Hot again

So, Charleston.  Charleston. …Charleston.

This was the first time I had been back in just a shade over two years, and it did me a lot of good.

It was 52 degrees when I left here on Friday morning.  I took the train in, at prime commuting time, with all the commuters.  I marveled for a while at how happy I was that I didn’t have to do that anymore- that awful, crowded, hour + commute on a train full of suits with dead eyes.  It was nice not to be one of them anymore.  Not that I ever wore a suit, but I definitely had dead eyes.

I got off the plane in Charleston in the afternoon and Leezle (y’all remember Leezle, right?  My lesbian?  My old roommate?) came to pick me up.  We walked towards the door of the airport and I could see the Palmetto trees swaying.  Leezle was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  As we walked to the door, I asked her if it was hot.  She looked at me like I was crazy and said “do you see all these sweating people?  Charleston has provided for your homecoming by giving us a heatwave, damn you.”

So we walked outside and it hit me- 87 degrees and breezy.  I just stopped right there on the sidewalk and let it rush over me.  It felt like getting a hug from your favorite person in the world (as long as that person is made of 87 degree breezes).  It’s hard to explain, but something about that warmth after it’s been so cold here for weeks was healing.  I felt like I grew two inches and my hair turned shiny.

The rest of the weekend was a flurry of food (Melvin’s BBQ, shrimp and grits, biscuits and gravy,  grits again…), sweet tea (it must have been a few gallons worth, I’m sure), and dear, dear friends who I have missed terribly.  All weekend I heard “We miss you!  When are you coming back?  Please, please come back!”

I don’t care who you are- that’s a good thing to hear.

We went to a beautiful wedding.  No really:

That’s Dan and Kinsey riding off in a pedi-cab surrounded by sparklers.  One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.  Also, there was an open bar, which resulted in this status update on Facebook the next day:

Taylor Autumn Shelby Nothing cures a gin and tonic hangover like a big plate of shrimp and grits

October 11 at 1:17pm via Mobile Web · Comment · Like

And truly, nothing does.

I spent a wonderful afternoon drinking hot tea (it’s fine when you’re in a coffee shop with a KILLER AC) and playing scrabble with Leezle and Mike.  Hell yes, I won.

I got a private tour of the slave cabins at Magnolia Plantation, a project that I worked on (archival research) when it was in its infancy.

I went on a Confederate Ghost Walk at Magnolia Cemetery, that was so outrageous and ridiculous I could write a who ‘nother blog post.  For any of y’all that think the war is over, y’all go on this next year.  It was especially telling to watch U.S. Senator Glenn McConnel (oh yes, he was part of it), call Federal soldiers criminals.  You know, Federal Soldiers.  The ones that fought for the United States.  You know, the country that he represents as a US SENATOR.  And that was only the 1st vignette.  There were 11 more.   It was painfully hilarious.  And I think I might have legitimately hurt myself by trying to hold in the laughter.

The only bad thing about the whole weekend was when an ex-boyfriend, who I broke up three years ago (almost to the day, in fact), drank too much whisky and told me that he was still in love with me.  How his current girlfriend WHO HE LIVES WITH feels about that, I can’t say.  I felt horrified and awkward.  It was like something that happened on TV, especially when a mutual friend walked by and gave me an evil laugh while I desperately mouthed “SAVE ME” to him.  He did not.  Fucker.

So I just did that nice smile and say “oh…thank you…I’m so flattered” thing and then avoided him for the rest of the night while I drank more gin.

I did end up seeing him the next day, when a bunch of us went out to dinner, and he was cool.  So, whew.

It was one of the best weekends I’ve had in a LONG time.  And goddamn did it make me realize where I’m supposed to be.  There are good things about New England, but this place isn’t home.

Excitement!

I’m going to Charleston tomorrow!

To my beautiful, beloved city that I’ve missed somethin’ fierce.

It will be warm and sultry and full of people that I love.

I can’t wait.

If this is “low pressure” why is it stressing me out so much?

Ah, shit. This is starting to look worse and worse:

Two days ago, only one of those paths was even coming close to SC. Please follow light blue! Please follow light blue!

More info and maps on Brian’s Blog

This and that

What I’ve done recently:

-Found some goddamn boxes.  FINALLY.  I must thank my friend Mike (or Wildlife Mike or Cooter [hahahah] as he is occasionally known) for using his truck to haul myself, Leezle, and 40 boxes pilfered off King Street back to our house.  Bonus points because this was done at midnight on Saturday, after we watched Auburn beat Kansas State.  War Eagle.

-Packed said boxes.  And a lot of them.  I’ve packed up almost all of my books now and a lot of the decorative stuff.  I’ve also packed most of my clothes.  There were a couple of moments where I stared at my closet for 5 minutes thinking to myself, “should I pack this dress to send with the movers or put it in a suitcase?  Is there a possibility I will need this faux-fur shrug at some point?  I haven’t worn these shoes in a year, but what if I decided I need them two days after I move and my stuff hasn’t been delivered yet.  These decisions I have to make, people, they are taxing.  My life is really, really difficult.

-Realized that despite packing a lot of stuff, it hardly looks like I have made a dent in my collection of crap that I don’t need.  I have, however, made 2 trips to Goodwill and have another pile already forming.  Why do I have 7 beach bags when I hate to go to the beach?

-Cried for a little bit when how much I still have to do actually hit me.  And maybe felt a little sick to my stomach.

-Cursed violently when I saw on the news that a “low pressure system likely to become tropical” is sitting pretty right off the SC coast.  I have moved 3 times since I have been in Charleston.  Twice those moves have coincided with either a tropical storm or a category 1 hurricane.  I do not want this to happen again, but I don’t think my luck will hold.

-Bought a Kitchen Aid stand mixer!  This one, in fact.  Which for some inexplicable reason was on sale for $99 yesterday.  Now that is a damn deal, especially since Pete and I waxed poetically about two weeks ago about how we both wanted one so bad but probably wouldn’t be able to get one because they are very expensive.  I figured this would make a wonderful housewarming gift.  Especially since I get to use it too!  I’m going to be a bread making fool.

The 19th.

Today is:

A) My mother’s birthday.  Happy Birthday, Mom!  Thanks for sticking up for me when Daddy told me I cursed too much on my website!

B) Bill Clinton’s birthday.  Happy Birthday, Bill!  I guess the gift he is receiving is that Bush is constantly making him look better and better by comparison.  Cheers to that!

C) Exactly one month until my last day of work, and one month and three days until I set out on a 995 mile drive to my new home.

Here is what I have done to prepare myself for the giant move:

NOTHING

And now, I’m in official countdown mode, and I still have So Much to do.   I hate moving.  Will you come over here and help me pack boxes?  I have some wine I can let you drink.   Will you find me a job in MA?  That pays well?  And that utilizes my degree?  And that lets me sleep in until 8:30?  And that I don’t have to drive to in the snow?  If you can do that, I’ll cook you some chicken and dumplings.   And I’m sure if you go downstairs, my neighbors will let you smoke their pot.

(By the way, when you’re down there, will you tell them to turn down the damn music?  And also that when they are playing Grand Theft Auto- at least I think that is what it is- that they don’t have to scream as much?  Oh!  And also ask my neighbor how in GODS NAME he can possibly stay up until 2 in the morning every night and still get up at about 5:30 and go to work WHERE HE TEACHES 6TH GRADERS all day and manage to come home and yet again stay up until 2.  I think he might actually be magic.  Or maybe he’s a coke-head, too?  Whatever…I’m gone in a month anyway)

Right now I am on the ubiquitous quest for boxes, but the liquor stores are always out.  I guess I’ll have to wait until the students finish moving in and then just pillage theirs.  Or maybe I can just pack everything in trash bags.  Or maybe just pile everything on the front lawn and light it on fire.  I’m thinking that is probably the easiest way to deal with this problem.

Now where are my matches?

He looked fit, and surprisingly young for 107.

I just saw John McCain.

Like, I was literally about 4 feet away from him as I (slowly) drove by him standing on the sidewalk.  That was unexpected.

I actually thought I was seeing some kind of funeral procession at first, because as I drove down Rutledge Ave., the cars in front of me were stopped to allow a group of about 6 men in dark suits walk towards one of the synagogues (please forgive my supreme lack of knowledge about the Jewish,  just in case I am suggesting some terrible taboo about Jews being buried on Mondays or something.  I don’t know much about the religion, sadly).  I slowed down, like everyone else, then noticed no one was following the 6 men, but that there were a lot of people milling about wearing non-funeralish clothes.  Then I saw the news cameras, then I saw all the McCain signs, then I saw him.

He was posing for photo ops right on the sidewalk under a tree next to the road, and the guy in front of me was hanging out of the car taking a picture with his cell phone.  I (stupidly and frustratingly) didn’t have my camera with me, so I got no proofs, people!  I assume they were having some sort of rally or something.

Now the oddest thing to me wasn’t so much that I saw John McCain standing on the street  but that they were having a McCain rally at a synagogue.  I’m sure there are lots of Jews who are Republicans, but isn’t this going to be seen as some kind of terrible betrayal by most of the Republican party?  Isn’t associating with Jews some kind of unforgivable sin if you are trying to court crazy-religious evangelicals?

Very odd end to my day, that’s for sure.

It’s like some cruel joke

When I come into work in the morning, and check the weather, I do not like to see things like this:

Admittedly, I did alter that slightly.  You know what this makes me want to do?  Move my ass to Massachusetts, that’s what!

If you live in Charleston, I sure hope you don’t die today.

Whaaaaa…?

Oh dear God.  Something very scary and alarming is happening.  This may actually be signaling the Apocalypse.  Y’all better start praying or sacrificing goats or whatever it is that you need to do, because retribution is coming.

That’s right.  Newt Gingrich is actually starting to make sense.  (I know!  It shivers me to the core!)

In a recent speech to some college students:

 “None of you should believe we are winning this war. There is no evidence that we are winning this war,” the ex-Georgian told a group of about 300 students attending a conference for collegiate conservatives.

Oh yes.  And how about this gem:

 “We have got to get past this partisan baloney, where I’m not allowed to say anything good about Hillary Clinton because ‘I’m not a loyal Republican,’ and she’s not allowed to say anything good about me, or she’s not a ‘loyal’ Democrat. What a stupid way to run a country.”

Ummm…wow.  Good for him, right?  I’m just still…so…shocked.

Now please excuse me while I go roll up my windows,  because I’m pretty sure it’s about to start snowing in Charleston

(Except that it totally isn’t, because the heat index today is supposed to be 115 degrees.  ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN DEGREES.  I am sitting in my air-conditioned office with a fan blowing on me drinking cold water and I’m still sweating.  I’ve about freaking had it with this*.  I actually hung up on Peter yesterday when he called and told me that it was 79 degrees in Massachusetts.  Of course I immediately called him back and told him that I loved him, but he was very amused by it.  Anyway, I’m Hooooooottttt!)

(*Please do not throw this back in my face when I am complaining every single day about the horrendous cold I am about to face with a New England winter, k?)

Saying goodbye…

This morning, I got up early and rode my bike down to the Coming St. fire station, just near my house. This was the fire station that I initially thought 4 men were lost from, but as the information came out, we found out, thankfully, that it was only one man. When I arrived at 7:50, there were already about 70 people gathered on the street outside, and more were coming every minute.

The firemen were standing outside, milling around a memorial set up to honor their fallen brother. The mass of flowers was punctuated by the heartbreaking, carefully folded empty uniform. The flag flew at half mast.

Just after 9, we looked up as a helicopter slowly flew in our direction, marking the beginning of the procession. Several police cars, driven by policemen in black suits with black ties, drove by, followed by about 40 policemen and state troopers on motorcycles. Then the firetrucks came. There were about 100 in the procession, and about 300 vehicles total. The Charleston firetrucks came first, draped in black, and I noticed that many of the spectators and the men in the trucks were weeping. It is a difficult thing to watch a fireman cry. The firemen in the trucks and in the station saluted each other.

As the procession continued, I was shocked to see a firetruck from New Orleans drive by, then Maryland, and eventually several rescue vehicles all the way from Trenton, New Jersey. It was remarkable to see the solidarity of firemen from all over the country, and how this tragedy has united us all in grief.

Thank you firemen. You are truly heroes.

And all my hopes of being a wildlife wrangler are dashed…(part II)

Continued over from part I…

About 30 minutes later I hear the dogs downstairs freak out, so I know that Leezle is home. I bound out of my room to meet her at the door, because surely she needs help carrying her bat-obliterating gun or oversize industrial rabid-bat catching machine, right? Or at least so that I can finally feel like there is someone to solve this problem that isn’t ME because I have FAILED.

I am slightly concerned when, instead of coming in hellbent for leather (wait, is that the right saying?) and ready to CATCH SOME FUCKING BATS, BITCHES, she pokes her head in the door and wide-eyed and meekly whispers: “Where is it?”

I stop dead. “Wait!” says I, “You can’t be scared! I’m scared! You have to be tough and scary and use your fierce lesbian powers! If we’re both scared of this then we are screwed!”

Says Leezle, “Well I was all tough while I was sitting in that dance recital, then I asked my brother-in-law to come help and he said Hell No! because he’s afraid of bats, which made me a little nervous and then as we got closer and closer I realized that I’m scared of bats too. NOW WHERE IS IT?”

“I locked him in the kitchen!” I say triumphantly, because I know that is the only intelligent thing I have done this whole time.

“Where in the kitchen is he?”

“I don’t know! I haven’t had the courage to open the door for the past hour and a half!”

We crack open the kitchen door and peek in, but he isn’t flying around anywhere. I spy a brown speck in the corner and step in to find that he has managed to cram himself into the most inconvenient place ever, right at the top of the window, but behind the venetian blinds. He looks tiny, about the size of a small egg, and he’s all huddled up. It kinda actually broke my heart just a little bit, because I could tell he was scared.

Leezle is surprised. “He’s so small!” “Hey now! That’s because you haven’t seen him flying around! He may look like a small, hairy, black egg right now, but when he flapping about, he looks like a goddamn bald eagle!”

We quickly realize that we aren’t ever going to be able to throw a towel over him, as has been so helpfully suggested, because there is no way he is going to leave his cranny without some prodding. We decide to tape a garbage bag over the corner of the window that he is hiding in, so to make a sort of windsock that he will fly into when he comes out. Since we’re both too scared to actually touch anything near the bat, we manage to tape the bag up by awkwardly using a yard stick and a piece of wood which, for some inexplicable reason, was lying around somewhere. We rattle the bag, then the blinds, but he doesn’t move.

We quickly realize that we are going to have to actually prod him into the bag, so I climb on the washing machine (which, yes, is in the kitchen) and reach the yard stick back behind the blinds. I have to stop about 19 million times because I am shaking so hard that I can’t hold the yard stick, but I finally manage to reach up and poke him just a little bit.

Nothing.

I poke him a little bit harder.

Nothing.

I say: “Goddamn you Fred (we’ve named him Fred because this is supposed to make him seem less scary. It fails)! Get the hell out of my kitchen!”

I really don’t want to hurt him, and I can imagine how fragile he is, so I don’t want to poke him very hard, but he isn’t moving at all with these little gentle nudges, so I give him a firmer push. Fred does not like this, y’all, and he lets me know my making a really terrible noise that sounded like two pieces of gravel being rubbed together, and BITING the end of my yardstick. Like seriously opening up his big bat mouth and gnawing (I told you!) on what was poking him. Not only does he not fly into the garbage bag, but he somehow manages to make himself even smaller and now I can hardly reach him at all.

Obviously this is not going to work, so we decide to call good-old wildlife Mike. His friends actually call him Cooter, and anyone named Cooter sure as shit better be able to get a damn bat out of a window. He has the brilliant plan of just reaching up there and grabbing him, with our bare hands, which has the same likely-hood of happening as me just deciding to turn out kitchen into a bat colony and populating it with bats who have flown out of my ass. In other words: not so bloody likely.

Leezle and I stare at each other for a minute and she says: My mom told me we should call the police.

I say: My mom said we should call the fire department! Can we actually do that?

Leezle: Sure we can! We pay taxes!

Me: Well, at least they can send animal control or something.

Leezle calls the non-emergency number number and after the lady at the police station stops laughing, she tells us that animal control has already gone home for the evening, but that the police do actually do stuff like that if they have time. She says that she’ll put out the dispatch that we need some help, but that it might be awhile since this is low priority (LOW PRIORITY MY ASS! I shout in my head), which is fine since we aren’t being robbed or murdered or anything like that.

We kinda just gave up for about 30 minutes and sat around and chatted, though any sudden noise made us duck and gasp. Eventually we went back to doing the same thing, because we couldn’t think of an alternative, and by about 11 PM I was getting flustered and frustrated. I called Pete, because, as I told him, I was locked in a mortal battle with a bat and was being defeated and I needed him to give me some moral support. Just as I said that, Leezle, who had been outside smoking (boo!) threw the door open and in walked two of Charleston’s finest!

The first cop, a guy about 25 came in first. He was pulling on black leather gloves and said to me, clearly enjoying himself immensely, “I hear you’ve got a bat problem!”

I leap off the washing machine, joyfully wielding my yard stick and scream (as was later referred to as”at the top of my voice” which I contest.  I could have been much louder.) “HOOOOORAYYYY! The Po-LEEEECE are here!” I hear Pete shockingly choke out “you called the police?!” before I yell “I have to go now. Iloveyoubye!” into the phone and hang up.

I snatch the trash bag off the window so that he can see where the bat is and quickly back out of the kitchen as he pulls out a baton. He reaches up and pokes the bat a few times, which starts making that awful squawking noise again and then erupts out of the window, and starts flying through the kitchen. Both of the policepersons (one of them as a woman) duck and Leezle and I both scream and we dive for cover. I just huddled into the corner of the hall while she ran into the living room and slammed the door. A few moments later she peeks her head out and squeaks out through her laughter, “I think I just peed a little bit!”

The bat has managed to fly on top of the stove vent, so the policeman had to climb onto our stove (which is most precarious) to reach him. He grabbed the trash bag, threw it over the bat, and yelled triumphantly, “I’ve got you, you little bastard!” as he snatched him up and neatly wrapped him in the bag. He jumped off the stove, ran down the stairs, and dumped the bat out of the bag, sending him off into the night. Leezle and I both cheered and profusely thanked him as the lady cop asked sarcastically, “well, anything else we can help you with tonight.” “God, I hope not!” I replied.

Those people are heroes, y’all! And now our house is (hopefully, please god hopefully!) bat-free. And that is how I ended up with a policeman on my stove holding a (potentially!) rabid animal at 11:30 PM. Good times!

And all my hopes of being a wildlife wrangler are dashed…(part I)

I am exhausted today. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and it wasn’t because I went out and got drunk, it wasn’t because I was up all night reading a good book, it wasn’t because I spent 4 hours on the phone with Pete while he told me how fabulous I am, it was because there was a bat in my kitchen last night. We aren’t really sure how he got in, but it was quite a production to get him out.

Wait. WHAT? Did I just gloss over that and make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe, to be more accurate I should write it like this:

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THERE WAS A FUCKING BAT IN MY FUCKING KITCHEN LAST NIGHT! Because that was totally how I reacted to it. And I was alone, so I couldn’t really do anything about it except stand there, gaping, and freak the fuck out.

Now listen, y’all. I’m not really the kind of person who freaks out over animals (except snakes), since I grew up out in the woods and strange creatures in the house weren’t really all that big of a deal. Bugs don’t scare me, birds don’t make me nervous, and I’m generally not one of those squealy girls who gets all worked up when, say, your cat comes into your living room with a writing, horrified chipmunk in her mouth, looks at you, and then drops it so it goes screaming all over your house and you have to take you couch out of the room so you can trap it with a broom and a Tupperware bowl. Or, you know, something like that (because that obviously never happened. ahem). Situations like that I can handle (Well, once in Texas a Javelina looked at me funny and got all bristly and that freaked me out, but that doesn’t happen very frequently). But a bat is a different story, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT IS IN MY KITCHEN. And just 2 days ago I was watching something on the news about how we had 12 reported cases of rabies in Charleston County this year! So now I’m pretty sure that I had a Rabid Bat in my kitchen.

So after I stand there horrified for a minute and realize that no, Taylor, you aren’t hallucinating, I pace around in my hallway muttering to myself: whatdoido? whatdoido? and self says: Call your mom! She lives in the country!

*ring ring ring*

Mom: Hello

Me: MOM OH MY GOD THERE IS A BAT IN MY KITCHEN WHAT DO I DO PLEASE FOR THE LOVE COME AND HELP ME AND SAVE ME FROM A CERTAIN DEATH OF HYDROPHOBIA AND STOMACH SHOTS!

Mom: Who is this?

(No, I kid! She knew me!)

Mom: (who, impossibly at this point seems calm and rational because DOES SHE NOT REALIZE that there is a BAT in my KITCHEN and I am alone with no one to save me?) Yeah, this happens to us all the time. Just throw a towel over it and take it outside.

Me: Yes! OK! I have towels, I can throw a towel (I think?)!

Mom: Good luck!

At which point I hang up the phone. I have, prior to this, shut the kitchen door so that the bat is trapped in there (Me = Smart!) so I pick up a towel and gently crack open the door and peek in. I can’t see him anywhere, but just looking in there makes me freak out again BECAUSE I KNOW HE CAN SEE ME AND HE IS JUST WAITING UNTIL I COME IN AND HE WILL SWOOP DOWN AND GNAW ON MY FACE! Shut up. Bats do that.

And then the phone rings! And it’s Pete! He’ll come save me (or at least talk me down).

Pete: Hey babe, just wanted to let you know I’m out with the guys tonight so I may not call you later….

Me: OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT THERE IS A BAT IN MY KITCHEN. YOU HAVE GOT TO COME SAVE ME! I’M FREAKING OUT!

Pete: (You fool girl. I live 995 miles away, what do you think I’m going to do?)

Pete: Ok, you need to get a towel and throw it over him then take him outside and let him go.

Me: …

Pete: …

Me: (why does everyone keep saying this to me?)

Pete: …

Me: YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND! YOU HAVE TO COME SAVE ME.

Pete: Well, hon, I’m in Boston right now, so you’re going to need to give me about 19 hours.

Me: But I’ll be a gnawed-up mess by then! You won’t love me if I’m covered in tiny bat bites!

Pete: You can do this. It isn’t as hard as you think it is. He’s as scared of you as you are of him.

Me: Oh really? Is he shitting his little bat pants right now as we speak? Because that’s what I’m on the verge of doing.

(alright, I didn’t actually say that. But wouldnt’ it have been funny if I did?!)

Me (In actuality): Ok, you’re right. I can do this! I’m awesome! I grew up in the woods! This little pansy-ass bat has nothing on me! I’ll call you later, Darling!

Pete: Good luck!

At which point I firmly close the door to the kitchen and go back to watching So You Think You Can Dance. That damn bat can wait, but the Paso Double cannot.

So maybe at this point you are thinking: Hey, don’t you have a roommate? Where was she all this time? Well, my roommate, who should have been home saving me, was at her niece’s dance recital, which is crazy because DON’T THEY KNOW THERE IS A BAT IN MY KITCHEN AND I NEED HER HERE HELPING ME. Those little 7 year-old ballerinas can wait, y’all.

I call her to freak out, but no answer. She texts me back a moment later that she is still in the recital. What’s going on?

I say: FUCKING BAT IN OUR HOUSE. I need your help.

She says: What?! In the house!?

I say: Yes! In Kitchen! Freaking out.

She says: Almost done here, Be home soon.

HOORAY! Because Leezle is a big, tough Lesbian! And if she can’t save me from a bat, no one can!

(To be continued!…In part two, in which I realize the benefits of paying taxes.)

the Black Diamond Heavies SUCK! (Please google yourself so that you read this review and quit destroying the world with your terrible, terrible music)

On Friday night, I went to a concert with Leezle, and our friend Mike (of the good southern stories and snapping-turtle-eatin’ fame) (who is also Mike of the outstanding taste in music fame). We went and saw a band called Son Volt (which I know is an odd religious-sounding name, but it’s a misnomer), that I was only vaguely familiar with. I agreed because I got a frantic message from Mike saying something along the lines of OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT THIS IS THE GREATEST BAND EVER AND IF YOU DON’T GO I’LL DIE AND I KNOW YOU WILL LIKE THEM SO YOU HAVE TO COME WITH ME OR I WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. Except that it wasn’t like that, because Mike is the nicest guy ever and he would never threaten me with death, and also he doesn’t curse in casual conversation (like some people I know) (read: ME) but you get my point.

So we trounced on over to The Music Farm, which is a fabulous venue that resides in a converted 19th-century train depot. You may remember that this is where I went to see my favorite band, the magnificent Old Crow Medicine Show back in February. Son Volt had an opening band, the Black Diamond Heavies, that I grew slightly concerned with when I saw that their “merch” (by the way, I think the word “merch” is lame) section included a pair of panties with their name emblazoned across the crotch. Yeah, not so promising.

And God help me if it was not the worst band I have ever heard in my life. I’m not exaggerating, I’m not embellishing for the sake of having something to write about, they produced, literally, the worst music that has ever poisoned my now-pained ears.

I hesitate to even give them the justification of calling them a “band” because it was just two people – a drummer, and the lead “singer” and “guitar player.” In truth, I actually believed for the first 5 minutes that they were a joke, because I couldn’t believe that a band like Son Volt would allow someone like this to actually open for them (we came to the conclusion later that it must have been the choice of the venue or something) or, frankly, that anyone could actually seriously produce such terrible music. The lead guy (whose name I cannot muster up the strength to Google) was a walking parody. He was like a cross between Kid Rock and Scott Stapp (from the detestable “band” Creed.)

=

It was that bad. A greasier, skeevier, less-talented, more hackneyed wash-up couldn’t possibly be conceived.

And he was wearing EXACTLY that same outfit at the show I saw. What you can’t see here is his terrible man-tan, and awful, tired circa 1992 black combat boots.

And all of this could be forgiven if they were even reasonably talented. I’ll forgive a hell of a lot of ugly for good music (I love The Ramones, after all!), but hoo-wee, they were just plain terrible. This guy was trying really hard to have one of those old, gravelly rocker voices which was clearly faked, and he screamed out the terrible lyrics in this tone that sounded suspiciously similar to a woodchipper that is trying to process a piece of sheet metal with a bunch of rabid racoons lashed to it.  And, as he spewed forth such forced noise, he also awkwardly banged away at a keyboard that he had set to the “guitar” setting so as to produce some sort of wretched melody that surely sprung forth from the fiery depths of hell. I created better music as a 10 year-old futzing around on the family’s Casio.

Sadly, I don’t think that I have the literary capabilities to truly express how awful this was. It was painful, nay, OFFENSIVE to listen to. For them to parade that around as music was a spit in the face to anyone out there who appreciates it. There were times when I literally had my fingers in my ears it was so bad, and as I looked around and noticed the people around me grimacing and staring hatefully at the stage I knew that I wasn’t the only one. You’d think they would be clued in by the fact that only about 5 people were standing around the stage, as the rest of us pressed up against the back wall of the building trying in vain to get as far away from the sound as we could. The only person dancing or even swaying to the music was one very drunk, very obvious 19 year-old who could barely keep herself upright while her friends looked on a laughed at her. I’m pretty sure I saw her passed out on the bathroom floor about 15 minutes later.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that they sucked. Did I convey that adequately?

Oh, and Son Volt was awesome, but somehow I can’t muster up the energy to talk about them. Frankly, a passel of 4 year-olds banging on pots and pans would have sounded like the Vienna Opera Company after what we went through.

So sad…

Last night, a furniture store burned down in Charleston.

Nine firemen were killed when the building suddenly collapsed.

My roommate was hit pretty hard, as both her father and step-father are retired fire-chiefs.  Her brother is still a firemen, and one of the men who died was his best friend.  Her mother is a 911 dispatcher so she has some of the information that hasn’t been released yet, including that 4 of the firemen who died were members of the station that is 2 blocks away from me.  These were my firemen.   The ones who would have come to save me if my pot-head neighbors ever burned my house down.   I didn’t know any of them, but they have a basketball hoop out in front of the station, and every time I ride my bicycle past, they always wave at me as they play.   Now that place will be dark and sad forever.   I can’t imagine that I’ll see many joyful faces.

They all seemed so young, and so nice.  Leezle told me that one of the men who died had just graduated from the academy last week.  And his wife is 8 months pregnant.   It just breaks my heart into a million pieces.   Their poor families.

And for a furniture store.  A furniture store.  What a damn waste.

So do I. Should I be feeling bad about this?

Overheard last night at the Battery game, coming from the group of drunken pseudo-frat boys sitting next to us, as they were trying desperately to harass the players on the other team:

Drunky (To # 17 Zach Scott):  “HEY NUMBER 17!  YOU…YOU… YOU HAVE TWO FIRST NAMES!!”

*blink*

*blink blink*

Seriously?  Seriously? 

That’s your idea of trash talk?

It was so bad that I literally stared at him open-mouthed, and when he turned and caught my eye, I gave him a stern look and shook my head.

We got up and moved shortly thereafter.  I can handle drunken idiots, but only if they are making me laugh.

Too many thoughts in my head

Ack!  I’m facing an unusual problem in that I have too much to write about.   I want to tell you all about my trip and how pretty and sunny and GREEN it was!  And there was grilling!  And Bocce ball!  And mini-golf!  And corn cooked on the grill!  And Clam Chowdah.  Yummy, yummy chowdah (Oh!  And a hardcore local complimented me on my pronunciation of “chowdah.”)  And also beer.  Lots and lots of beer.  And GREEEEN.

(no seriously, look at this:

GUH-REEN.   It looks photoshopped doesn’t it?  Has Massachusetts always looked like this?)
But I also want to tell you about the play I went to last night with my 65 year-old boss and her former republican congressman husband.  I play in which the word “fuck” was uttered many, many times.   And not in the random expletive way.  In the way in which it actually meant the physical act.   And also the “P” word.  IN FRONT OF MY BOSS.   AND HER FORMER REPUBLICAN CONGRESSMAN HUSBAND.  Who I was meeting for the first time.  And I was wearing pearls and my handbag matched my shoes and I felt like I was going to shatter into a million pieces because I felt so awkward.  The only way it could have been worse is if they suddenly started throwing tampons and condoms at us.

But it was actually a really amazing play and oddly enough the frequent use of said dirty words did nothing to detract from the fact that it was incredibly moving and touching and sweet.   And they both loved it.  In all of their old, republican glory they loved the play.  If that doesn’t say something positive about it, I don’t know what does.

(Oh, I should probably tell y’all what it is, right?  It’s part of Piccolo Spoleto festival and the play was Cloud Tectonics put on by Pure Theatre.  It was VERY minimal, with the only props being 2 chairs and a blanket but it was so consuming and exquisitely acted that you could see everything they were holding and eating and looking at.  The performances by Rodney Lee Rogers and Sharon Graci (a real-life married couple) were absolutely captivating and quite literally brought tears to my eyes.  There are three more performances during the festival, and I cannot recommend it highly enough.)

And then we went and had dinner at the Country Club (cue obnoxious southern debutante accent)  and listened to the story of how one of the local social magnates went to California to hire a surrogate mother to bear his children.  And he had a high tea to welcome them into society (twins, in case you are wondering).  Hilarity ensued, as you can imagine.  And it turned out to be one of the most unusual and highly entertaining evenings of my life, despite the fact that I had been sort of dreading it.  Who knew rich old republicans could be so much fun?

Ok, I’m just going to tell you about my trip tomorrow.  It was beautiful and wonderful and amazing and I’m super-pissed to be back home.

And no, Mom, I’m not engaged.  I would have called you and told you about that.