I took a programming class in college and have had this inside joke url ever since
My mom commented that she likes to take pictures of the food she eats when she’s on vacation, because it brings her back to that time more than anything else. I’d like to say the same is true for me, but mostly I think it just makes me hungry again later.
Bruschetta with goat cheese and olives!
Brie and blueberries!
Artichokes!
More pictures of Northern Minnesota, rediscovered playhouses, and a great lake coming soon.
I think I may have a problem. It occurred to me the first time a few months ago in a yoga studio, as I lay prostrate on the hardwood floor repeating some mantra about surrender, and then again last week, as I was pumping my fist in the air at the stage and feverishly chanting love, love, love . . . that maybe I’m a little overly able to “get into” things. Corny things. Bougie things. Happy things, that in the end, really spell out trouble and money loss.
To be honest, I hadn’t even really wanted to go to the concert that night. It shames me to admit this — but I am not the concert-going type: I get awkward, or I get bored, or my feet get tired, or the artist’s personality/engagement is disappointing, and generally I’d just prefer to stay home with my headphones and avoid spending the twenty-five to fifty bucks. But I do have a list of three or so acts that I’ve always wanted to see in person, for various idolizing and/or personal reasons, and one of them was The Polyphonic Spree.
“We have to go!” I told Jurvis a month ago. “It’ll be a crazy freaking show! They’ve got like, twenty-five people in that band, and a freaking orchestra, and they all wear white robes and sing about the sun.” (What can I say. Culture is meaningless to me, but I’m a big sucker for spectacles.) We purchased the tickets and promptly forgot about the whole thing for the next four weeks, and of course by the time that Monday night rolled around I was just tired and cranky and wanting some combination of a beer and sweatshirt, but we’d already paid, and so we we were obligated to push ourselves onto the subway and rocket into the night to be dumped somewhere near the bright lights of Fenway, where, coincidentally, a game had started not an hour before.
“Is that . . . the club?” I asked, pointing at a shadowed sign. Two lonely, skinny bouncers sat on stools underneath it, sucking wanly on cigarettes. There was the sound of a giant crack, like a hollow head hitting pavement, and across the street, the impossibly far-away crowd cheered.
Let’s go Red Sox! (Clap clap, clapclapclap.)
I was not excited, even then, with the ethereal glow of major league baseball spilling onto our skin and the darkness of the club beckoning like a prostitute on the curb. We slipped fingers over our IDs and filed dutifully into The Avalon.
In this fashion the street swallowed us up.
“It . . . doesn’t look that bad,” I said as he emerged from the dressing room. “Honestly. You look pretty good in pink.” Jurvis made a sad face. “I mean, okay, it is kind of Pepto-Bismolly. But what’re ya gonna do, right?”
Make like Mazzy Star and cry, cry, cry.
The wedding’s this weekend in a butterfly conservatory. I so have my camera ready.
July 8 Update: Check out the wedding pictures here.
I have spent the past few years fruitlessly searching boxes and drawers at home for a poem that I wrote in the ninth grade. It was the result of an “ode” assignment; already disillusioned with all the romance bullshit I’d been cranking out since the seventh grade, I’d decided to write my ode to a deeper, more stable love. I wrote my ode to a car.
The car in question was an old bulky thing (I have since identified it as a Pontiac GTO, likely 1967), the color of mint toothpaste, which happened to be parked in front of the ugliest house on the block. I was infatuated with this car from the beginning — perhaps mere days after we moved into that house in St. Louis Park — and I stared at it longingly from the smeared windowpanes of the school bus, fantasizing of the day I turned sixteen. Years later I’d crane my neck as I drove by in my mother’s car, plotting.
“Some day,” I thought at that car, “you are going to be mine.”
Oh, sweet jesus: the press has identified us as twentysomethings. With Love & Radio love from Boston Magazine.