Filed under: Life, art, music, etc.
There’s more than 7 million Americans who have lost their jobs since 2007 and even more undocumented laborers who are scraping the barrel but have yet to be recognized as more than an illegal aliens. As a young journalist who’s written hundreds of please-hire-me letters in the past year, I can understand why many would gladly trade their idleness — and maybe a picnic, day at the lake or Monday-morning parade — for the late-1800s afflictions that led to the creation of Labor Day in the first place.
How will I be spending my holiday this year? Easy answer — counting my blessings and happily preparing for my new job, which I start Tuesday morning.
I ended up in an angelic town — literally — and I even found the perfect apartment, which happens to be on a street named Clare. This is just one of many coincidences that have been thrown my way in recent weeks, and things are good in my world. Whether that’s luck or fortune, I suppose, depends only on the level of optimism that comes from within.
We all know that coincidence is simply a synchronicity of two or more of the infinite random events from which we have the freewill to choose. Look at the word itself: “coincide-ence” or “co-incident.” But being the type who analyzes everything and gets frustrated at the thought of not having all the answers — I’ve been known to call the crossword hotline instead of sleeping on an empty box or two, so to speak — I can’t help but to also examine the word “incidental,” meaning “apart or aside from the main subject of attention,” and think that maybe we shouldn’t give so much precedence to the idea of coincidence.
My last big move was made out of urgency to discover, and being that I was on a journey, I took in every coincidence along the way. Everything was on my side — or maybe I was just blind to mishap. I wasn’t looking for fame or fortune, and I surely didn’t find either one of those things. I was, however, looking to challenge myself in a manner that would allow me to become more virtuous, self aware and capable of passing on any inspiration I may encounter to others. I left my (quite comfortable) comfort zone, shed my (quite good) reputation and flew north for the winter, somehow 100-percent confident that everything was falling into place perfectly. For the first time, I experienced what it’s like to be a stranger to everyone I encountered — to see how “I” would be perceived by those who knew nothing of who “I” was.
I was all-trusting and all-accepting, my only guide being whatever perception of truth I gained, independent of any reasoning process, from my observation of others’ actions, and more importantly, the unheard voices that seemed to speak loudly when people looked me in the eye. Call me crazy, but when I noticed that those looks were focused at someone else — not the “I” that I know — I got the urge to fly south for this year’s winter and renew my vows to my family and career. And isn’t that the way it should be?
I can’t say I didn’t learn a few lessons, however. Number one is that things may not always be as they seem. Deep down, I was looking to be convinced to stay, waiting for the mask to come off, perhaps. Number two is that you can’t expect every person you care about to reciprocate, and if they don’t, that makes them neither undeserving of love nor deserving of enmity. Number three is that your parents, admittedly, are usually right. Most importantly, I learned that some things just can’t be explained, whether that means there is no definitive answer or there are a number of possible answers floating among the infinite number of possible incidents out there.
In other words — pick a card, any card, but just play by the rules and choose your opponents wisely, if at all. You can’t force yourself to believe things you don’t believe, and you can’t ignore the truths that are in your heart. Sometimes it’s OK — and maybe a bit easier — to accept what you don’t know, and that is in no way equal to admitting ignorance or naivety.
I’ve always had a fascination with lesser-known beauties — or rather, I live by the notion that beauty can be anywhere or in anyone, but it doesn’t exist until you find it. Not to say that I’d try to take pleasure in known atrocities such as living underground or drinking grapefruit juice after brushing my teeth, but I have gotten a few curiously serious “whys” from loved ones in regard my places of relocation and lack of interest in finding a more wealth-inducing career. OK, and sometimes my sense of style.
But it’s no coincidence when things work out harmoniously; it’s a matter, once again, of the level of optimism that comes from within. Sometimes you’ll be in the Captain’s seat and sometimes on the poop deck — or whatever the bottom of the ladder is in boat terms — and sometimes you may have the wind taken out of your sails. Amid the country’s dark, stormy climate and in light of the upcoming holiday, joblessness or misfortune doesn’t necessarily have to mean stagnancy — it’s better to be swallowed by a wave than to be standing on shore.
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc.
OK. So I know it’s lame to post something about New Year’s a couple weeks late, but the important thing is how awesome my New Years was, right?
OK. So I’ll start with the Mummers’ Parade (the men in skirts), and I’ll keep this quick.
10 a.m… Thousands-o-men in fancy little silky dresses of all colors with mini-Mary-Poppins umbrellas… Check. Elaborate brigades of costumes and floats… Check. The porto-potty-equipped buses and trailers to carry all their wasted asses to Two Street after the parade… CHECK.
What’s crazy about the whole thing is that the most manly of beer-chugging Irish and Italian men are who make up (IN makeup) the parade… but it almost seems somewhat of an excuse for them to dress in drag. Just sayin’…. The parade’s beginnings date as far back at the 1800s but women weren’t allowed in the parade until the 1970s. Not to mention that there is an entire troupe of the parade called the “wenches” … and it has historically been performed by men in drag. Not even kidding.
These men were carrying out tradition while setting the example (most had kiddos in tow) and they were doing so by wearing skirts while pounding beers and sucking cigars. I’ve never really seen anything like it.
Most of these men are competing for nearly $400,000 in prizes, but the costs involved with putting on the show far outweigh the recognititon. They most often hold “beef and beer” fundraisers or perform in the 4th of July “Show of shows” parade in Atlantic City to raise dough.
And to touch on the “two street” thang I mentioned earlier… Basically, all the wasted mummers head down to South 2nd Street (Two Street) after the parade and continue the party. They pack clubhouses and bars, serenade the sidewalks, have dance parties in the streets and decorate trees with beer cans. It’s a riot, no less.
More sinful than a bowl of cheese.
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc.
This year it’s all watercolor (except I’ll throw in this acrylic I finished up) and most are 12 x 9 or so… all white frames
I got the pleasure of seeing this lovely man from Wisconsin play his tunes Monday night at the Trocadero. From what I hear, he wrote his latest album, “For Emma,” in a cabin. Considering the region and the serene, kum-bay-ya feeling you get from his music, that sounds about right.
The venue — another all ages one, if you read my Dr. Dog post — is this huge, old theatre in Chinatown that was probably immaculate in the 1920s. Although it’s now a bit falling apart, it’s magnificent antiquity and character will probably only get better and better with age. The best part about the place was that it was huge, making for great acoustics to carry the ring of Mr. Iver’s hauntingly beautiful voice right to you. I’ll admit, though — the boss of the place should invest in anger management classes for the security guard at the bottom of the stairs. The man breathes fire, no joke.
The song “Skinny Love” had been on my favorite playlist for a while and it was great to hear it live. If you haven’t heard that song, go listen to it — you will be glad you did. When I first heard Bon Iver, lead singer Justin Vernon’s falsetto was a little alarming — kinda Adam Sandler-esque. But it was so unique and piercing that it actually grew on me and became sort of interesting — the type of sound that can hold hundreds of people’s full attention for more than an hour. The crowd Monday was still and not a single person was dancing or even moving — barely blinking. Usually I don’t dig that sort of vibe, but in this instance it was only appropriate.
The hands-down most wondrous part of the show was when he asked the audience’s help in singing part of the song “Wolves.” Participation was weak at first, but once the crowd caught on to how beautiful hundreds of voices sounded in the openness of the circular theatre, the refrain “what might have been lost,” grew louder and louder. It was absolutely breathtaking — the type of moment that could move one to tears.
Bon Iver. I thoroughly enjoyed this show, and his album makes my list of “Favorite ballady, love-song, folky stuff.” I’d say it’s close behind Iron and Wine’s “Resurrection Fern” and the new self-titled Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson or Blitzen Trapper. The man’s voice is stimulating and immobilizing at the same time. His song’s kinda make you want to roll in the grass, play in the rain or fall in love. Cheesy, I know, but listen for yourself. It’s totally true.
Friday, November 28 at the Starlight Ballroom in North Philly. Simply amazing.
I was a little disappointed earlier this week when I read Rolling Stone’s Top Albums of 2008. Their No. 1 pick, TV on the Radio, was great (Spin had the same pick. How original). But I must happily admit — my former colleagues over at The Daily Texan nailed it. They ranked Dr. Dog’s “Fate” as the No. 1 album of 2008, when Rolling Stone somehow left it off their entire list! Come on — Coldplay and My Morning Jacket even made their top 10! Lame. Lame. Lame.
So I got inspired to load up these pictures from their day-after-Thanksgiving show and share my little two cents about the experience. They covered the stage in lush, tropical plants, vines and trees, and they took their happy ass time doing it — at least 20 minutes — while they looped the most bothersome lounge-style elevator music. Yes, it was a cool set piece if you are into remote forests and such. But just reminiscing on the experience made that annoying song start to repeat in my head once again.
They played a great show, and the audience was alive. I think the positive energy had something to do with the band being local. So often touring bands seems as if they are just running through the motions of a show they’ve done night after night, week after week. But luckily, I got to see these Philly natives play for the long-time fans that have carried them to stardom. They wore brightly colored sunglasses and fedoras, and you could certainly feel their vivacity.
I went with a family friend who lives in the Philly burbs and her two teenage sons, so she and I chilled in the bar area while the opening bands played. If you plan on drinking at a show, this venue is not for you — you can’t take drinks outside the bar, which is on the complete opposite side from the stage. I wasn’t too impressed with the opening bands — Illinios, Bardo Pond, and Spinto Band — but maybe that was because I was too far away from the stage to hear them.
It was an all-ages show, meaning I was surrounded by high schoolers and there was a young girl hung over the trash can in the bathroom, her teen boyfriend holding her hair back — stuff you just don’t seen in 21+ venues. I can’t quite put my finger on whether it made me feel young again or like an old lady, but seeing girls with gaga eyes giggling at every move the lead singer made certainly reminded me of the week-long high I got from seeing Bush (oh, dear Gavin) live at the Oklahoma fairgrounds when I was 12.
Long story short, Dr. Dog freaking rocked. 
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc.
Cricket, Lina and I made it to Philly safe and sound. Them being cats, they have no idea that we came to a major swing state the day before a monumental presidential election or that we just missed the city’s first World Series win in 28 years. But I’d like to think those coincidences were sort of a warm welcome. Not to mention that Mother Nature saved an oddly fierce fall snowstorm for the week before I arrived.
The weeks leading up to my departure from Austin were all excitement. I quit all three of my jobs, which allowed me to get some volunteer hours in at the Austin Museum of Art and Austin Film Festival. That also gave me the time to say my necessary one-on-one goodbyes, have a little get-together, and get every bit of Austin partying out of my system so I’d welcome the down time that was about to come.
I knew and understood that I was leaving behind such a lovely place and so many much-loved folks, but I didn’t actually feel what was happening until about an hour before I hit the road — car packed, apartment cleared and steam-cleaned, all good-byes said. Then it was real, and a little difficult. OK, a lot. So difficult, I realized, that most people go their entire lives without attempting such a thing — moving solo across the country to a place with no friends or family or unyielding reason to relocate. I can understand why anyone would spare themselves from that feeling, which hit me pretty hard all at once — each and every good-bye I had said but not really felt. But the hardest part was chilling out for a second and being completely honest with myself, questioning whether I was indeed making the right decision. The difficulty immobilized me. For a good hour or so. Then I was excited all over again.
The drive was long — about 40 hours, not including all my random stops and distractions. But it was pretty enjoyable once the cats settled down. From Austin to my parents’ house in Oklahoma, where I stopped off for a few days, Lina meowed constantly and wedged herself into the few inches between the my seat and the driver’s side door and Cricket walked all around the car and would throw a fit if I put him in his carrier. Finally, by about Arkansas, they got used to being in the car. Cricket became accustomed to sleeping in his carrier in the passenger seat and Lina mainly perched up beside me one the console. Yeah, it was cute. The cats and I got a quite a lot of attention from other drivers and random strangers at gas stations.
I listened to a couple books on CD and replayed the new Dungen CD and Dr.Dog’s “Fate” over and over. I found out about Dr. Dog from a couple of over-enthusiastic ACL fest reviews, and ironically enough, they’re from Philly. It’s an awesome album — basically the official soundtrack of my Austin-to-Philly trek — meaning that now I’m actually a bit sick of it. But I’ll be un-sick of it by the time I go see the band live here in Philly the day after Thanksgiving.
It’s really hard to explain exactly how long a 40-hour drive feels unless you’ve done it. My method to prevent madness included stopping anywhere and everywhere of interest, not ignoring my abnormally weak bladder (seems to take longer when ya gotta pee), and getting up early and ending early — driving is so much more tiresome at night when there’s no scenery to look at. If I could find a good talk radio station, that was usually how I preferred to keep myself entertained. Or sometimes I’d listen to Spanish radio and translate in my head. Or sometime silence. Once I got lost in my thoughts and realized I had been listening to a radio broadcast of “Wheel of Fortune” for like 20 minutes. Whoever thought of putting that on the radio is just plain cruel.
I had a lovely few days with the family in Oklahoma before really getting started on my journey — and, oh was it a journey. Since I had no strict arrival deadline, I decided to take my happy time and enjoy a part of the country I had never seen before. I was planning on stopping through Hot Springs, Arkansas on Oct. 30 to stay a night with Kara, a friend who had just moved there from Austin. But I was actually a day behind schedule and ended up there on Halloween — which was perfect. Costume? I hadn’t planned on that, so I borrowed a skirt and hat from Kara and wore basically everything else I already had on, and I somehow ended up a law enforcement officer of some sort. It worked.
We checked out both bars Hot Springs had to offer. Yep. Both.
Some things I learned about Hot Springs:
- Don’t talk to single guys because they will instantly look for a ring and if they don’t see one they will assume they can start planning their wedding with you, even if you are in town for one night and completely uninterested in them.
- Don’t talk to married guys or their wife will hunt you down and hurt you.
- Statutory rape does not apply. Married life usually starts around the age of 16.
- Darkest beer available: Budweiser original.
- All directions are given according to how far you are from one of the two Wal-Marts.
- Racism is OK.
- Chauvinism is OK.
- Homosexuality is probably not OK.
Hot Springs was an adorable town, and I’m probably being harsh and pretentious. But one night was plenty for me. Kara must have felt the same way, because now she’s back in Austin and I have no forthcoming reason to find myself in Hot Springs again any time soon.
The next night was a Saturday and I was in Nashville so I checked out the town and caught a bit of live music. Overall, I liked Nashville. It was friendly and I met a lot of very kind people, many of whom were just interested in finding out what in the hell a girl like me was doing out by herself on Broadway Street on a Saturday night. But I’ll admit, I became quickly uncomfortable in a few parts of town and corrected those situations accordingly. Nashville can be, to say the least, a lot to handle.
Ashville, on the other hand, was a pretty little paradise haven tucked away in the Appalachians of North Carolina that was almost sickeningly blissful. There was more than a fair share of yuppie, commercial hippie-ism — like “bums” on the street strumming guitars and eating gourmet organic flaxseed cous cous from the overpriced deli on the corner. The town was cute, and I liked what I saw of it. The city planners there are really on the right track in making something touristically enticing out of a middle-of-nowhere town. If I were rich and had all the time in the world, I would have loved to go in all the little bookstores, clothing shops and art galleries (there were tons). But my plan was only to have lunch there and move on. And I actually decided that I didn’t really want to spend $15 on a sandwich that didn’t look all that yummy. So I just moved on down the road and settled for Subway.
I spaced somewhere east of Ashville, somehow missing the main highway that would have taken me a bit more northward straight into Philly, so I had no other choice than to take the less-traveled route through Virginia wine country. I hadn’t planned on a wine tour, but really, it was my only option. At one of the wineries I met these adorable older women who I gladly let talk my ear off about grapes and their grandchildren. When I commented on how gorgeous the fall foliage was — something I had never seen before — they confidently gave an explanation as to why the scenery was so stunning: “This is God’s country, dear,” one said in all seriousness with a wine-stained smile. “And just north of here, that’s Jefferson’s country. You’ll see.” I’m still not sure if that made sense or not.
Baltimore traffic: not that bad. Philly traffic: not that bad. Washington D.C. traffic: HELL HELL HELL HELL HELL HELL. But I made it.
I like Philly even more than I imagined I would, actually. A lot of people hate Philly, it seems, and I really don’t understand why. My neighborhood in South Philly is extremely friendly and diverse. My neighbors are great and I’m only a short bike ride, healthy walk or momentary train ride from Center City (the heart of downtown). There’s also a sort of economic and cultural renaissance happening in this area — cute and trendy neighborhood shops, restaurants and bars are popping up right and left and the arts community is thriving. As some around here would put it — gosh darn hipsters are infiltrating the streets of South Philly.
As sinful as it may sound, I’ve yet to try a Philly cheesesteak, mainly because I think the concept of that type of sandwich is sort of sinful in itself. It’s been a while since I consumed such an abundance of grease and meat all at once, so I think I’d be best off to save my cheesesteak virginity for a real grease-beckoning booze night. I do, however, absolutely love bagels and cream cheese and I eat them almost every day. Sadly, there’s no Philadelphia cream cheese museum here or anything of that nature.
From what I’ve seen biking around and walking ’til my feet bleed, Philly is awesome. And I’ve still got a lot to see. Unlike New York City and Austin (don’t get me wrong; I love NYC and am IN love with Austin), people in Philly are actually from here, often born and raised, family still here and in tact. It’s a close-knit town chock full history and pride — but there’s all those big city benefits as well: opportunity, culture, stuff to do, etc. Not to mention that the subway here is a big upgrade from the public transit in Austin — CapMetro is great and all, but it is, after all, a bus. And with only two train lines that run perpendicular through the middle of the city, getting around in Philly is a lot less frightening than the mass transit situation in NYC or D.C. And those cities are only two hours away if I so happen to be in the mood.
I can’t lie and say I don’t miss Austin already. There are so many things about that city that make it completely incomparable — the music, the Greenbelt, the weather, just to name a few. Oddly enough, for the first time since my move, I felt like I was in Austin last night. I had volunteered my time working the merchandise counter at the World Café, a live music venue near UPenn, and the band playing happened to be Austin’s own Bob Schneider. On top of that, I ran into a friend I knew from a bar I worked at in Austin who had also just moved to Philly, and I met and hung out with a couple other Texans as well. Random, yes. But I’m done reading into coincidences.
Nashville
Ashville
Wine country
Lynchburg
Philly
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc. | Tags: 26th annual harvest moon bike ride, 6th street, austin texas, cycling, moonlight cruze
I haven’t written in a while, as I’ve been working like crazy to save up for a major relocation. But Saturday night I experienced an Austinacious event that begs to be blogged about… and reminds me how hard it will be to drag myself away from this lovely town. Only an hour after Austin got hit with a momentary mini-monsoon (which was all we saw of Ike and his little buddies), the skies cleared and more than 500 cyclists met up on the Lamar Street pedestrian bridge downtown at 2 a.m. and set off on a 3- to 4-hour bike ride.
This time of night in Austin is chaos already. Thousands of people pour out of bars onto an entirely barricaded Sixth Street (and Red River and Warehouse Districts) at 2 a.m. on the weekends and indulge in pizza, bratwurst, or sadly, drunken driving. Add a 500+ strong army of hooting, hollering, red light-ignoring cyclists to the scene and you get pure, weird-as-hell debauchery.
Live acoustic violin and guitar serenades. Nudity. Tandems. A couple kids (like 5-year-olds) in BMX gear. Alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Fireworks. A girl in a pumpkin costume. Wookies. Swerving hipsters. A big, beautiful full moon.
Those are just a few of the sights I recall from the ride, and I didn’t bother taking pictures since I wanted to soak in the experience without worrying about the lighting. Plus I was busy riding a bike. But I found some good shots in other blogs I’ll post up on here.
But despite all the positive, there was apparently some negative aspects of the ride. I came across the following craigslist post:
“Harvest Moon bottle sniper – $2500 (West 6th)
Last night, catching up to the Harvest Moon ride, someone who I do not know was hit with a bottle thrown from the window of a car. He is fine but there is/are some jerk(s) out there going scott-free for an act which is potentially very harmful. A 911 call was made, but, if anything comes of that, my friend who made the call will be contacted and we have no touch with the guy that got hit. So, first, where you at, man? Second, since it’s very unlikely that the police will go anywhere with this, keep an eye out for the Texas plates GHS-421 on a post-2000 model white Cavalier and, when you see them, do something safe, creative, and non-harmful to let the driver know that he or she is identified and not appreciated.”
And I almost forgot to mention one of the most interesting blog-worthy details of the event — I had two black eyes all the while. Yep. Not one but two. (And yes, I’ve already heard the “got told twice” joke a few times this week). Basically, I got dropped on my face last week and, even though I have been more than willing to work, my boss is much more concerned with my appearance than I am… So I got a few days off. And a blessing in disguise my injury (a concussion and a broken nose) has been. The weather is cooling and gas prices are rising, and since Saturday, I’ve pretended to forget I have a car 
Happy trails to you! The following photos I found on this blog: http://brianmcgloin.wordpress.com/
Courtesy of Brian McGloin.
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc. | Tags: lev yilmaz, tales of mere existence
Filed under: Claire file, Life, art, music, etc. | Tags: aicn, ain't it cool news, incredible hulk, the hulk
Famous last words of the Hulk special video they put up on the official hulk site (under “hulk connect”). http://incrediblehulk.marvel.com/index_flash.html
This is freaking hilarious. SMASH! I promise they didn’t tell me to say that, although it looks somewhat staged…
Filed under: Life, art, music, etc. | Tags: ain't it cool news, alamo drafthouse, fantastic fest, marvel comics, the incredible hulk, tim roth
So I saw the new Hulk movie Wednesday night at a special Ain’t it Cool News/Fantastic Fest screening at Alamo Drafthouse South. It’s set to come out June 13, and I would have honestly waited for it to come out on DVD (or even longer) to see it, but I got the great opportunity of attending this event, and it was a blast. As for the movie, I was about to pee my pants with excitement nearly the whole time (I love seeing action on the big screen!) … but that could have just been a side effect of the complimentary 42 Below Kiwi flavored (and strong) “gamma martinis” they served at the pre-party. Not to mention that they kept it coming with the green pizza, green sour cream potato skins, green guacamole chicken fingers, Heinekin and Rolling Rock (green bottles, of course). I’ll say — Harry Knowles knows how to throw one hell of a party.
Right before the movie started I got my Hulk poster signed by Tim Roth, who was phenomenal in the movie. But he’s always pretty rad. He had a long line of folks wanting autographs and no drink in front of him, so I picked him up a Heinekin in the beer line on my way to the table where he was signing and he seemed to appreciate it. He wrote “To Claire … Grrr … ” on my poster and asked if I was excited about the film. “Heck yeah,” I said. Then I laughed when he replied, “Me too. I haven’t seen it yet.” I thought he was kidding, but when he spoke before the movie started he said the same thing to the audience, adding that his kids were especially excited to see it and that he promised them they would get to very soon. So yeah, I was pretty surprised and excited that I was actually getting to see a film that even one of the main actors hadn’t seen yet.
About the movie: Marvel comics are so rad that a movie could never do justice to the cartoons or illustrations. That’s just a matter of fact. But this movie rocked, aside from the bits of too-cheesy dialogue. However, you could not listen to a word of the film and know exactly what’s going on and enjoy it just as much. All you have to hear are the smashes, crashes and pows to love this movie. Really.
Better than the TV show? Hmmm. I’m not going to go there. But it was pretty awesome. And I get really excited about cameos in movies and there were three of them in the Hulk. I’m not going to tell you who because that would just ruin all the fun
I could say more about the story line, etc, etc, but I don’t really have to … and doesn’t everyone already know what happens? Dude eats gamma. Dude turns into hulk. Dude smashes stuff. Dude turns back into dude. That’s just the wonderful thing about Marvel movies (think Spider Man, Iron Man) or any other movies based on comic books for that matter — They are freaking exciting and you wait in suspense to see what you already know is going to happen. And the good guys basically always win, so there’s no surprise there either… but I could be wrong. I’m no movie expert Still, in this version of the Hulk, there were some striking political statements in the movie which really caught my attention (whether they were intentional or not), something that one may not be able to get from a comic book. As the story goes, a U.S. Army general seeks to harm the love of his daughter’s life to steal his power in order to strengthen the U.S. military force, but the Army actually ends up creating a monster that it can’t control… and who they think is the real monster is actually no monster at all (regardless of its outside appearance) and ends up helping its enemies in order to make the world a better place for everyone. Take what you will with that…
I’d go see the movie if I were you… on the big screen. I actually don’t think a movie of this sort would be nearly as good at home. But aside from my criticism, I totally loved it. And that kind of means a lot coming from me, because I don’t normally go crazy over that kind of thing.
