blakspring

Finally, I am on time:

Biohazard - They rocked the shit out of the Roseland. The pit was pretty intense - I’m pretty sure I avoided it that night. Hung out a bit afterwards and got to meet Bobby Hambel.

PJ Harvey - She was amazing and almost indescribable. She stood on the stage tiny with a mass of jet black hair and crazy aqua eye shadow, and the look in her eye could just crumble walls. The tour was for her third album and the intensity, pain, and raw sexuality just oozed out of every song. What I wouldn’t give to see her in concert again.

Diamanda Galas - I’d heard her voice once and never forgot it. I didn’t know anything about her or any of the songs but I just knew that I had to see her perform. The range of her voice is incredible and she just throws herself body and soul into the music. Like nothing I’d ever heard before or since.

Afghan Whigs - You can barely make out the tops of AFG on the stub but it was the Afghan Whigs. Tramps was one of my favorite venues and I had squeezed my way to the front. Good thing too because the mics were messed up and you could barely hear Greg Dulli singing. They did almost every song from Gentlemen, their best album in my humble opinion. It’s the kind of album to listen to after a bad break-up when you don’t want to feel better but would rather wallow in your misery a bit more. And they also covered TLC’s Creep - the crowd went wild for that one.

Tricky - The angel-voiced Martina Topley-Bird was no longer part of Tricky’s crew at this point but that was the only downside. Tricky was doing his usual surreal stretching-each-song-out-to-seven-or-eight-minutes thing and completely in his own world. D and I were very close to the stage and we could see that his eyes were closed almost the whole time. At one point he turned his back to the audience and was spastically gyrating, getting dangerously close to the edge of the stage. Suddenly he was gone - he’d gotten too close and actually fallen off the stage. The security guards got him up and back on the stage. He did not miss a beat - just kept on going. Brilliant.

This weekend was very busy in a completely uninteresting way. My days were filled with running errands at Home Depot and going to Target because D needed socks and towels - obviously nothing to blog about. I kept wishing for something to happen so I could write about it. Perhaps I should stop wishing because I just found out that last night (or rather early this morning) at 3:30 a.m. two men were in the backyard of my building shining flashlights into the windows of the apartments. D’s cousin who lives one floor above us told me. A neighbor from the house next door, who had just come home from a very late shift, was going to smoke a cigarette out her back window when she noticed the lights. She started yelling at the men that she was calling the police and they quickly turned off their flashlights and started hopping over the fences from one yard to another until they got to the street. Perhaps it is time to invest in a Rottweiler or at least some bear traps.

I hope I didn’t jinx anything by wishing for something exciting to happen because this is not what I had in mind. Normally not too much happens around here, and especially not in our house. Not even when our neighbor across the hall was an ex-junkie with very suspicious friends who still sold weed on the side to make the rent. Well there was that one incident about two years ago when the FBI raided the house looking for some members of an Eastern European gang. It turned out that the nice young guy who lived on the fourth floor, the one who was always cheery and never seemed to be at work, was one of dozens of gang members being observed. As luck would have it I wasn’t at home that day when the FBI banged on the door, waking D at 5:00 a.m., and charging through the rest of the house. The guy on the fourth floor jumped onto the fire escape and made his way into the yard where he continued to jump fences, apparently leaving a trail of blood behind because he hurt his leg along the way. The story goes that he was eventually caught and deported.

The funny part is that D had noticed that garbage bags would disappear on occasion from the front of the house and he thought maybe the Feds were coming after him for something or other. But since he is not just paranoid but also chivalrous he decided not to tell me anything so that when the shit went down I would be completely innocent and not accountable for his heinous crimes. Aaaw, my hero.

Last night Dingo sent me a link to this article with a comment about how librarians are a strange bunch.  The article is about a fired library director.  My favorite part is: “Staff members said Schmidli spoke through a puppet at meetings, talked about her sex life, berated and harassed workers, asked employees to spy on each other, and moved furniture in an upstairs room in 2006 without her top, wearing only a bra.”

I don’t know what’s worse - this or the old-lady-in-a-bun-shushing stereotype.  Maybe I should get a puppet to tell the kids to be quiet for me.  I could do a weird voice and be all like “Be quiet you annoying kids”, and then look all innocent like it wasn’t me.  Yes, the puppet can take the blame.

I was reading the article outloud to D and every time the librarian’s name would come up (about every other sentence), I would dramatically pause and say Schmidli in a crazy voice and then we would laugh.  That might be my new mantra.  When I’m in a pissy mood or upset I’ll just think Schmidli and the world will seem a little bit better.

You should read Dingo’s blog.  Dingo is very funny.  Dingo found me in the blogosphere and we’d even been emailing back and forth for a few weeks until finally I made the bold move of asking if she would like to meet in person.  I just had to know who this hysterically funny and talented blogger was.  I wanted to put a face to the name.  And I wanted to see if her ears really are as microscopic as she claims.  (For the record - they are very cute and small but the lady doth exaggerate too much.)

We met at Union Square, though I had no idea who to look for.  The longer I stood there the more nervous I was and I felt like I was going on a blind date and it was a weird feeling like getting cold feet and I don’t think I ever would want to go on an actual blind date because what if the other person is a serial killer or a Republican.  I was really hoping that Dingo was neither of these.  From the few clues I had from her blog, I was scanning for a woman with short curly hair and miniscule ears.  So who approaches me but a woman with long curly hair (the kind of curly hair that I’d wanted my whole life) and the ears covered up completely.  Dingo is tricky like that.

After the first surreal moment of absorbing the fact that here we were, in person, unmasked, we realized we had to get food and drinks (drinks!) so we headed over to Heartland Brewery.  And as soon as that was decided we took off chatting at dangerous speeds, firing out questions and answers, starting stories, interrupting stories with questions, shooting one-liners (you can only imagine what happens when two very funny people get together).  It was like we had to get it all out of our systems, like we’d known each other for ages but were finally able to speak to one another.

From what D tells me, this is a female thing, along with asking a total stranger where they got those great pants or telling them that their bag is open.  Apparently men find this behavior absolutely bizarre and unthinkable.  D just shook his head in disbelief when I told him that over dinner and drinks Dingo and I learned just about every aspect of each other’s life stories.  We talked about our backgrounds, our families, our men, our man troubles (god, there always have to be man troubles), our jobs, and everything in between.  I even confessed that when I read her blog I think of Elaine going “maybe the dingo ate your baby” in a fake Australian accent on that Seinfeld episode, something that D warned me not to admit until at least the third date lest I scare her off.  But Dingo is fearless and just laughed.

By the end of dinner I was dizzy from the intensity of it all.  Or perhaps from the margaritas I drank.  (I’m starting to suspect that tequila is not my friend.)  I am such a lightweight that I need my own category.  Featherwieght doesn’t cut it.  Perhaps lintweight.  But I digress.  After dinner (and after an embarrasing episode in which I didn’t tip the waitress because my tequila-soaked brain thought that she got her tip already, though luckily Dingo was quick-witted and put two and two together when she saw the waitresses’ crestfallen face, and called her over to explain my mistake - oops) we went to Max Brenner and shared a fondue.  It was so delicious and so sweet that my teeth ached, in a good way.  If there was ever a good way to get cavities, this is it.  Then again I don’t have any cavities so what do I know.

Finally it was time to go our separate ways and we headed for the subway.  Hopefully this was the first in a long list of get-togethers.  I really like this whole meeting-other-bloggers-in-real-life deal.  First Dooce (you know I had to mention that again), now Dingo - who will be next?  I read a lot of west coast bloggers but there are a few on the east coast too.  (NPW - I’m talking to you girl.  Boston is not that far away and I’d only been once, ages ago, though I was staying with a bipolar mysoginist asshole who slept with a loaded gun under his pillow.  Needless to say, this ruined the trip for me.)  So, yeah, maybe there will be more blogger meetings in the future.  Woot!

I seem to have made a habit of posting these one month late:

Live - They were fun to see live (haha…get it..umm…yeah, not funny, sorry) but I was never that much into them. They were more of an acquired taste from a college friend.

Shonen Knife - They’re cute and Japanese and sang songs with funny names like Tomato Head and Cobra Versus Mongoose - how could I possibly resist? I might even have a cassette (yeah, I said it) somewhere around.

Nine Inch Nails - When I got that ticket it felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. Webster Hall was tiny and being small I was able to squeeze my way to the front. I was up against the barricade the whole time - had sore ribs afterwards but even a broken rib would have been worth seeing Trent Reznor that close up. Also, this was the tour where Marilyn Manson made their debut and I have a Polaroid of Mr. Manson’s penis from that show.

Deborah Harry - I wanted a Blondie show and this was the closest thing I could get. Didn’t know any of the songs but, for the encore, they did a few Blondie songs. The friend who went with me kept saying he had a chubby. I didn’t check so it could be a lie.

Grasshoppers - That is one big question mark in my brain. Who the hell are they and why did I go see them?

Throwing Muses - Great band, great show, and they are three of the friendliest folks I ever did meet.

Sponge - I had a blast at that show - crowdsurfed the whole time. Everclear opened for them. After the show I waited around and got to meet Vinnie Dombroski. We talked for a bit (I asked him if he spoke Polish and he answered “Not a lick.”) and then I shook his hand and stuck my cheek out very obviously so that he had no choice but to kiss me. I’m very classy that way.

Lunachicks - LOVE THEM! I’ve seen them several times so that it gets all jumbled but they always bring it.

Shelter and Downset - Good combo - loud and quick. And it’s always fun to see the Hare Krishna kids rockin’ out.

Girls Against Boys - Another case of forgotten band syndrome. Mainly I wanted to hear Skeleton Key - they had this really cool song Kerosene. One of the guys in the band had this “junk kit” with pots and propane tanks and hubcaps and other crazy stuff, which made the most amazing and unique sounds. (He also did a side project called Butter 08 with the girls from Cibo Matto and some other people. They had an album on the Beastie’s Grand Royal Records. I’m sure you’re all very interested in this trivia.)

H2O - I’ve probably seen them more times than any other band. Once I was walking in the East Village wearing my H2O t-shirt when a guy said “Nice shirt” and it was Toby Morse, the lead singer, so we chatted for a moment. (Now if I could just bump into Angelina Jolie so nonchalantly.)

Bjork - Always a good show, if you like her quirky songs. No one asked her to hold a cat.

Kittie - Not their best show by a long shot. It was a Sunday night at a tiny venue and there were maybe like 50 people there. Everyone was hanging out to the back and sides and no one wanted to be the first to go stand right at the stage. Also, all the people there were probably half my age - ouch.

I was walking past a few of the pain-in-my-butt juniors while they were on the computers, and noticed that they were on UFC websites. I couldn’t resist so I went up to them and asked, “Gentlemen, who is your money on? Rampage or Forrest?”, referring to the fight coming up next month. Their jaws dropped for a moment but they quickly recovered and all said Forrest. I had a feeling that they were betting on Forrest, but personally I’m not so sure. Both men are great fighters and I think Rampage has just as good a shot. I told the boys that anyone who can knock out Chuck Liddell (in the first round if I recall correctly) should not be underestimated and they conceded that I had a point. I walked away to let them ponder my wise words. When the bell rang one of the boys actually wished me a good day. Maybe shock therapy helps improve manners.

Later on in the day there was more UFC talk - two boys were speaking about Georges St-Pierre on their way out of the library. I perked up my ears in time to hear one of them say, “GSP sucks.” I was so shocked that for a moment I was speechless. Finally I got my wits about me and called out, “Hey, nobody talks bad about Georges St-Pierre in this library” but it was too late. The offending delinquent was already gone and I was annoyed because my future second husband had been so grossly disrespected. Damn, I should have went after the culprit and sent him to the dean. Better yet, I should have armbarred him myself.

     Honey, would you make shrimp shumai?  They taste so good when you make them.

     Yeah, no problem, but you do realize that all I do is push some buttons on the microwave.

     Yeah, I know, but that’s one of those things that one says to get the other person to do something.

     OK, I just didn’t want you to have the false impression that I have some fancypants way of making shumai.  Because I am sooo not a fancypants.  I mean, aren’t I seriously the least fancypants girl you know?

     Well…I know some lesbians that are less fancypants.

     Fine.  Am I not the least fancypants straight girl you know?

     Yes you are.

There you have it - officially not a fancypants.  But, damn, those shumai were da bomb after I microwaved them.  After the first batch, I had to make heat up round two.  Maybe there is more to nuking than just pushing buttons.

I can’t get over how fast this school year has gone by.  It feels like only yesterday I walked in the library and almost fell over at the daunting task ahead - taking this dusty room full of outdated books and making it inviting.  Or at least less dusty.  And now, today, is the last day of classes with another week and a half of regents and finals left.  I am so excited about having the summer off that I keep giggling at the thought.  And then I try to stop giggling because librarians already deal with enough crappy stereotypes - I don’t need to add “loony” to the list.

So, less than two weeks till the last day of school.  About two weeks until D and I have our 9-year wedding anniversary.  And three weeks from now I will be in Peru.  What?  Did I not mention this before?  Yeah, your favorite blogger will be heading for Machu Picchu, roughing it on the Inca Trail, pooping in a hole she dug herself, cuddling with the llamas at night, and chewing coca leaves to keep from falling over after hiking 15 or 16 kilometers with her possessions on her back at a ridiculously high altitude.

I’ve been hibernating all winter long.  Actually?  Who am I kidding?  Other than volleyball, I haven’t done any other exercise since the Bush Sr. administration.  But for the last two weeks I’ve hit the gym like a madwoman, using the elliptical machine about five times a week.  I’ve gone from barely being able to do a 12-minute mile to finishing that mile in just over nine minutes.  (I’m sure Little Sister finds this all very amusing since she can run circles around me, but I’m proud of myself.)  Three more weeks and I might be able to get it down to eight minutes.  Because I refuse to be that person, the one that slows the rest of the group down, the one who whines and needs water breaks every five minutes.

I will be the Queen of the Inca Trail.

Before graduation, the seniors and faculty had a breakfast to say their good-byes and get their yearbooks signed.  As people finished eating most of the faculty began leaving but I stayed on, chatting with one of my favorite teachers.  Pretty soon a student came over and asked the teacher to sign his yearbook.  Not long after another student approached and then another (proving that I’m not the only one who likes this teacher so much).  I remembered getting my own yearbook signed as a senior and the various teachers who had impacted me in some way.

As we were sitting there, Favorite Teacher and I, I started to feel like we were at a book signing and the teacher was the author and I was the agent who had to make sure that everything ran smoothly.  And for every student that approached, I realized that no one is going to care about the librarian.  Even though I worked so hard all year to clean up the library and make it student-friendly, even though I ordered some incredible books (if I do say so myself) and made interesting displays, even though I tried to remember hundreds of names and suggest fun books for their independent reading, even though I made jokes all year and let them get away with too much…I’m still just a librarian and no one will want me immortalized in their yearbook.

Favorite Teacher tried to cheer me up by reminding me that this is only my first year and that a lot of seniors didn’t get to know me yet.  “Besides I think a lot of the boys are just shy with you.  See that kid standing there”, he said, pointing to a boy I don’t recall ever seeing in the library.  “He said to me ‘The new librarian is really hot.  She’s a wifey.’”.  I have never heard the term wifey before but it didn’t sound very good.  Favorite Teacher, however, assured me that it is a compliment, high up there on the scale of hotness.  I took him at his word (though I did look it up later on Urban Dictionary just to be sure) and watched him sign more books.  I guess I’m good enough to drool over but not good enough to sign a yearbook.

By the time we realized that we were just about the only faculty left in the cafeteria, Favorite Teacher almost had carpal tunnel syndrome from all the dedications and autographs.  But, guess what, I wasn’t doing too bad myself.  Four.  As in one plus one plus one plus one.  Two boys and two girls who’d been regulars in the library asked me to sign their yearbooks.  It was a cool feeling to think that years on down the road they might look in that book and fondly recall the nice librarian who gave them cool books to read.   And it was also a cool feeling to know that when they look at my picture they will always remember me as a wifey.

“Wargasm” by L7 got stuck in my head and I couldn’t help but think how it is the perfect song to represent the Bush administration.