-pieces of boconcinni drizzled with vinegar and accompanied by a little pile of pesto? I bet the chefs seriously laugh at whatever poor fool orders the salad, knowing that no one wants to look so uncouth as to have assumed a pile of greens in their salad dish, and watching me ogle my companion's burger of the same price.

Hint of summer

This post was inspired by the fact that, as I just discovered today, tomorrow I will be purchasing tickets for shows by Feist, Damien Rice and Regina Spektor-- and I realized that this summer shall again be filled with music.

***

Music has a way of finding me when the time is right.

It found me as a miserable depressed 14 year old who really believed she was alone in the world.

And it found me again, with a vengence, a little over a year ago. It showed me I was in a rut I didn't even know I was in, and led me out (arguably both indirectly and directly).

It sounds cheesy and cliched to say "I love music", and I've heard that if you don't make music, you can never really appreciate it at that same core level. I really have no musical talent beyond my adolescent foray into musical theatre, but I just know that I get something more out of it now than I had in the past. Live shows just leave me filled with something more than day-to-day life provides.