2000-07-14

Dem Blues

Oy. Where to start? So much I want to talk about today, and none of it is particularly enlightening (but, then, when is anything I write in here particularly enlightening?)...

Last night Kev and I went to Harper's Ferry to cheer on our pal Adam, whose band, The Stumble, was part of a big blues competition. It was fun, all our friends showed up, and The Stumble were quite excellent, very roadhouse, if you're into that sort of thing, and I'm finally at the point where I can freely admit that I am, even though I happen to be listening to yet another Bauhaus album right now. When it's over, I will then listen to Susan Tedeschi, because that's the kind of wacky girl I am. Variety is a good thing.

At any rate, three different people came up to me last night at Harper's, pointed at my feet, and asked: "Are those your 'big girl shoes'?" I don't know what to make of that. I really don't. It's weird knowing that even if I haven't been in contact with my buds for weeks at a stretch, they're totally up-to-date on my goings-on, because for one reason or another, they have this ridiculous exercise of mine bookmarked on their computers, and there you go. I can't even fathom what the complete strangers out there are thinking.

The second band up after The Stumble's set were, oh God, they were so awful. I don't even remember their name, just that they were awful. The singer kept using a goddamn delay pedal on his vocals, and the bass player was this nightmarish South-Shore-townie- guy-meets-all-four-members-of .38 Special mish-mash. At first, it was definitely amusing � we had much fun at the expense of the unwitting bass player � Paula and I lasciviously speculating on his ability to "please his wuh-man" and the certainty of availability of Budweiser tallboys, at any given time, in his palatial digs in Duxbury or Hanover or where-the-heck-ever (readers will take note that since I grew up on the South Shore, I am entitled to berate my own kind).

But once we'd milked that for what it was worth, the mood turned somber indeed. Poor Aaron just wasn't having it, wasn't having any of it at all. Plans to take our ragtag indie rocker caravan elsewhere were discussed, but Kev and I just ended up going home.

Today is the Feast of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, whose name I took on when I was confirmed. I should've gone to church this morning, but I did not. I did my penance by swatting myself on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

lisamcc at 15:16:30

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