Thursday night I took the b.h. to work and then saw Brass Bed and The Wydelles at Tasty World. I was exhausted, having been up since the crack of dawn and worked in the heat (which is starting to get to me now) all day at the B.S. Squared, but once the band started I knew I'd be okay. The last time I saw Brass Bed, a friend of mine remarked that he felt like he was watching Centro-matic's* first show, and I agreed.
These guys are young, but they obviously have more going on than the typical three or four piece rock thing. So I didn't get to bed until about four-thirty, then I got up at nine-thirty for work. Barb remarked that I looked like I wasn't quite up to speed on Friday, which was true. Fortunately I didn't have a lot of heavy lifting to do, so I pulled through.
Heard a new Southernism for the first time in awhile. A guy at the BS2 was asking if I had seen John around.
"Hundred pounds soaking wet John?" I replied. John is a rather common name amongst BS3 employees.
"Jeans and boots" he said affirmatively, meaning that the John weighs a hundred pounds, soaking wet, even wearing jeans and boots. I found that hilarious.
So I worked for a couple hours on Friday night as well, but since we weren't busy I got to go home at twelve-thirty. Got up early on Saturday, dropped the b.h. at work, and went to meet my friend A for breakfast. We stopped over at the new Athens Farmer's Market, which was packed, but I wasn't really shopping as much as seeing how it was going. I hadn't brought a cooler and I knew any seasonal greens i might buy would wilt in my car before I got home. It was awfully warm. After that we headed over to Big City Bread, where we got coffee and I got an egg and cheese biscuit that was half as big as my face. How the hell that was one egg is beyond me, but it was very tasty. I followed it with a lemon tart because I was feeling particularly decadent on my rare Saturday off. We talked for a bit and then A went home and I ran a few errands.
When I got home I fired up our fantastically awesome new lawnmower and worked in the yard a bit. Mercifully, it started to rain and I had to stop mowing after about thirty minutes, so I came inside and relaxed a bit.
Went to pick up the b.h. around five, stopped and got some orchid bark, and came home and re-potted the six orchids I rescued from an imminent dumpster death at work. Today they look quite happy. I think they may all live.
Last night we went to an all-star townie hootnanny at Tasty World. Dave Marr had set it up as a benefit for another old guy townie who is recovering from cancer. The show was unbelievable. The Star Room Boys played, as well as Clay Leverett, Don Chambers, and a lineup that was half SRB with Nick Bielli and Dave Gerow that I can't remember the name of. I often forget how fucking talented a lot of these guys are, since they're just regular folks with jobs and kids and stuff. Dave Gerow is a badass.
It struck me that the only health insurance we all have in this place is each other. I have been to a lot of these shows in the past few years, for everything from broken legs to multiple surgeries. Obviously it isn't an ideal situation, but it is something, and it reminds me that we live in a very special place.
I cannot express how good the show was, or how entertaining it was once everybody got good and drunk and it started to go off the rails.
I got a copy of that Wydelles show from Thursday night on CD from CP. I am about to turn it on and go dig in the yard again.
So you know, I have not forgotten my reading commitments. I am very close to finishing Carl Wilson's 33 1/3 book about Celine Dion. It is embarrassing that it has taken me this long to read, and it is in no way a reflection of the quality of the book. In fact, I recommend it to everyone, especially those of you who are (ahem) a bit snobby about music. This is a serious critical and analytical approach to a subject that I would not have thought deserving of it, and it has made me examine my own opinions and thoughts about art. I still find Celine Dion utterly nauseating, but I'm glad I have gone to the trouble of figuring out why.
Money quote:
"What self-conscious aesthetes (...) might be guilty of sentimentalizing is ambiguity, that shibboleth of our postidealistic age. Which can make us dupes of another kind, prone to taking surface complication and opacity for depth, and apt to overlook the complexity that may lie even within the sentimental on more patient, curious inspection. It's a fault endemic, I think, to us as antireligionists who have turned for transcendent experience to art, and so react to what our reflexes tell us is bad art as if it were a kind of blasphemy."
Guilty. As charged.
I have even used the word blasphemy to describe a shitty cover of The Clash or some other band that I hold in extremely high regard. Because apparently owning a Duran Duran record (or two) doesn't necessarily preclude one from having too much regard for one's own musical taste.
Today we're off to the b.h.'s folks house, and if we have enough left after that we're going to Jenn's for a cookout.
TTFN, y'all.
*I know that's a very linky sentence, but they are all worth it. Pay special attention to the song Alone from The Wydellles. "I'm aching for you like I need cigarettes." Brilliant.
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