Where I can be found

I switched blog hosts, with all apologies to Blogger, because I needed a better design. I can now be found here.

Totally baller

My friend Mitch is obsessed with POS, an up-and-coming rapper from the nine-piece family of Doomtree (whom I saw back in July with Flobots). He and I both first heard of him on Subterranean. The video for Drumroll started to play and we just sat there, enthralled. This was rap like we'd never heard it before. Better, faster, stronger. And then, Mitch caught wind of the POS show at Kilby Court. Of course, not until after he'd gone insane and listened to every song accessible, read reviews on Pitchfork Media, read the Wikipedia articles and all the biographies he could find. He came to me through Messenger and said, "POS IS COMING TO KILBY." And I said, "Alright. Are you going?"

The answer was yes, yes he was. So the day came, and Andy and I went out to meet Mitch at the small garage venue, our bellies filled with Burger King fries and Coke. He said it was packed inside, filling up fast. This was so incredibly true it made my head hurt. When we got in, the crowd was already stacked to the door. I said to Andy, "I know we need to get in there, but I'm not that strong of stomach." I'd never seen Kilby so crowded. Not for my band or for any others. But eventually, we wrung through the phalanx to snag a spot about three heads back from the front, where sometimes, if you stood on tiptoes and looked through the shoulders, you could see the DJ.

It was insane. Mitch stood on one side of me, Andy's friend Harley stood on the other, and Andy stood behind, keeping both me and the camera safe. It started to get more and more crazy until Andy said he had to go to the bathroom. It's hard to find at Kilby, so I said I'd take him to it. We weaved our way back out and then through the thistles and thickets to the bathroom shack.

Well! Little did we know, there's a special sort of "green room" in that shack for when big performers come out, with NOT A BATHROOM taped onto the door. We happened to go into the shack at the same time as some college-age guys, who opened the door accidentally and then said, "Oh! Sorry, man. We're super stoked for the show." And then closed the door, and it became immediately clear that behind that door was him, POS, the man we'd all been waiting for. I took a seat on one of the couches in the shack while Andy went to the real bathroom. I was saying something to the college-age guy about the minivan seating upon which I was, when the NOT A BATHROOM door opened, and POS came out and just stood there. There was this awkward silence. None of us knew what to do. I thought for a minute he was going to flip out and ask us to leave. But then he started talking to this girl next to him, and then! and then! He turns to me and says, "I like your gold Lame shirt." "Thanks," I said, violently searching for something else to say in reply. "I like your bomb shirt." (He was wearing a shirt with a bomb on it.) "It's... the bomb." I said. The college-age kids moaned. "Puns!" They said. "I liked it." Laughed POS, and I melted into a puddle on the floor.

When we went back into the concert, I tackled Mitch, who had begged me to get something signed for him when he thought he couldn't come. "GUESS WHAT!" I yelled. "POS LIKES MY SHIRT." Mitch then hugged me big and gave me a high five that resounded throughout the room. As the show went on, the crowd started to push more and more into the back of us, and more and more people squeezed past, snickering later like, "Look how clever we are to get in front of these kids."

The show was awesome. Everyone was sweating and jamming, a religious experience of music and hipswinging, lights, beats, cheering. It finally ended after a gracious encore. Onstage, POS proclaimed that anybody who wanted one could get a high five from him right outside, next to the merch room. A flood of people spilled out, Mitch and all of us navigating towards where he might be, shouting in each other's ears how great it was. We were all so very thirsty. Then, we saw him again. He was standing right where he'd said he'd be. And he was taking pictures with people's camera phones, signing tickets, giving high fives and handshakes. He shook mine and Mitch's hands both.

And then, I dug out a poster from my bag, the only thing I had that I could think of to have signed, and I asked him to sign it. It was a Samson & Goliath poster for the upcoming show at Avalon. Mitch said to him, "She's in a band, too, it's really cool, uh, can you sign this?" And I'm sure POS was thinking to himself, "What the shit? What is this?" as he signed it. He handed it back and said, "See who else is playing?" and he laughed before signing somebody's shirt, while I stared down at the poster in my hand, which now said "and POS!" under the list of bands playing.

I went home that night giggly off of adrenaline and sleepiness. Andy and I, our ears ringing, couldn't tell how loud we were talking and so probably shouted every word we said. Then, when we got home, I showed my mom the poster, and told her about the shirt, and told her everything, while Andy sat and tried to figure out the Rubik's cube on my desk. That's how I want to end every night; blissful and excited, sharing conversation and stories, and nuzzling somebody's shoulder.

Wear it out

I want everyone to know that things are okay. That they were okay, they are okay, and they will continue to be okay. My mom was telling me about a patient she had the other day who was having so much more trouble functioning now that she'd been diagnosed with scoliosis. She was talking about her weekly visits to the chiropractor, who magically makes her back pain disappear, but only so long as she continues those weekly visits, and my mom sat there and listened. Then, she told the woman, "Just remember that you were operating and living your life just fine before you knew of this lifelong condition."

And this is something I think all people should consider. Like, before you had your boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever, you were fine on your own. You'll continue to be fine. I don't know, maybe I'm just trying to ratify or justify the way people act, so as not to become completely misanthropic. I'm getting awfully close. Situations with my peers continue to get worse every day. But now, thanks to my mother, I can always see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Things were okay. Things are okay. Things will be okay.

Babe I already miss you

I really, really miss New York. I can't even explain how bad I want to go out there, even if it means paying for it (somehow) myself, and actually take it all in this time. As some of you may recall, my mom and I took a trip to New York two summers ago as a sort of "Fuck it, dude, let's go bowling" kind of moment. She was going stir crazy. I just wanted to go somewhere cool, put another notch on my belt, and get my lip pierced. But the first few days we were there, I was a hurricane of unpleasant emotion. I was convinced that everyone in New York hated me. I was overcome by the unfailing smell of bum pee. And I had decided, because of a false sense of security, that I didn't need to go to college. So when my mom demanded we hoof the twenty or so blocks down to the NYU campus, I yawned and asked when we could go back to the hotel. If this same thing were to happen now, I think my reaction would be something more like a kid in the world's biggest Lego store, being handed a chocolate fudge sundae by a Power Ranger, and then getting to kick a Power Ranger in the nuts.

Being that I'm older and wiser, and more likely to cream myself if given the chance to go back into Strand bookstore, I think I'm getting closer to feeling the way my mom did when she decided we were off.

I'd like it to be summer, most of all. I'd like it to be summer, so I could go on hipster photo walks with my friend David, and hang out outside, and play shows in Elan's backyard, which is so holy perfect for backyard shows. I want to walk barefoot in grass to get the mail and ride my bike down to the Trax, though if all goes according to plan, I won't have to, thanks to the Utah Department of Motor Vehicles.

The newest addition to the Brighton C. Metz tools of art company is a beautiful Pentax camera given to me as an early birthday present. This may not mean anything to a lot of people, but the depth of field is uhh-mazing. I wish I would have had it for the last wedding I attended. I also wish I would have had it for the Boy of Bark/Tedronai Project/Birdmonster show at Kilby, the photo projects I was assigned in last year's digital photography class, and of course, New York City. I'm excited to continue carrying it on my hip forever and ever, until I can no longer afford film for it, or, more likely, I accidentally knock into something and the lens shatters.

When I brought it to my grandparents' house this weekend, my grandpa took a good look at it and announced that he once had one just like it, back in Vietnam. (My grandfather's a Vietnam veteran. One of the stories about it is that he went out for his tour, and upon his return, found that his super super awesome red convertible was sold by his mom's boyfriend.) But, he said, when he came back, there was a thin layer of fungus growing around the lens and made it difficult to take pictures. Just imagine that, will you? You dig out your camera from your war backpack to find green fuzz ringing your camera's lens. It sounds like the most artsy thing that could ever happen to photography.

Today's title is brought to you by Andy, who showed me this song by the Kooks. It's really sweet, really British, and it fits in a vague kind of way. Just lately, all the things that have happened lately have struck. My great-grandma is dead. We're playing the Avalon. I'm almost sixteen years old. Jonney and I are no longer. It all feels pretty surreal, I guess. And I'm ready to go back to Union Square.

Short, but sweet

Fortunately, I was too quick to judge the situation last night. It was around eight o' clock when Andy called my cellphone and asked, "Are you in Layton?" He was very distressed, as he had tried calling my house and my phone and nobody picked up. But, he explained, he still very much wanted to come over if that was alright, and I wasn't, you know, twenty miles away.

When I first started spending more time with Andy, I worried that he would turn out nothing like what I thought, and in a way, he did. I had always thought he'd be a little bit of a huge jerk once you got to know him. But as it turns out, he's incredibly nice. I actually had to ask him to stop apologizing about the rocky past we've had.

I just thought I'd let everyone know: Andy Widener is not a dick.

Sad

It's official, I'm the greatest sad-sack to have ever lived.

I'm currently sitting in the middle of my floor wearing a sombrero, looking at the time and deciding I've been stood up, and listening to Violet Hill by Coldplay. The only things I'm missing are a Chai tea, a big bowl of ice cream, and tears streaming down my face. This promises to be a poor weekend.

Because of an all-the-fucking-time-seriously workshop my mom's been enrolled in, I've had to spend all day with my dad. Tomorrow, too. This workshop goes from the asscrack of dawn to the vaginal twitch of night, and the whole time is spent trying not to go crazy when he does irritating little things like rearrange on the plate the cookies I've been making since four o' clock, or use our bathroom without flushing the toilet, or stand around doing nothing when the space he is taking up could be so more easily used for something.

I know that this sounds harsh, but I cannot stand being alone with my father for this long. My mother is an excellent mediator between the two of us. I've been able to go on weeklong trips with him, as long as she's there, too. And when she isn't, well... I'm about to jump out the window and flee to Wyoming. And there's not even toilets in Wyoming! (sorry, Wyoming)

And I'm stuck at home for the rest of the night. I subconsciously do this thing where I set a certain time limit for people before I give up on them. Andy's was 7:10, and he isn't here. So I've leapt to the conclusion that I've just been stood up, and I can now proceed to strip off all my clothes and climb into bed with all the lights off, where I will cry and play Violet Hill about six hundred more times.

I sometimes wonder what kind of person I'll be when I actually have responsibilities. When I lost my job, I walked fast with tears streaming down my face all the way to my friend's house, where I proceeded to get high. When my cat died, I couldn't sleep for a week, since I kept waking up to cry. And when it became painfully obvious that my dad had no real plans to help me buy a car, a vital key in the chance of my employment, as I live twenty miles away from anything good, I couldn't speak one word of it without choking up. 

This isn't to say that I cry constantly. It actually takes a lot to get the waterworks going, and so I wonder how I'll even deal with these things that make me bawl when there's so much more pressure on them, and when I have nobody to back me up and love me unconditionally, no matter how stupid I look with red eyes. Will I come off too strong trying to hide my pain? Will I be even worse, sobbing when a file is accidentally deleted or I sneeze and make a mistake? Or will I live, and learn, and become a strong, independent woman who only cries at her grandfather's funeral, because he was more of a father to her than her real father?

Maybe then, I'll look back on this petite teenager with "Lighten Up!" written on her hand, and I'll thank the Goddess that I got over that phase.

With the lights out

This is a list of things I would like to do before I die. I will not now, nor ever refer to this as my Bucket List.

1. See the Green Ray.

2. Mourn for Jim Morrison.

3. Find what I need.

4. Give a eulogy.

5. Play the Knitting Factory.

6. Get published.

7. See everyone naked.

8. Make amends.

9. Live in New York.

10. Go away for a very long while.

11. Have a lunch and then make a movie with Wes Anderson.

12. Live like it's yesterday.