During discussion of the ubiquity of the name "Madison":
Him: "I want to have 50 kids and name them all after state capitals. Poor Bismarck."
Me: "You want to have 50 kids? Yikes. I'll see you later."
Him: "Oh. Well, will you have, like, 10 of them?"

We're talking with his friends about an upcoming wedding. Another Steve is described as being "Katie's date."
Me: "You're Katie's date? I thought I was your date."
Him: "I'm your date. I'll never be anyone else's date."

Such a good weekend, you guys.

EDIT: Guys, did I make him sound like a creepy baby farmer? Because he's not. At least, I don't think he is...

It's Thursday. We are soaking wet, sitting in the car we've been sitting in for 24 hours already, and preparing to spend the night in it again. Winds are whipping at tents of questionable stability and tornado warnings are blaring on the radio. Lightning is striking everywhere, with no thunder. We look at each other. "Rachel, let's make a pact to never do this again." "You got it."

That's how my trip to Bonnaroo got started. Well, sort of.

Jim picked me up on Wednesday night around 10. We were shooting for 7, but, well, that's Jim. After 13 years of friendship, you'd think I'd have expected it. The ride down was great. There was singing and laughing and deer counting. (There were 10 deer along a mile or two stretch in New York. I don't think I've seen 10 deer in my entire life!) We sang songs like Elmer Fudd and yelled the theme from "Sanford and Son" at each other. We made fun of city names and landmarks ("Blacks Run? Is that a river or a command??") and pulled over for a quick nap somewhere in Virginia. That's also where we had a brush with the law. "You know, this is our first speeding ticket. We never got one during the cross-country trip." "Right. I just got that parking ticket that I never paid." "Where was that?" "Um. Virginia. Think there's a statute of limitations on that sort of thing?" There must be, because no one was arrested.

We arrived in Tennessee and thought "We're almost there!" We were wrong. Tennessee is a long state, and we were crossing the whole thing. But we got there, sat in line, the car passed inspection, we were sent to our camp site, and then, BOOM. The skies opened. I was terrified, certain that some stoner hadn't hammered his stakes in all the way and their tent was going to come crashing through the windshield. Or a goddamn tornado would suck us up and throw us somewhere in Arkansas. We were basically a trailer park, after all. We were asking for it. But after a few minutes (just long enough for us to get soaked putting up the tent before realizing we couldn't find the top tarp) it stopped. People got out of their cars, finished setting up, and set to the most important part of the first night - finding the bathroom. We did that, revelled in the relative cleanliness of the port-o-potties, sort of got our bearings, and went to sleep.

Friday morning the rain had stopped. The ground wasn't dry, but it wasn't quite the mud pit we expected. We got the tent to a liveable condition and blew up God's greatest invention, the air mattress, which we immediately passed out on for a few more hours. It seemed that maybe we wouldn't have to give up and go home quite yet.

Then we remembered there was a concert to go to. We checked the schedule and mapped out our day. Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, Grizzly Bear, Al Green, Beastie Boys, and Phish. After Grace Potter's blues explosion burned the goddamned house down, Jim said "If I could Twitter, I'd tweet this: Grace Fucking Potter." It's not fair that a woman can be so pretty and so talented. If she comes anywhere near your area, GO AND SEE THEM. Do not hesitate. For real. The night before started to wear on me during Grizzly Bear, and the bass was so loud I felt my esophagus shake, so we went and sat down for a bit. I regrouped in time to bear witness to the Rev. Al Green, taking it back old school in a beautiful suit in the 90 degree heat. He brought the hits, and I was nothing but grateful to be standing near him, which was a trend that continued all weekend. After Al finished, the Beastie Boys took the stage. Mix Master Mike is honestly the best DJ I've ever seen. Blew my damn mind. The Beasties made everyone happy. Everyone was smiling like idiots, yelling along to Paul Revere, shaking our rumps, and rocking it root down. Then Nas showed up. What?? NAS?? I'm not as into the hip hop scene in general as some of my friends, but I was able to recognize a master of the artform. He did his part on the new single and left, but it still felt like I had seen something important. After the show we wandered around, silly grins on our faces. We noticed that David Byrne was playing a few feet away. We snuck in for "Take Me To the River" and "The Great Curve", my favorite Talking Heads song of all time. Then I turned to Jim. "I'm having a crisis of loyalty and I need your advice." "Okay, what?" "Jimmy, Public Enemy is playing. Right here. Very soon. At the same time as Phish, the band you and I came to see. The band we haven't seen in 5 years. The whole reason we are still such good friends! But... I mean... It's Public fucking Enemy. When will I get this chance again? I wore my tape of "Apocolypse 91" OUT. What do I do?" "Go see them, Little Rachel. I'll meet you here when they're done." "Really? You're not mad about seeing Phish alone?" "Nope. Go." So I went. And it was amazing. Flavor Flav was there. Chuck D was there. Professor Griff was there. The S1W were there. In front of me. About 20 feet away. I threw my white suburban fist in the air in solidarity and it all felt okay. And they did the entire "It Takes A Nation of Millions" album. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. At least until the next day.

Saturday we took Vickie's suggestion and trudged over to see Rodrigo y Gabriela, a brother/sister guitar duo. They were - to steal a word - incendiary. I don't know how those guitars got off stage in one piece. Then we got out of the sun and watched Gov't Mule cover Radiohead while we sat under a tree. Next was the act I'd been looking forward to most - Elvis Costello. He was billed as solo, but there were enough instruments set up to know that wouldn't be the case for long. The first few songs would have been enough for me. "Veronica", "(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes", "Watching the Detectives", "Radio, Radio". Then Allen Toussaint showed up. Then some other guy. Then Jenny Lewis and her band, who had been on just prior. This was bittersweet for me. I love Jenny, but I love Elvis more. As soon as she showed up, the man onstage turned from the coolest guy in Tennessee to some old guy trying to keep up with the young kids. This is why I get so grossed out at couples of greatly different ages. The older person looks lecherous and pitiful, and the younger person looks like a baby who has unreconciled issues with their parents. Stick to your own kind, people. Ahem, anyway. Rant over. It was an amazing show and I may have cried a little during the "You Have To Hide Your Love Away" cover. That was all we could take for the day. We hiked back to the tent and listened to Bruce Springsteen on the mainstage doing "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town". We fell asleep somewhere after "Thunder Road".

Sunday morning we woke up sweaty. Tennessee is hot, y'all. Believe. We got up, hosed ourselves off as best we could, and hightailed it over to see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. I'm not as familiar with the band as I'd like to be, but the show was awesome. Ted kept knocking his guitar out of tune. He'd spent a few minutes retuning, then he'd say "Eh, good enough for punk" and play the song. This happened 3 or 4 times. After the set, we just sort of wandered around for a few minutes. After 3 days of running around, we finally took some time to just look at stuff. We saw some of the smaller stages featuring unsigned bands. We washed our hands and faces with the only public running water onsite. I bought cherries at Whole Foods. They were outstanding. We wandered back to This Tent (as opposed to the That Tent and The Other Tent, along with the Which and What stages. It's Bonnaroo's little way of screwing with the hippies) and saw Robert Earl Keen open for Merle Haggard. Merle Haggard is not an act I would have chosen myself, but Lynn and Christopher both requested that I go, so I obliged. I think i've described all the shows as "awesome" or "amazing", and this was no different. I feel like I got to see a lot of acts that I won't get a chance to see again, and I am so grateful to have had the opportunity. After Merle was Band of Horses, then Snoop Dogg told us to both Drop It Like It's Hot AND to Jump Around. The man kept us busy. After Snoop ended, we got down to business. It was Phish time. We snaked through the crowd to find the perfect spot. We stocked up on food and water, staked our claim, and prepared. We played "What Will They Play?" and "JimShirt" - the game in which Jim gets punched if I see someone wearing a Phish shirt that he owns. Dude's got a lot of shirts, so he gets punched a lot. I don't know why anyone is my friend.

Phish took the stage, and I didn't stop grinning for 3 hours. I stared at the band. Trey looked old. He's had a hard few years, and it shows around his eyes. Page is adorable and I want to keep him around me all the time for hugging purposes. Mike is Mike. Fishman looks like he took a job on Wall Street during the break and just threw on his trademark green dress 5 minutes before the show. Both sets were everything I could ask for. There were glowsticks, fireworks, ridiculous dancing, smiles all around, and Bruce Springsteen. Trey started talking about growing up in Jersey and the first show he ever went to, and how nothing ever compared to that show for him, and ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Bruce Springsteen. They played Mustang Sally, Bobbie Jean, and Glory Days. Bruce clearly hadn't met the whole band, as he kept referring to Page as "Mr. Keyboard Man". Hilarious. After the show we hopped on a golf cart driven by Samuel L. Jackson's long-lost brother and got the fastest and most potentially dangerous ride back to camp of the weekend. And then sleep.

Monday morning, and it was time to go. We cleaned, we packed, we broke down the tent, we killed most of the ant colony that took up in the backseat. Then there was a lot of driving and we only accidentally ended up in Kentucky one time. We stopped for the night in Salem, Va, then another full day of driving and counting deer. This ride was quieter, though there was still plenty of laughing and singing and Elmer Fudd. We talked about important stuff, I called him out on some bullshit, and he threatened to throw me out of the car. But I got him back on my side. They always come back. Tuesday night at 9 we pulled up in front of my house. We unloaded my stuff and thanked each other for the thousandth time.

"So, Little Rachel. Next year?" "You got it."

Hi there.

So I'm going to Bonnaroo this week, because I have the heart of a hippie. I am thoroughly unprepared, because I live like a spoiled city girl. I need your help.

I'll be on a farm for 5 days with no running water, no refrigeration, drinking warm beer and slopping through mud (if the current weather prediction of scattered thunderstorms bears out). The music will be amazing - seriously, check out the schedule - but who do I see? There are so many bands playing at the same time!

I am at a loss, internet. Help me. What one item should I be sure to bring, what band can I not miss, what words of wisdom do you have for a weary traveler to help me avoid murdering my companion after hour 11 in the car on the way home?

I was asked to write a letter of recommendation for my friend perich so he can officially officiate the wedding of two of his friends. It's probably the easiest thing I've ever had to do, and I was honored to be asked. What I actually wrote was brief, because I didn't want to go babbling to the Commonwealth about how much I love my friend. That's what the internet is for. :) So, please, allow me to expound.

John Perich is a good man. He is smart, and strong, and can rock a mic like you've never seen. He is a wonderful writer, an expert martial artist, and an unreserved dancer. And he's an amazing friend. This week I was sad for a lot of reasons. I called John and he was there for me. That sounds like a small thing, but it's not. I needed him, and he was there without question and without delay. The look of concern on his face when he got to me is not something I'll forget soon. He let me ramble about the reasons I was sad, holding my hand and listening closely. This sort of thing is not out of character for him.

My relationship with John has not always been wonderful. There have been miscommunications and hurt feelings. But we pushed through them, and I couldn't be more glad. Because if we hadn't, I wouldn't have one of my best friends. It's easy to miscategorize John as aloof, or cold, or otherwise hard to know. But really, he's just tall. You have to get up on your tip-toes to see into his eyes and get to the real guy. Once you get up there, you'll see that he's a giant heart in a crunchy outer shell, just like the rest of us. A giant heart who holds his beliefs strongly and loves his friends ferociously. I consider myself very lucky to be his friend.

So, yes. I recommend John Perich. For just about anything.


(If you want to take time today to recommend a friend, I think it's a neat thing to do. After all, opening day was postponed. What else are you going to do all day?)

It's Ticket Time again. I'm going to see Mountain Goats this Wednesday at the Somerville Theater. I have an extra ticket. I would like to go to this show with you. You probably don't know the band, so I will tell you that they are nerdy, and quiet, and have the kind of lyrics that break your heart and make you smile at the same time. Here is an example.




John van der Slice (no relation) is opening. Let me know if you'd like to come along.

I just cancelled my MySpace account. All these social network things do more to make me crazy than to keep me connected. Too much information about what my friends are doing at all times only serves to make me feel lonely and disconnected. Why wasn't I tagged in that note? Invited to that event? Who the hell is that pretty new friend of his? It hurts me instead of heping. I've been holding on to MySpace for too long. I don't what I'll let go of next.

However. I did have a blog over there, and while I had deleted most of it a while ago, there are some entries I want to keep. So I'm sticking them here for now, until I think of something better.

( Here they are! )

I don't think she looks much like me, really, but I'd be thrilled if Sara Rue played me in the movie of my life.

Me


Her

Do you guys read Achewood? It's a web comic, and it's weird, and I love it. Last week brought me this, and I genuinely think it's genius.

So, for the next 24 hours, I'm declaring National Admit It Day. Comment here, either anonymously or not, and let it out. Happy things, sad things, things that show you aren't meant for the art department at hallmark, whatevs. You'll feel better.

Neil Gaiman has a children's book coming out.



I'm only watching this video over and over and crying my eyes out because I'm hormonal, right? Because my body is doing the thing it does around this time each month, and because I love my niece so much, and because I spent hours the other night discussing names for my friend's unborn baby, and because so many babies are coming, and because Neil's accent is really charming and because I wish someone had written something like that for me when I was a baby and NOT AT ALL because I've finally decided - after years of deliberation and the disintegration of a marriage - that I want to have a child of my own and am feeling profoundly sorry for myself because I feel my chances for that are slim. Right?

If it's that second one, I am hosed.

Fine, fine, you caught me. I've lost a little weight. Not a ton. A pretty tiny amount, percentage-wise. But my body is starting to look a little different, and I can't wave it off anymore when people notice. When you look at me in places I'm not used to having looked at and say "You're smaller." I have to smile and say "Yes, a little. Thanks for noticing." Even though I feel completely naked when you do it and want nothing more than to eat a cheeseburger and put on a burka so no one will know. I am Linus without his blanket over here.

I'm doing it on purpose, of course. I don't end up on the treadmill, sweaty and grunting, by accident. There's a reason I haven't punched my perky blonde trainer in the face. I want this. I want to be smaller, to feel better, to wear cuter clothes. It'll just take me a while to get used to it, I guess.

So, if I cringe at you and wave you away and tell you to shut up or deny it altogether, what I mean is "Yes, I've lost a little weight. Thank you for noticing."

Do you guys remember Voltron? It was an early 80s cartoon that involved a bunch of crime fighting teams or whatever. I'll be honest, around that time I was pretty busy pretending to be She-Ra. But as I recall, at key moments everyone would join together, all forming one giant superhero monstrosity of awesome.

I want Voltron to be my boyfriend.

There are a lot of men in my life that I'm not dating. And they each want something separate and specific from me. One wants to spend hours talking about our feelings. One wants to be my drinking buddy and give me noogies. One just wants to hug. One wants to take long road trips with me. On his wife's birthday. One wants to make me mix CDs, 10 years after we broke up. And one wants nothing more in the world than to hit this. He's not getting that.

Because I don't want any of that. Okay, I want all of that. But I want all of that from ONE GUY. I want all these guys to join forces and become one giant guy. One guy who wants to give me all of that, and wants all of that from me.

I don't want to date just the Red Lion. Or just the Green Lion, or just the Blue Lion, or just the Yellow Lion. I don't even want to date the Black Lion. And he's the one that forms the head. I want all of it. I want the whole monstrosity of awesome.

I want Voltron to be my boyfriend.

Today is shaping up well. At the bus stop, a strange woman said to me "Those are GREAT shoes!" Having my fashion choices validated is a wonderful thing. And THEN, I get to work, boot up and settle in, and the first thing I see on Ye Olde Ell Jay is this piece of unexpected kindness from one of my closest friends.

It's probably going to be an okay day.

The red paper hearts are up at the office. People are looking for romantic dinner destinations over email. Commercials for flower delivery on television. Valentine's Day is everywhere.

I hate it. I really do. I hate the expectations it puts on couples to have The Most Romantic Night Ever; I hate commerce getting intertwined with emotion; and, of course, I hate not getting to be a part of it because I'm not in a relationship. So, to make myself feel better I made myself one of these things so you can send me a Valentine. Feel free to tell me how much you secretly love me, or how much you want me to shut the hell up. Whatever's in your heart. ;)

Oh, and I like peonies and caramels. Just in case you wondered.


Get your own valentinr

As both a rape survivor and a comedian, I should have very strong opinions on this. And I do. But I have no idea what they are yet. I'm about to try and figure them out.

On the one hand, I agree wholeheartedly with this Peter Sellers quote - "Some forms of reality are so horrible we refuse to face them, unless we are trapped into it by comedy. To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat." But on the other hand, what happened to me was not fucking funny. On the one hand, I'll sing along to the Sublime song "Date Rape", but on the other hand it turns my stomach.

I'm firmly against censorship of any kind, no matter what the subject. And I'm not saying the song shouldn't have been written or Amanda's art should be kept out of view because it makes me uncomfortable. That's what an artist does. That's art's job.

I guess she's doing her job really well, because I am extremely uncomfortable with all of this.

It happens every week. Tuesday afternoon rolls around, and I start thinking about my evening. "What will I sing at karaoke? I wonder who's coming? Will I bite Kevin again?"

Then I realize that it's not Wednesday. It's Tuesday. And my heart sinks a little and I grumble through the rest of the day, promising myself that it's only one more sleep away.

I did it again today. But this time. Oh, this time. This time I got all excited about Wednesday, about rushing home and getting ready and heading out the door... to get to the gym. I was excited about my Wednesday gym routine, and am disappointed that it's one whole sleep away.

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME???!!!

I'm so happy, you guys. This weekend I dressed fancy and looked out at Boston in the dark and drank fancy drinks with people I care about. I put together a puzzle with my nephew and made funny faces at my niece, which made her laugh, which doesn't seem to be hard to do. I signed up for Camprov. I talked about hard things with people who can help make them a little less hard to talk about. I bought new fancy underwear. I got cast in a show that scares the hell out of me because I think I could be really good at it once I learn the language. I sort of speak it already, but it's more like I speak Spanish and need to learn Portugeuse. Close, you know? And I slept so much, but not in a slothful way. More of a "Get ready, the good stuff is coming and you want to be rested for it" sort of way.

So, yeah. Good weekend. How was yours?

Hey, guys?

Camprov registration is now open. See you there.

I bought a lot of music last night. Here are some highlights:

This is my favorite George Michael song. Yes, really.



Warner blocked the real video for this one. Jerks.


When the drum beats GO LIKE THIS!


Happy Friday, y'all.

EDIT: And now I'm rocking out to Erasure. You guys, I think I might be a gay dude. In 1986. This is going to cause problems.

I'm sick. I've got my annual cold-that-may-or-may-not-be-a-sinus-infection and it's got my whole head in it's grasp. Nose, ears, throat, headache; the whole shebang. I am a terrible patient. I whine, I pout, I refuse suggestions to see the doctor but instead demand pity and cries of "Oh, you poor baby!" If you see me in the next few days, consider yourself warned.

But I have a question! I typically go to the gym on Wednesday nights, to a class that kicks my ass. Would going tonight be the worst idea ever, or would it actually help?

EDIT: Okay, so I'm still nervous enough that I'll skip the gym tonight. But barring tragedy, I'll go tomorrow. And to get myself out of the house today, and give myself a reason to shower, I may make a brief appearence at the Asgard. BRIEF.

So tonight I can either:

- Go see "Back By Popular Demand" and freeze my ass off while supporting my friends

- Watch BSG with friends after, again, freezing my ass off to get there

or

- Watch BSG at home, in bed, with hot chocolate, and maybe get some writing done afterward because if I'm going to do the thing I said I'd do I have to HURRY UP AND BE INSPIRED ALREADY.

My procrastination habits dictate that I'll find something else entirely to do.