recent tracks:

Now

I am not certain of the temporal framework within which I wrote and abandoned the previous post, but it stands now to tell you whatever it is I then decided was worth your knowing.

Meanwhile.

There has not been a lot going on, as you might expect. My normal obligations and idiosyncrasies, including, of course, multitudinous hours poring over text, both digital and in print.

One of my idiosyncrasies shone bright and clear in place of the moon, hidden behind overcast skies and layers of drizzle, last night in Boston. Having sped from my final scholastic obligation of the day at seven, hoping to arrive at Paradise for the opening act at eight, I soon tempered my driving to fit the condition of low visibility, and, running later than expected, was thus agitated when I arrived in the vicinity of Paradise and had to seek parking. Alas! I had but three quarters, providing me with a mere 45 minutes at one of the readily available metered parking spots. Surely there must be a garage somewhere?

No! There is none. In the place of such a useful structure are streets which seem to deprive drivers of any choice, funneling at least the lost and confused out-of-town driver onto the dreaded MassPike. Some half hour and two dollars later, having been about five minutes from surrendering to the construction-laden city and returning to Providence (and subsequently blowing a few blood vessels somewhere), I was back where I had first exited the interstate. I wound my way back to those same metered spaces, and assumed that (because by now the time was half past nine) my three quarters would provide me with sufficient time to see the whole of Jolie Holland's set.

It turns out, as I discovered upon running from Paradise halfway through Ms. Holland's glorious hour and a half set, that the metered parking was only enforced until six. I returned to Paradise beaming through a fog of sheepishness in response to my discovery.

The show.

It seems I did not miss much, perhaps indeed not any, of Ms. Holland's set. She was just launching into song as I entered the rather bizarre space, stage covering the middle third of the rectangular room's long wall and protruding out into the crowd, bars on the opposite wall and balconies on the two short sides. This made for a strong sense of intimacy which Holland played to with plenty of conversational banter. Holland played keyboard and (sometimes electrically amplified) acoustic guitar (with one foray into electric fiddle), and was backed by another guitarist (who also played an excellent clarinet solo) and drummer. The centerpiece, though, was her gorgeous voice and unique styling, whose categorization as folk she decried. I've read "Appalachian country," but there's definitely something of a jazz feel about her as well, including occasional dabbling with polyrhythms during the set. She claimed a specialty, though, of "strange waltzes," and accordingly provided some excellent examples thereof. After playing a song, Holland sometimes described its basis: "I was feeling really low after one of the worst days of my life, just lying in bed, not wanting to leave, and this mockingbird outside my window would NOT SHUT UP. And I realized that we were the same in a way: singing to find a mate. At least they say that's why mockingbirds sing, right?" Although she claimed that her banter was embarrassing, I found it very endearing--her songs tell stories, and she is an excellent storyteller. [Sidenote: she also seems fascinated with birds. She told another story about finding an exotic bird in the park in San Francisco, taking it home as a pet, and how she now sometimes finds herself making bird noises...]

Anyway, the concert was fantastic, and I would highly, highly recommend her most recent album, Springtime Can Kill You, which I purchased after the show (eschewing also the chance to chat with her as she perched on the edge of the stage continuing the conversation with the fans that she had carried out for the past hour and a half); it perhaps merits a discussion of its own when I've given it more of a listen.

Speaking of bird noises, I will return to Boston this evening to pick up Summer (et al.?); her return should make the apartment a happier place to live. The kitten this morning hopped into Summer's seat opposite me at the kitchen table and made a series of strange noises which I believe approximately translate to, "Where is the normal occupant of this chair? She has been missing for many days and you get home late and we are lonely and we want her back." My kitten is rusty, though, so I can't say for sure.

Aaaaaaaaaand I believe there was something else. Ah yes, here it is:

New Commissioner's Note
by: Depraved Hearts (snergle219) Oct 16 11:13pm
What momentous occasion has prompted your illustrious commissioner to abandon his rightful scholastic obligations to instead amend this document, the Commissioner's Note, analogous in scope, power, and ambiguity to the mighty Constitution of the United States of America and its predecessors dating back to Hamurabi (whose code was, I believe, actually significantly less ambiguous)?

Your colleague and mine, Mr. XXXXXX X. XXXXXXXX, has this week scored 35 points plus whatever contribution Thomas Jones (current statline: ten rushes for twenty-eight yards, three receptions for fourteen yards) manages to provide. In the process of scoring these points, he started no fewer than five players whose non-fantasy teams had byes this week. One of these players was also on injured reserve, marking what must be some sort of record. In Week 3, his Mollycoddles earned a whopping 32 points.

I therefore decree that, unless Mr. XXXXXXXX patches the slight breach in his Titanic of a team, or, if you prefer, rights his faltering Hindenberg, the first team to lose to the Mollycoddles must either (a) pay each other manager an amount equal to the margin of his loss, or (b) participate in some sort of public shaming including, but not limited to, taking and sharing a photograph representing that manager's complete and absolute humiliation.

My decrees are, of course, subject to the veto of the Associate Commissioner, but not to the rest of you scrubs who should all soon be settling back into your rightful places below me in the standings.

Peace out.

Parity is rampant in Collective Punishment, which I stand atop by a narrow margin, with one exception--the Mollycoddles. In my other league, I also reign. Thankfully even a narrow (and, from the sound of it, ugly) loss to the Saints has not dropped the Eagles from their eyrie atop the NFC East. Ahh football. Ahh fall. Pumpkins this weekend, I think, and perhaps jack-o-lanterns as well.