Proof 1: Dressing rooms > Hotel rooms. Proof 2: Dressing rooms = classier than hotel rooms.

Follow my logic or not, it's the truth. Being asked for rolling papers is way cooler than being asked for 70%. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Typical. Let's begin at the beginning. (We're lovers and we're losers; we're heroes and we're pioneers. Skirting 'round the edges of the ideal demographic, we're almost on the guest list but we're always stuck in traffic.)

I do wish I could sing, but wasn't gifted with it. Might be tone deaf, actually.

Anyway, last night marked a new adventure with Awkward Ashley. (I have been scaling those Awkward Heights lately, always managing to achieve new and exiting levels of awkward like I've got the hand of God beneath me, lifting me toward the goal of Most Awkward Ever.)

Let's recap briefly some of my Awkward Concert Moments:

1. The time I refused to speak to Warren Zevon and he had to coax me into the picture.
2. The time I begged members of Low Millions to leave their trailers in a rainstorm to meet me and then I confused one of them for Adam Cohen and told him I loved his father. Oops...
3. The time Jess J and I noticed this realllly hot guy walking by and asked him to take pictures with him, after she said "Hey, hottie!" loudly enough for him to hear. Turns out he was the bassist for the Fray.
4. The same day, when I saw Ari Hest and was like, "Oh, hey! Do you know who you are? You're Ari Hest!"
5. The first time I met Ben Jelen, when I forgot how to talk, forgot my name and how to spell it, and managed to tell him he looked like "an old man."
6. The second time I met Ben Jelen, when we talked about my cousin Bailey the whole time.
7. The entire Teddy Thompson Debacle. Especially Prop 70/30.
8. The time I met Cory Branan and was like, "Ehhh, I like you because I like James Dean."
9. The (first) time I met Jonny Burke and Dad was all, "I'm her father" when I was trying to have an "I'm all grown up" moment.
10. The (second) time I met Jonny Burke and Brian made me drink Scotch. (Though that turned out less awkward because by the end of the night it was just.... something else entirely.)
11. The Jackson Browne Event? The screaming, the tears, the refusing to let go of his hand?

All of those are awkward. Most of those are embarrassing. I won't apologize for any of them. And do you notice anything that is conspicuously absent from that list? Loudon Wainwright III is the least awkward person ever. He puts you right at ease. So for the record, he's not the conspicuously absent musical encounter. And I'm not even getting into "Awkward encounters with roadies and tour managers." Because Cory Branan's tour manager and I had a rather fun discussion that left Brian nearly apoplectic, but that's not even the worst.

But there's this band you know I love. The Young Dubliners. And let me just say that they are incredibly awkward. Except they're not. Not with me. With me, it's all just staring at each other and laughing and texting and putting me on the guest list for Jethro Tull concerts. While texting Brendan Holmes might seem awkward to outsiders, to me it just feels right. (I think that if he and I were the same age, we'd be best friends. I'm not the only one who sees that, either. You know I've got a thing for bassists, too.) Anyway, this isn't about any of that. And I'm still getting ahead of myself and rambling as you know I do.

Parents came to town yesterday to visit me. Well, not for me, really. For him. Either way, it's generally pretty cool when they come to visit, even if Dad has the palate of a three year old. (Ehhh, it might actually be less diverse than that.) Anyway, The Great Todd Snider came to town, too, to visit me.

Well, not to visit me. To visit a sold-out Iron Horse. But still. I've seen some good shows there. Catie Curtis. Freedy Johnston. My boys. On the walls are the remnants of more shows -- Tommy Makem, Jon Pousette-Dart, David Lindley... Warren Zevon's comb-over days are immortalized on the cover of the menu, for Chrissake. It's like a little Ashley-haven. Anyway.

Todd was, as always, ON. He opened with "Greencastle Blues" and played three in a row before stopping. If you've never seen a Todd Snider show, this seems so "Meh, so what?" But in between the second and the third song, Todd said, "I'll play one more and then we'll catch up." Because that's what he does. Todd Snider is all about his audience. He doesn't just play to them; he speaks to them. He is, as I've mentioned in a previous concert review, a whole universe smarter than you or I will ever dream of being. Whatever your IQ, whatever the name of your college, however many degrees you've got hanging on your wall -- doesn't matter. Todd knows the only thing worth knowing: not a single one of us knows what happens next.

Not next "tomorrow" or next weekmonthyear, but Next.

And if he is, as he claims and as his concerts and music seem to support, truly an evangelical agnostic, well, I'm onboard with the Good News that we don't know jackshit about what's heading in our direction. There's a fair amount of comfort in that.

Listen: I can't say much more than I did previously about Todd Snider's concerts. He's funny, personable, affable, has the broad and guileless smile of one of my many toddlers... His live shows are an Experience. You can't duplicate them, though everyone tries. He encourages you to make and share recordings. He sells recordings of his shows online. He wears pinstripes and polka dots together! Bucket hats and bare feet! Sometimes he reminds me of Mr. Rogers in his online videos and promo material. He's happy; he's sad. He doesn't take himself seriously at all, at least not on stage.

I can't tell you why you should go to a Todd Snider concert and there's no showing what goes on at one. It's not like talking about how Jackson Browne makes me feel like the only person on the planet or how the Young Dubliners make me feel like the most important. Todd Snider does something else with his shows -- he makes me feel like I'm a part of the world. Like simply by being at his concert, I've not missed a single important experience. Like there's some community I actually belong to.

Which brings me to what I said at the beginning, about the adventure.

As you may have guessed by this particular post, or as you know if you're my one regular reader (you do exist, don't you? Mom?) I have a tendency to meet musicians. Call it Susannah's Strategic Hover if you want. I call it a genetic predisposition to being found where music is being made. And for the most part, all of those people have been really, really cool. I've met them in all sorts of ways: accidentally on the sidewalk, waiting in the cold for two hours (guess who!), hanging around their tour buses, offering them band aids, pressed forward by my mother, entirely by accident, right place right time, all of it. I once manipulated my brother into being the best wingman in the history of wingmen. It just works out for me, usually.

I say strange things like "I named my dog after your song," or "You look like an old man," or "I like 'Knickers.'" They say things like, "But you only have to do, like, seventy percent of the work!" or "I smell terrible" or "What you do is -- you get a fake ID and then you come to Ireland with us and drink."

I've been asked where the afterparty was, invited to hotel rooms (yes, rooms, yes, it's happened more than once), asked on dates, asked for use of the slogan on my shirt, gone out partying with them, been put on their guest lists -- and as of Mach 3d, 2010, been invited to the dressing room.

There are two experiences prior to this moment that I cherish and hold dear (as far as music is concerned). Which is to say that I've had a lot of "Meet your heroes!" moments and most of them have been positive experiences, with a few really unfortunate moments in there to make me feel terrible about myself. (The "Your cock is huge, Teddy" moment still makes me blush and fills me with undeserved shame.)

1. Meeting Jackson Browne. I was incoherent and a shattering mess for it, but he was the slice of perfection I always dreamed he would be.
2. Todd Snider left me a voicemail that got me through several all-nighters whilst I finished my finals.

After Wednesday night's concert, my parents left and I politely asked Elvis, the tour manager, "Excuse me, but would it be at all possible for me to get a picture with Todd tonight, please?"

His response? "A pretty girl like you? We can make it happen."

I've always thought Elvis was funny; turns out he's a bit of a charmer, too. He told me to wait a few minutes while things settled down and then, after a bit of staring at impressive photos on the walls of the Iron Horse, Elvis walked by me and said, "Follow me." Oh, oh, okay! I followed him right into the dressing room, where he informed Todd I was just too cute and he couldn't say no when I asked for a picture. Seriously: ladies, look out for Elvis; he will make you blush.

So I got to meet Todd Snider. With my awkwardness, the conversation was strange and delightful -- at least on my end. I'm convinced I petrified him. He asked how old I was (22), if I liked to sing (ha!), and what I wrote about (historical fiction, but I really want to write about music). He asked if I was going to school for writing and I said I was graduating in May. "You're so young!" he said. "I just... powered... through..."

Then this happened...

Me: My parents actually met you about a year and a half ago when you played Johnny D's in Somerville.
Todd: Yeah, with Don Was and Was Not Was -- wait, don't tell me -- we didn't call you?
Me: (in shock) YEAH! I'm THAT girl!
Todd: It's so great to meet you.

Then I spilled some nonsense about Woody Guthrie and Robert Johnson and Ben Shahn and Arthur Rothstein and the FSA. I swear to god, every time I had the chance to open my mouth, I put my foot right in it.
Todd, of course, was incredibly gracious, funny, disarming. When I told him I couldn't believe I was able to put sentences together after what happened with Jackson Browne, the screaming and the tears? He replied, "Was that in Chicago?"

He actually made me feel like less of a fool for responding that way to Jackson Browne because, apparently, it's not so uncommon. (!) What an utter gentleman he was, so unlike the Hoteliers. Oh, they also asked me if I had any rolling papers -- nah, don't smoke, sorry.

I'm not saying he's a perfect guy, just that whatever flaws he has, they are not ones that prohibit him from being ridiculously wonderful to be around. When he says he is having fun on stage, oh dear, but you believe him. He's funny -- I cannot stress this enough -- and even when he is saying something tragic, well, he says it from the newspaper's point of view, the tree pulp, so you have to laugh.

When I met Jonny Burke the second time, we spent most of James McMurtry's set chatting and some of time we talked about what a cool dude Todd Snider is. Jonny had just finished a stretch of opening for him, and so we were just talking about how excellent his music is and how some musicians, when you meet them, are bitter letdowns, but not Todd. I hadn't met Todd at this point, but something told me he'd be more Jackson, less Thompson. Jonny had pretty much all nice things to say about Todd, and my opinion of him was already pretty inflated. Now that I've met him -- it's only gotten worse.

There was just one thing I meant to ask and totally forgot in the "Wow" of the moment:

"Hey, Todd, will you play my graduation party?"






PS. I am well aware this post isn't REALLY about the concert. I'm not sure what I could possibly say about it. It was an hour and a half of fun times. Todd taking requests, playing songs he'd never played before, songs that weren't even his. The highest possible compliment I could give a concert is that there is no describing it; you just have to see it. And this is exactly the case with Todd Snider. Drive to the nearest show he has scheduled, I don't care if it's six states away, just get your butt to one of his shows.

PPS. I finally got my Todd Snider teeshirt. About five years ago, my brother went to a Todd Snider show in Virginia and I gave him twenty bucks to get me a tee shirt. Promised me he got it. Told me he had it. Told me he just forgot to bring it home. A few years later, he finally admitted that he never bought me a shirt. Now, I have a Todd Snider tee shirt all my own. Thanks, Brian!

The best thing about making a list

Is crossing things off of it. (That is, assuming it is a "to-do" or "to-see" or "to-read" or "to-hear" or "to-write".... I think you get it, right? If it's a list of things that ought to be crossed off, a wish-list, or a checklist, the best part is...

Crossing things off of it.

So here's a list of the movies nominated for Oscars this year:

1. Avatar (Best Picture, Directing, Cinematography, Art direction, Film editing, Original score, sound editing, sound mixing, visual effects)
2. The Blind Side (Best picture, actress in a lead role)
3. District 9 (Best picture, film editing, visual effects, adapted screenplay)
4. An Education (Best picture, actress in a lead role, adapted screenplay)
5. The Hurt Locker (Best picture, actor in a lead role, cinematography, directing, film editing, original score, sound editing, sound mixing, original screenplay)
6. Inglorious Basterds (Best picture, actor in a supporting role, Cinematography, directing, film editing, sound editing, sound mixing, original screenplay)
7. Precious (Best picture, actress in a lead role, actress in a supporting role, directing, film editing, adapted screenplay)
8. A Serious Man (Best picture, original screenplay)
9. Up In The Air (Best picture, actor in a lead role, actress in a supporting role - twice, directing, adapted screenplay)
10. Up (Best picture, animated feature film, original score, sound editing, original score)
11. The Last Station (Actor in a supporting role, actress in a lead role)
12. Julie and Julia (Actress in a lead role)
13. A Single Man (Actor in a lead role)
14. Invictus (Actor in a lead role, actor in a supporting role)
15. Nine (Actress in a supporting role, art direction, costume design, original song)
16. Crazy Heart (Actor in a lead role, actress in a supporting role, original song)
17. The Messenger (Actor in a supporting role, original screenplay)
18. The Lovely Bones (Actor in a supporting role)
19. In The Loop (Adapted screenplay)
20. Coraline (Animated feature film)
21. Fantastic Mr Fox (Animated feature film, original score)
22. The Princess and the Frog (Animated feature film, original song - twice)
23. The Secret of Kells (Animated feature film)
24. Ajami (Foreign language film)
25. The Milk of Sorrow (Foreign language film)
26. Un Prophete (Foreign language film)
27. El Secreto De Sus Ojos (Foreign language film)
28. The White Ribbon (Foreign language film, cinematography)
29. Burma VJ (Documentary feature)
30. The Cove (Documentary feature)
31. Food, Inc (Documentary feature)
32. The Most Dangerous Man In America (Documentary feature)
33. Which Way Home (Documentary feature)
34. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (Art direction, costume design)
35. Sherlock Holmes (Art direction, original score)
36. Young Victoria (Art direction, costume design, makeup)
37. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Cinematography)
38. Bright Star (Costume design)
39. Coco Avant Chanel (Costume design)
40. Il Divo (Makeup)
41. Star Trek (Makeup, sound editing, sound mixing, visual effects)
42. Paris 36 (Original song)
43. Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (Sound mixing)
44. "China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province" (Documentary short)
45. "The Last Campaign of Governor Booth Gardner" (Documentary short)
46. "The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant" (Documentary short)
47. "Music By Prudence" (Documentary short)
48. "Rabbit A La Berlin" (Documentary short)
49. "French Roast" (Short film - animated)
50. "Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty" (Short film - animated)
51. "The Lady and the Reaper" (Short film - animated)
52. "Logorama" (Short film - animated)
53. "A Matter of Loaf and Death" (Short film - animated)
54. "The Door" (Short film - live action)
55. "Instead of Abracadabra" (Short film - live action)
56. "Kari" (Short film - live action)
57. "Miracle Fish" (Short film - live action)
58. "The New Tenants" (Short film - live action)

It's like a pre-fab "To-Watch" list. No thought necessary, just movies that possess some remarkable quality, even if it's just a performance worth seeing or sound editing that is really, well, out of this world. (Susannah might have just groaned, but I don't care.) So if you look at this list as a "To-Watch" list, then what could I cross off immediately?

Well...

1. Avatar
2. Precious
3. Up In The Air
4. A Single Man
5. Nine
6. Crazy Heart
7. The Lovely Bones
8. Coraline
9. Sherlock Holmes
10. Young Victoria
11. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (uh, duh)

That's, oh, eleven of the forty-three feature length movies nominated and zero of the fifteen short films. But that's eleven instances of instant gratification. In the meantime, then, I had thirty-two films to see before March 7th. (Lists have to have a deadline. "Before I die" for the bucket lists that people make. "To-Read" lists usually get deadlines of "Before my paper is due." etc. This list has Oscar Sunday as a natural endpoint. Success or failure will be determined by whether or not I make my movie-watching deadline.)

Let's see what else I have managed to cross off that list.

1. The Blind Side
2. The Hurt Locker
3. Inglorious Basterds
4. Julie and Julia
5. Fantastic Mr. Fox
6. Star Trek

That is six of thirty-two movies to watch by March 7th, which means I have twenty-six feature length films to watch in twenty-four days. Which, really, if you think about it, isn't that daunting. The only problems I foresee? Movies not yet on DVD, but out of theaters? Foreign films not yet released in America, or at least my part of America? Running out of money? All legitimate concerns, I suppose. But I'm not going to think about that right now, because I'm on a high. I'm still going to say that I can do this, and I'm going to believe myself.

Because it's worth it. I'll keep you updated. Also, I really hope they let Ryan Bingham get on stage and sing his song. And I hope he wears his cowboy hat. Because he was a really good concert and he may be shy in interviews, but the boy knows how to work a stage.

...When it rocks

Dear Ryan Bingham:

Thank you for existing. Thank you for being involved in Crazy Heart. Because of the many, many excellent films I have lately seen (Avatar wrapping me up in a beauty so painful and desperate I didn't want to leave the theater, It's Complicated, Precious, Sherlock Holmes, Up In The Air, Young Victoria, A Single Man) this is my favorite. Where do I begin?

A classic (cliched?) tale of redemption and sobering up, yeah, sure, it's that. It's cigarettes and bourbon and voices that growl. Tipped cowboy hats, old Silveradoes, and wannabe desperadoes. But oh, the music!

(The shots of the scenery made me want to move to Texas, by the way.)

Gosh, I think I should talk about the music last. There are a few surprises, you see. And I think this is worth talking about:



Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal have the strangest and most intoxicating chemistry. How could she fall for him? And yet you believe she loves him -- maybe because she does? Because who among us would say we don't love our childhood idols? And here he is, in the flesh, an old-timer fallen from any kind of grace. And she has the chance to do something for this person she admires -- I suppose I can see why she might fall in love with him. They work so well together and their performances are simultaneously delicate and appropriately intense.

When she flips out while he's writing a song, it's hard to tell if it's because, as she initially says, "People would give ten years of their lives to write that; it just pours out of you," or if it's because she really is afraid that he will leave and forget her and she'll be stuck in Santa Fe remembering. Because remembering someone who doesn't remember you, that's the absolute worst sort of pain. And I bet she doesn't even know why she's angry.

Surprisingly good in this movie? Colin Farrell. I'd forgotten my Irish love was in it. And I'm not surprised he was good, because In Bruges and A Home At The End Of The World are two of my all-time favorite movies. It's surprising exactly HOW good the boy can be. Granted, he looks the part, exquisitely beautiful but also sort of run ragged? Yeah, that's Colin. And he's always managed to manipulate my emotions pretty well; he does an especially fine job in this movie of making Tommy Sweet not so detestable, maybe more sympathetic, even.

And, well, the singing? The soundtrack? Robert Duvall started reciting one of the saddest songs I've ever heard, by one of the saddest men I've ever heard of. He brings up Billy Joe Shaver and suddenly the movie has the sort of relevance and legitimacy that other movies only dream of. "Live Forever" is such an epically sad song, especially when you consider that he, Billy Joe, wrote it with his son Eddie, who would die of a drug overdose. (On that issue, Todd Snider would write, "I can't say I felt so sad; the truth is I think I'm mad at the selfish way you left your dad when you know what a hard-luck time he's had." He can say that; he was friends with him.)

And then the lyrics, "You fathers and you mothers, be good to one another. Please try to treat your children right. Don't let the darkness take 'em; don't let 'em feel forsaken; just lead 'em safely to the light." Or maybe it's, "Nobody here will ever find me, but I will always be around. Just like the songs I leave behind me, I'm gonna live forever now."

It's just so sad, you know? (Send me your email and I can end you a father's day version of this song, performed with Robert Earl Keen and Todd Snider.)

But here's the biggest surprise of the film: Jeff and Colin can both sing. I know mixing boards can do amazing things, but they both do really wonderful jobs of singing the songs they are commissioned with. The whole soundtrack is rugged and good-looking and real country. Not "New Country" or "Nashville" country, which is something they acknowledged in the film. Someone asks Bad Blake what he thinks of Tommy Sweet and his reply is, "He's gotta compete with the stuff coming out of Nashville." (Granted East Nashville is a different world, but still.)

The music is just.. Townes Van Zandt and Ryan Bingham and Waylon Jennings and George Jones and Lightnin' Hopkins and it makes me want to move to Texas and I kept thinking, "There's just something about country music Texas-style." I feel like I'd do really well in Texas. I don't even know how to say how much I love country music and how good the music in this movie was. So fucking good, maybe?

But as Todd and this movie point out... I like country... When it rocks. I like country when it's real. (When it's sung for the school of hardest knocks, not for mass appeal.) And that's what this movie is -- a country song on film. It's old-school, hard-core country. Dusty, beat-up, and bad. And Ryan Bingham, you did such a job in this film. It feels like that moment in the movie, when he plays a new song and asks Jean if she's heard it before. She says she can't remember who did it, but she knows she's heard it. Bad is clearly pleased and says, and this sums up the film perfectly:

"That's the way it is with a good song: you're always sure you've heard them somewhere before."

Mystery White Boy

"I would be completely insane. Or I'd take up sculpture, and if I didn't have sculpture I'd take up screenplays, and if I didn't have that I'd take up something else. Anything artistic. But music seems to me to be the most closely identified with my soul. I mean, I feel that it's the best for me. It just gets into the bloodstream so quickly, for no reason at all. You can close your heart, and you can sleep even with your eyes closed, but you can never close your ears. "

"Grace is what matters. In anything. Especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. About people, that's what matters. That's a quality I admire very greatly. It keeps you from reaching for the gun too quickly; it keeps you from destroying things too foolishly; it sort of keeps you alive and keeps you open for more understanding."

I've been thinking of you; I've been missing you. To listen to your music is like being born. I can't pretend I like everything you ever did, but when your music worked, it was like nothing else this world has ever heard. I was convinced at one point that you were the reincarnation of James Dean, here to finish what he'd started. But there are some things too strange and beautiful for this world and you, like James Dean, were one of them. You broke beautifully, poetically, like glass turned to diamonds, and then you disappeared, rather like your soul simply sublimated and became something else and you were no more. I wonder what you would make of the mess we've made of your life.

The other side of the craziest night of my life *updated*

You may remember way back in February when I wrote a rather mean-spirited blog about the craziest night of my life. (Seriously, the entire thing was basically nothing more than out-of-body experience. 70-30, all-man, little fingers, etc.) Well, what I ought to have written about was the charming, lovely, little jewel that I discovered (for myself, not the world) that night.

You see, Tift Merritt is like a little doll. She wears pretty, floaty dresses and has blond ringlets. She plays the piano a bit like my guy - Jackson, that is - and has a truly beautiful voice. Her lyrics are just as timelessly endearing as her style.

I think what I love most about her is how solid she seems. So many female singers and writers nowadays seem like a good gust of wind would blow them and their music right into the clouds. Her lyrics are light and her music is upbeat, but it's also substantial stuff -- there's meat on the bones of her songs, whereas a lot of those recording artists who are so popular now barely have bones. More like some paper-thin skin. None of the Regina Spector breathy girlchild nonsense. She doesn't conform to what seems like the norm nowadays, which is to say she looks like a doll, but not a porcelain doll. There's nothing fragile about her, but she's very feminine and that's refreshing. You mean an artist who is both a girl and not angst-ridden or come-hither? Shocking. Even her songs about being broken-hearted aren't really about being broken. Illustration 1.1:

Gather me in like a rainstorm,
Again and again and again,
Again and again and again,
Again and again again,
I think I will break but I mend.

Her piano is jangling and dance-happy; these are songs you can't play sitting down. Folk undertones, striking notes both bluesy and jazzy with her surprisingly soulful voice, and seeming every bit the girl-next-door that I think she is aiming to be -- albeit the girl-next-door with a real knack for metaphors.

After the show, when we were all Whistle Binkies, she joined us for a bit and I turned to her and told her I loved her music.

"You remind me of Jackson Browne, the way you play piano," I said.

"Oh, my god! I love Jackson Browne!"

We then embarked on a brief discussion of how beautiful Jackson Browne is. And really, isn't he? As Mummy says, "Your favorite topic, Ashley!"

Favorite songs by Tift Merritt:

"Broken"
"Good-Hearted Man"
"Something to Me" (lyrics in sidebar)
"I Know Him, Too."

Anyway, when she came out during the Teddy Thompson portion of the show for their duet, it really was the nicest part of the night. Their voices blended so beautifully together and they both seemed to be having a fantastic time singing together. All I can say is that I'm not really sure how she's managed to fly under people's radar for quite so long. Or rather, my own radar. Either way, she's right in the middle of it, now.


Also, to the Shetlanders, I am so glad that Screenplay 2009 was such a rousing success for everyone and I miss you all very much. I'm stoked that you all had a great time and hope that I might be able to make it to a Screenplay festival someday....! Maybe 2010?

Money. Compliments. Publicity?

Last night [12.6.09] was the Todd Snider concert. I'll tell you everything else I've been up to in another post; Todd needs his own moment in the sun. (Not that my blog is anything like being in the spotlight. It's more like being in the shadow of a weeping willow on the one night a month that the moon refuses to rise. Nonetheless...)

It was at the p-p-Paradise. Last time I was here, I had just graduated high school and was seeing Ben Jelen. (Check him out; he's not terrible.) He played the Lounge and there were fewer than forty people present. It was still a good time and afterward, we had a super-awkward conversation -- as only Ashley the Awkward is capable of! -- and I finallllllly got my picture with him.*

*It was, bien sur, the second meeting. The first time I met him, he was opening for Hanson, which is how I convinced Courtney to join me. I forgot my name but remembered to tell him he looked like Jackson Browne. When he asked who that was, I told him he was an old man. Because, yes, I'm that cool. Our second conversation was less awkward because I didn't forget my name, at the very least.*





But Todd. Well, I've been listening to him since 1994. When my mom took the boys to hockey practice, I would put a CD in the stereo and rock out in my socks. Usually, it was James Taylor, Mudslide Slim. Because you cannot deny that James Taylor had it right when he said there's nothing like the sound of sweet soul music to change a young lady's mind. Anyway, I'd blast the James Taylor for the duration of hockey practice. But more pertinent to my story is the fact that it eventually became Todd Snider that I listened to. Not right away, but eventually. I listened to him a lot with my parents, but he didn't become a solo staple until halfway through Viva Satellite.

In eighth grade we had to make music videos. Allison and I made our music video to the song "Joe's Blues" and dressed entirely in black. I played a bongo, Allison played the keyboard, and we got a guy (Derek) on bass. Every other student in the class sat on the risers behind us and snapped and swayed in time to the music. Miss Montgomery (who once dated Bill Nye, the science guy!) declared it the BEST music video ever produced in her music class. It was epic, at least, and legendary. There's something eighth graders love about the line, "The eyes in the room, they're all looking at the stars./The butts are all shaking to the bass guitar."

It's a pretty awesome song.

I've seen video clips of him at shows, through Eighteen Minutes, and he's funny. I was expecting it. Sort of. Last year, he played at Johnny D's with Don Was and I was going to go, but my stupidfinalsweredue. So when Mom and the TallOne met him after his set, Mom convinced him to call me and leave a message. I woke up to a voicemail that said, "Hey, Ashley. This is Todd Snider. I'm here with your mom. We're just having a few drinks and hanging out." It was pretty spectacular.

So last night, I figured if I met him, I'd tell him about my eighth grade music video. Maybe ask him to send a message to my little brother at Bonnaroo. (Don't make bad choices -- perhaps?) But that would not come to pass. Alas. (The TallOne is a grumpy old man sometimes, by which I mean usually, and if it had been Mom and Judy they'd have waited. The night was beautiful, after all.)

K-Jackson Browne and I drove in to the T, where I realized I had forgotten my ID, so we turned around and went to get it. Then we went in, getting in just quarter-to-nine-ish. David Zollo played the first set. He was good, though TallOne leaned in to inform that he thought he was Leonard Cohen because he had a chorus that included the word "Hallelujah." He sort of looked like my professor, if my professor was an Iowa-bred singer-songwriter at least twenty years younger. Cool hat, though. Works better on him than on Jesse Malin. I had to check the score of the Sox game, K-Jackson Browne wanted to know how the Penguins were doing, so we escaped mid-set, guiltily, to check those in the bar-area. Where they had TVs. It was literally a bunch of guys standing around watching both games on the huge TVs, beers in hands, hats on heads. (Sox won the game, 5-2, I think, in the 13th inning.) As K-Jackson Browne pointed out, we were the only two girls hanging out with a bunch of guys, because we're that kind of girl. We returned and the man sitting beside me continued to sit thigh-to-thigh. PERSONAL SPACE. I felt like I should fling my arms out and spin around. "I need this much breathing room at all times."

INTERMISSION.

Finally. Todd. Only fifteen years after the first time I wished to see him live and in concert. I loved his checkered shirt (as checkered as his past, I'm sure... God, I'm awful) and his polka-dotted tie. Because K-Jackson Browne knows how I feel about polka dots. But the best thing about his outfit?

From He's Just Not That Into You

"Because it's hard to kick the door down, when you ain't got no shoes"

He started off with some new songs and banter. No one does stage banter better than Mr. Snider, I can assure you of that. Also, his mid-song rewrites are a testament to the timelessness and wide appeal of his songs. His lyrical prowess is unrivaled by anyone writing now, I would dare say. Some writers, as Greil Marcus will point out, are too terribly blunt with their points of views. And Todd is blunt. He's about as subtle as "Why is impeachment not on the table?/We gotta stop them while we are able." (A line that, to be fair, inspired my one foray into the slam poetry world... a rousing success that I might just share with you some day.) But he's nuanced, which is something I think that Greil Marcus would appreciate. On "Bring 'Em Home," he really turns the phrase on its side and understands that when we chant "Bring 'em home," as we should be chanting with every breath, we're not talking simply about the soldiers. They'll be bringing home everything they have seen, everything they have done, every loss they have endured, and every loss they have inflicted. These are the scars of war, the things that come home from war. You cannot bring 'em home without bringing 'em home. And goddamn if Todd doesn't nail it.

He's also not completely niave about the way things work, about how important his own voice is. One thing Todd Snider is careful to point out, always, is that he doesn't share his opinions because he thinks he's right. Oh, forget it. I can never hope to explain half so well as the man, himself:

Lately, my friends have been telling me that my songs have gotten more and more opinionated. So I wanted to let you know before we finish this music, that while over the course of this music I may share some of my opinions with you, I don't share them with you because I think they're smart of because I think you need to know them; I share them with you because they rhyme. I did not do this to change your mind about anything. I did this to ease my own mind about everything. (From "Ponce of the Flaming Peace Queer," off the album Peace Queer.)

I found his" That's what scares people these days" from the song "Tension" particularly interesting. "Gay people getting married: that's what scares people who don't have fuck-all else to be scared of, these days." And I ask you rational, thinking people -- ain't that the truth?

I won't let this turn into a debate about the rights of an oppressed minority group. This isn't about gay rights; this is about Todd Snider. Though it so often becomes about politics with him. Interesting that in high school I showed the cartoon video for "Conservative, Christian, Right-wing, Republican, Straight, White American Male" to Mike and he laughed out loud in the middle of historical research. Even Davidson laughed, if I recall correctly. That song was pretty much a perfect summary of our respective stereotypes. (Mike campaigned for Barack. Didn't merely vote for him, but actively campaigned. Awww, my little conservative is getting so liberal... my icy cold heart might just be melting.)

Observe:




Todd, like my boy Jackson, opened the floor to recommendations after a certain point and he played "DB Cooper," one of my favorite songs. I wish he had played "Some Things Are" and "Barbie Doll," because as much as I love Jack I, I love Todd's version oh-so-much more. Or "Vinyl Records."

You would not believe how many odd looks I got in George Square [in the 'Burgh] because I was singing out loud to "Vinyl Records." I must sound like a crazy person to other people. Rocking in the aisle to my inside song, people staring at me think I got a walkman on? (Come on, you know what it's from.) But I got Willy, Waylon, and Woody Guthrie. Jimmy Buffet, Lyle Lovett, and Bobby Gentry. I could go on; this song is the folk-country version of that old Evacuation Day staple, "Johnny McEldoo." Just don't get me started or I'll never stop until I get to the end.

The thing about Todd Snider is that he's smart. He's too smart for Mensa, or football, or "that old main stream." His lyrics are smart. Too smart for most people. Isn't that the way it works? People are so easily intimidated these days, so we settle for Keith Urban or Adam Lambert or Britney-friggin-Spears, for Chrissakes, because people like Todd Snider just remind us that we're really not as smart as we like to think we are. (I'm not saying that music doesn't have its place, but you don't eat JUST cotton candy and expect to be healthy, do you?)

When I encounter lyrics like what Todd writes, how can I help but feel inferior? You take the lyric:

Sky full of birds in a flying V,
Moving down through Tennessee,
Look a little like you and me, you know.

I've never written anything like that and I probably never will. Todd is to music what people like Ben Shahn were to photography. People like Arthur Rothstein and Russell Lee, you take their photographs and make music about them -- that music is going to sound an AWFUL lot like Todd Snider. Todd Snider is every "Untitled" image in the FSA archives.

One morning, I brought in a burned CD to supplement Michael Lesy's morning music mix (not that is could really be improved upon... I love me some Linda Rondstadt) but I thought he might like Todd. And I was right. Michael requested a copy of the CD, in fact. So congrats on winning over Lesy, Todd. I know how hard that can be and you did it without even trying.

If I had to choose a photograph to sum about how I feel about Todd Snider music it would be this Ben Shahn photograph, untitled, taken in October, 1935 in Little Rock:

From He's Just Not That Into You

[That's actually from the RoJo section of my project for Lesy, the one I was working on when Todd Snider left me that infamous voicemail. The one that made working on finals seem not so terrible because, omigod, Todd Snider is such a nice guy!]

So people stay away because they can't help but be afraid of people who make them see themselves for the absurd beings that they, in fact, are. We're not a terribly self-aware bunch, we humans. But individually, some of us are. Vonnegut. My junior year history teacher. Oscar Wilde. Todd Snider. And these people threaten the balance. They threaten the whole idea that we are each of us the most beautiful, the most talented, the most stunningly intelligent people. As Todd Snider has been known to sing, "They say 3% of people use 5-6% of their brains. 97% use just 3% and the rest goes down the drain. I'll never know which one I am, but I'll bet you my last dime 99% think they're 3% 100% of the time." Todd Snider is smarter than you. Isn't that scary? A bare-foot, folk-singing hippie is smarter and more self-aware than any of the members of Mensa I've met, any of the literate sailors, most of my college professors, and basically my entire generation. He's also way less pretentious, self-involved, self-important, or narcissistic than anyone I've ever met. (If you're wondering how I know that, since I've never met the guy, I'll put it to you this way: he was mugged once outside a show and wrote a song about it. Not from the perspective of himself, the mugged, but the perspective of the other guys, the muggers. He manages to imbue them with a strange humanity and make the listener sympathetic to these helpless, hopeless thugs. Could you do that?)

I'm not scared; I'm glad.

Did I ever mention that I have discovered I love all things even slightly honky-tonk? I'm so East Coast in most ways, but I swear to JamesDean, I've got a bit of the country in my blood and I'm not sure where it came from. I know my parents enjoy the occasional foray into country, but I have learned so much about myself in the past, say, fifteen months. Since, well, The Event. Robert Johnson shivers my spine. I fell to pieces the first time I listened to him. I'm not kidding; the first time I listened to Robert Johnson it felt like my baptism. Same with Leadbelly. There's something in Delta blues that Chicago blues doesn't have, something a little more homespun, and that's the sort of country I love, too. Homespun potato-sack country. Music that sounds like chapped and cracked palms, songs that play like prayers, songs that play like escape routes. Isn't music really just another kind of religion? And if you haven't seen Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus, you should. Now. I've seen it about four times since Lesy first showed it to my class and every single time I watch it I cannot believe how incredible it is. It's music and religion and ethnography and documentary and concert and roadtrip and very possibly the single most beautiful film I have ever seen in my entire life.

Also glad that he played "America's Favorite Past Time." Because baseball and America go together like tartan and miniskirts.




And a quick slide into frviolity. K-Jackson Browne, that sporting chap, had only ever heard "Beer Run." "If it involves 'Beer Run,' count me in" I believe were her exact words when I invited her to the show. As the show ended, she was beaming like we'd just belted "Waxie's Dargle" and while I had always loved Todd, never before did I realize quite how endearing a person genuinely having a friggin blast is. The end of the show brought forth a round of "Omigod, he's so adorable!" from all of us. He has the sweetest smile I've ever seen. I just want to be friends with him.

Brendan Holmes, you may have some competition. Just saying.

Oh, and my camera is uber-stylized. Clark, for that is my camera's name, has a touch of flamboyance and I adore him for it. He's like Kayne Gillaspie on crack.

From He's Just Not That Into You

And on a different topic, the naming of my electronic devices.

Computer - James Franco, nicknamed JFranc, because he's an angsty little beast and won't stop yelling at me.
Phone - Ronald Reagan, or Ronnie, because he's weirdly attractive, red, full of useless programs, ridiculously inefficient, and cumbersome, but for some odd reason he's also very popular.
Camera - Clark, 'cause he's old-school cool.
iPod - Bruce-the-shark. I don't know why, but that's the only name he seems to like.


Peace. Love. Aspen wedges to you all. (Because goddamn, those fries are deelishush.)

Barricades of Heaven (where I'm from)

I was rereading old documents on my computer today and I found this thing I wrote about the Jackson Browne concert in Noho a couple of Aprils ago. It's a little bit weird and weirdly personal, but then, so is his music. It was a perfect night that ended with me standing on a street corner, waving to his bus as it drove away. We waited outside in the wind and rain for two and a half hours. I wouldn't choose to change a single thing that happened that night. Anyway, I wrote this bizarre thing in the aftermath.





Item A: An old tee shirt from a concert years ago. Black, with the blue-purple-pink ombre of that vintage logo, "Late For The Sky" spreading across the chest.

Item B: A newer, but still old, sweatshirt (American Apparel) with the same logo much smaller, over the heart.

Item C: An album, pressed in ’76, unscathed. Jackson Browne walks through a busy LA street in high-waisted, fresh-pressed khakis and a tucked-in white tee shirt.

Item D: A new tee shirt with what will be referred to (incorrectly, but in favor of understanding) as the "Saturate Before Using" record cover screenprinted. 100% bamboo, which is mildly important in understanding what sort of man he is.

To begin. My mother and Judy (unaware of my haircut) picked me up shortly after I was released from my class on Tuesday. We checked them into the HoJo and headed for NoHo. Parking wasn’t hard to come by and we wound up right outside Faces. I brought the album, carrying it face-out so everyone could know. "Yes, yes, this is a Jackson Browne album." We wandered Faces for a bit, looking for a suitable card for Alex. It was at Fitzwilly’s (Fitzwilliam Darrrcy) that I got my first comment. I propped it up neatly so that all who passed by could see, "Oh, you’re going to the show?" Our waiter noticed and applauded our taste in music. "He’s the Pretender, for crying out loud." I smiled shyly, Mom and Judy did their meddlesome mom thing. Then Judy: "Did you tell your sweetie that you cut your hair?" Me: "I have no sweetie, unless you mean Jackson Browne."

It’s not about the boys who notice me tonight, I think, because this night is about so much more. This night is about everything. It’s about living and existing and falling in love and knowing that it’s real and he’s real and I’m real and this, right now, this beating heart and pumping blood and the lights and the guitar and the piano and his voice, it’s all real. It’s the music, not to be too cliche, but this night is about being alone in a theater with Jackson Browne.

We leave dinner at the Fitzy’s and as we walk to a packie for the requisite after-show cocktail, (pre-emption) a grinning, near-toothless drunk pointed and said, "Oh, Jackson! Just don’t take my piano, man!" We walked by him again and he begged me to leave him to his piano. Another older man, well-dressed, affluent, nodded his approval and pointed at the name that was clutched to my heart. You don’t understand, it’s not a laughing matter, I thought. This is everything.

We breeze in; I’ve got my ticket, thanks. "Is that your grandfather’s album?" "I didn’t even know kids knew what vinyl was!" "That thing’s older than you!" Tee shirts, merch, whatever. The boy is large, has multiple piercings in his face, and several tattoos. I like him. He offers me the smallest sized pseudo-vintage bamboo tee shirt he has available and I smile at him. Under different circumstances, we would be friends. I pull off my sweater and put the tee shirt on immediately, in the midst of the crush of middle-aged and older, my mother wondering what’s become of her modest little thing. ("Pretty little one," I hum to myself, but say nothing. I am not on the run.)

Josh enters, stage right. Expression of shock and delight, the awkward small talk "What are you doing here?" "Seeing Jackson." "I didn’t expect you!" Mom and Judy exchange the "Who was that?" look. I know that look. I patented that look. And I know what they’re thinking-- Josh has the prettiest eyes this side of thirty-three. He and I were never meant to be, and that is all I can say about that. I find my seat, so close and yet, so far. I can see the facebook boy from where I’m sitting. God, could it get any creepier than that? I am surrounded by people who say things like "God, such a waste of money." "Well, it would be, but I got the tickets for free, remember?" "I hope he played ’The Pretender.’" "He has to, it’s his biggest hit." "Why does he have so many guitars? Is he planning on playing all of them?" "Oh, Lord! How long will this show go? I saw the set-list and it didn’t look intolerable but Jesus, those guitars! And he has a keyboard with him, too?!"

I hope he plays through midnight. I hope he plays until his fingers fall off and the sun stops rising and setting. I hope we all die here and are fossilized in our seats, listening to the sweet soulful symphony of his voice, his words, his guitar, his keyboard. If you need something else from life, then why are you here? I can think of no better way to go.

Lights, up, down, up down, up, and down for good at last.

I do not have tunnel-vision. I know that the only people on the face of the planet at this moment when he begins, with "Barricades of Heaven," are him and me. We are alone. Not alone in the theater but alone in the world. I have not tuned other people out; they have ceased to be. He stares upwards as he plays, taking the requests from disembodied voices, interacting with people who are not me, who do not truly exist. I spend the first four songs in tears. It is here at last. This is what he is meant to be. I cannot adequately describe it. It’s like every note he plays and every word he sings floods into me and I don’t have room for anything else. Not for the flashes or the shushing crowds that I hear about later. Not for the disinterest I imagine from the seats around me, people I later realize won’t even bother to stay until the end of the show, let alone through the standing ovation and brief, too, too brief, encore. I have no room inside for anything but this music and this moment, not for Jacob or Brian or my grandfather. My father is there, he is always in the music, but there’s no mod drama or past or future there is only this present and this music. Everything is perfect. I don’t check my clock, I don’t think about class, I don’t care about anything.

Intermission and I’m back, but not really. Mom and Judy point out the cute young men around me and I acknowledge that there are some real lookers in the audience tonight but "Oh, did you hear him on ’For a Dancer’? I cried." "Mom, I’m here for only one man and his name is Jackson." Going back to my seat I pass John-from-facebook. Awkwardness? "Oh, now, you look familiar!" "Are you enjoying the show?" "It’s wonderful! You?" "It’s great."

He comes back and for the rest of the show I am in a trance. I am not waiting for any song in particular and the requests float toward me more like memories and notes than audience interaction and interruption. I know we are alone again and the audience is just another part of my subconcious. I am living in this moment, feeding on it. How many miles, how many years can this sustain me through? I’ve never felt it like this before. I’ve always loved his music, you know that. I’ve never felt the whispered desperation of "That’s the way love is" quite the way I felt it in the moment when his voice, heavy with emotion and real, deep and rich and strained and desperate whispered it into the microphone, "That’s the way love is." I will never stop looking for you, indeed. He has taken me by the hand and led me to the hole in his garden wall. He has pulled me through. I am living in his secret garden.

On stage he is like this: a loose-jointed suit of clothing stuffed with straw, a scarecrow made of music and poetry. Softly slouching shoulders, a silver beard (the only sign of age he has exhibited) and a manner of moving like a particularly secure sixteen year old. His hands are enormous, but I’ll get there. There’s an ease and a confidence, he’s the most relaxed person I’ve ever known. He glides and floats between guitars and keyboard. Eyes heavenwards, always, sharing tiny bits of himself between songs, enormous parts of himself inside the the songs. Laughing, smiling, crying, breaking me down and building me up. On stage he is the same as he was at sixteen, at eighteen, at twenty-two and twenty-four. He’s not polished or unflappable. He’s real and he’s vulnerable and he’s beautiful.

Too short an encore. There is no doubt that you’re the reason I’m still standing.

I leave, more stares and this time I know it’s not the album that I’m holding at my side. Older men, how common, who see me waiting for my mother and Judy, who assume I’m there alone, perhaps. Some people will notice the album after they make it obvious what they notice first. (Can’t anyone notice my soul, my life, the things that make me me before they notice the things that make me hate myself? I didn’t ask for this, I work to destroy this. This isn’t who I am; the vinyl is who I am.) Once The Pretender has caught their eye, they have a reason to stop and talk to me, so they do. Am I acting disinterested enough? Have I made it clear I have eyes for only one man and his name is Jackson? John-From-Facebook comes out after a while and pauses long enough to make sure I had a good time. He looks me in the eye when he asks what I thought of the show. I double-check that the show was what he wanted and he moves on. I wish he would stay and talk to me about Jackson. The same man who asked me earlier if that was my grandfather’s album reminds me that I need to now tell him [Jackson] that I brought an heirloom for him to sign.

I am not a cliche!

I finally make my way upstairs and meet up with MomandJudy. The merch boy has cleaned up and left. I catch a glimpse of Pretty Boy and keep a weather eye out for Josh. I want to know what he thought. He and I are music-soulmates, I think. Was it as transcedent, as religious, as solitary and heart-shattering for him? I never did find out.

There is a security guard downstairs who looks shockingly like the Toymaker from the Keanu Reeves/Drew Barrymore Babes in Toyland. I ask, "Is there any way you could get him me to meet him? I have loved him since infancy." He said he can’t do anything but tells me to wait by the curtain and hope they take me down with the people who have passes. I try, but a woman who works there tells me I need to leave because it’s time to clear the theater out. "Just looking," I say, "I’ve never seen a show here before and it’s beautiful." We exit the theater and turn right, down the alley. I see the bus.

London Calling...

You know what they say? Well, some of it was true. (Maybe not the bit about "I'm updating tomorrow." But I tried! Honestly, I did.)

Back from London (baby!) and back in one piece. Mostly. My wallet is aching just a little and I'm not sure my dawgs will ever stop making a horrible racket. Which is to say, Londontown is expensive, son.

Twelve and a half pounds to get into the city from the airport, and then it occurred to me that this weekend was going to be hitting where I couldn't take the pain. Anyway, we got in town, to Kennington and all was well. We had to ask for directions to the hostel since Robert forgot them. It was cool. But, uh, the directions were "Go to the end of this street and take a left." Which was do-able, except for the fact that the station emptied kitty-cornered onto two streets. We walked up and down the first street for a long while, finally stopping at a post office and asking for directions to the hostel. The only one they knew about was down by the Imperial War Museum. Cool. We've got a heading, captain! And they promised it was nearby, so we were okay with that.

Bear in mind that Robert hates walking. And his bag was a very heavy duffel bag. And he doesn't own a single pair of comfortable shoes. And he'd been up since 3 AM.

It wasn't close. It was a long walk. And the hostel wasn't jumping out at us. So he made me go into a bakery and ask a very nice Vietnamese woman if she knew where the hostel was. She did! Success! Except, it wasn't our hostel. It was a very cheery place filled with boys from Boston, called "The Steam Engine." One of the people who worked there used to work at the hostel we had reservations at. Ok. Well, at the very least, they'll know where our hostel is. He did, and he was from Oklahoma. And he walked us very kindly to the tube and drew a map so we'd know how to get to our hostel.

A trip that ought to have taken 80 minutes total: 4 hours.
Plane tickets to London: $100
Bed in a hostel: $30
Day-pass on the Tube: $8
Keeping a smile on my face despite it all: Priceless.

We finally made it to our hostel and left our luggage with the clerk. Then we hit the British Museum. Don't trust maps, yeah? I've found the old trick of being cute and looking lost works in London as well as in Edinburgh. I'm fond of the British Museum. I wish that old Daly and Sabra had thought it worth more than a half-hour in the gift shop. In fact, I wish Daly had thought London was worth more than some cursory shopping trips. Here I was thinking I hated it for the same reasons I hated New York -- shopping is not a reason to love a city, methinks -- and really it was just that I was shown the city by people who pandered to materialistic teenaged girls with no souls. Go figure.

I wonder what Italy might be like if I wasn't on one of his culturally vacuous tours? Which isn't entirely fair because the Italy trip was about a billion times better than the England trip. Maybe, just maybe, that was the company I kept, as well. Because I had a blast in Dublin while I traipsed about with Punky, not caring that we were flouting the rules by venturing off on our own. Whatever.

To the Embankment on my aching pegs. We walked from the Embankment to Westminster, very pretty. And crossed the Thames, observing, if you will, Big Ben and Parliament at sunset. Then we had dinner at this trendy sushi place called Yo-Sushi. Yes, the food was good. Overpriced, but good. The food comes to you on a conveyor belt and you just take whatever you like. All the plates are color-coded so you know how much they cost. At the end, they tally up your dishes. For a girl like me, this is dangerous beyond reason. Spent more than I could afford. Was not satisfied. Left hungry, tired, poor, yearning for refuge, even. But in good spirits.

From London

From London

From London

Then we got the London Eye out of the way. Seventeen pounds for a giant, enclosed Ferris Wheel ride. The view was nice, if hindered by the Eye itself, and the chance to sit for a few minutes was welcome. But I'm not sure it was worth going into debt for. Just saying. It wasn't something I felt the need to do before and it's not something I feel enriched my life. It was something I would not care about losing, basically.

Give me back the money and I'll give you back your Ferris Wheel. No? Not an option? What.Ever.

From London

Then we went back to the hostel and, oh! I'm glad I've been brought up blue-collar and around people who work in the service industry. I'm glad I know what sort of day these people have generally had. I'm glad I was raised not to blame the person on the other end. (Except for the whole, "That's because they're liars, ma'am" incident. That needs to be told over and over again.) Basically, they didn't have our reservation. Ten o'clock at night and they didn't have our reservation.

Robert: I got a confirmation email!
Lady: I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do.
Me: Do you at least have two beds for tonight?
Lady: Tonight? No, I'm sorry. I can help you find something.
Robert: You need to give us beds here.
Me: You don't have anything?
Lady: Wait, it's not Saturday; it's Friday. I have two beds left for tonight, and some for Sunday, but nothing for tomorrow.

So we found another hostel online that night. I thought Robert was going to explode and I was trying to keep from getting any of his bad mood on me when it happened. I knew it was better to just back off and let him fume and do his thing. Let him book whichever hostel he wanted, I didn't really care how far outside the city we were so long as I had a place to dump my bags during the day and to lay my head at night. But he's more of a four-star or bust sort, Robert is.

Another thing I think is essential in a hostel-visiting experience, is meeting new people. We're only young enough to stay in hostels once and it's really just a chance for broke travelers to talk about places worth visiting, right? So while Robert booked a new hostel for Saturday and Sunday nights, I played Jenga with some drunk English boys. I think their names were "The guy in the pink shirt," "The guy who kept making jokes about wood," and "The quiet, polite one." The guy in the pink shirt asked me first if Robert was my boyfriend.

No.

Then he double-checked that I was a girl.

Yes.

Age?

21.

Nuh-uh.

Yes-huh.

I played a couple rounds of Jenga with them, then Robert sort of hovered after he finished booking the hostel but I could tell he was miserable so I gave up and we went to bed. There was notable tension in the air as we did so, and I tried not to cry thinking about where I was supposed to be that night.

Festival theater. Jackson Browne. I left the city just as he entered it. Counter-intuitive, I know.

I failed, of course, but I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of his encore, "My Stunning Mystery Companion" so I couldn't keep crying, at least. And it's not like Robert noticed.

What a joke.

Saturday: visibly tense continental breakfast with Robert. At one point, I asked if he had both the keys to the room and he answered, "I have both my keys." 'Kay, Dad. Are you going to turn this car around, too? By that point, I was determined to have a blast with or without his permission. We were meeting Byron at the Tower of London at noon, so we had to get to New Cross Gate, leave our luggage at the new hostel, and hot-foot it back into the city. I noticed that the Hobgoblin look like a rad little joint, the kind of hole I could get my kicks in good, and Robert rolled his Midwestern eyes. We got confused walking from the tube station to the Tower, but as soon as I got the map in my hands, it was allllll good. It took us less than ten once I had some power in the duo.

Hey, Tower of London, you cost a lot of money, but you're oh-so-worth-it.

Byron looks like Jesus and I think he's one of my favorite people in the history of the Panthers. It was really spectacular to get to spend time with him and catch up. Sometimes, I think we had conversations that there was no way for Robert to enter so I felt badbadbad. But then, when we did have conversations he could enter into, like about music, he was just mean to me. And I'm sorry, but you can't say you know a lot about music if when I say "The Clash" you ask me if that's an STD. Just throwing that out there.

So we did the Tower, and the crown jewels were about the sexiest cuts of diamond I've ever seen. Lies, actually, since it wasn't the nice cut I've ever seen, but thanks so much for your condescending "I know more about diamonds than you, Ashley," tone when you explained that it was cut to emphasize size and eliminate flaws.

By flaws, I'm assuming you're referring to inclusions since the color was flawless anyway? I couldn't get close enough to notice if there were inclusions or not, but I'm pretty sure there weren't. However, I wasn't referring to style of the cut but rather the quality of the cut. I've seen diamonds cut with more precision and perfection than. That was all I was saying.

I could have schooled him, but I was too tired. Anyway, it's not good manners to be constantly correcting people or lecturing them or interrogating them. (Sorry, I was just the tiniest bit frustrated. He just has moments, but mostly it's perfectly awesome hanging out with him.)

We tried to taunt the beefeaters at Buckingham but they were too far away and had guns.

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From London

Then we saw Canada's memorial. (What happened? Did Canada die?)

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Sat among the daffodils...

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And headed to Soho. Where we went looking for the place called Le Ho Fook's. BOUT THAT.

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From London

It's closed down. It's the Golden Harvest now. Whaaaaaat?

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Then we ate at Garfunkel's, because if you can't have Warren you might as well have Art... GARFUNKEL. (Sorry, that was pretty much exclusively for KJax. "Stop trying to analyze me...")

Then we went back to the hostel, checked in, got Byron a room, and headed to Hobgoblin because Byron totally agreed with me that it was a cool place to be. The bartender noticed we had Scottish money and asked if we had been up north. "Holla," I think he said, in American vernacular. We got high-fives for living it up old-school style in Old Town. Then Robert said he'd give me a pound if I asked the eighteen year old sops sitting beside us if it was closing time, as the lights were extinguished. I did it and we all had a good laugh over that.

Like I said, The Hobgoblin, place I could be content with in my town.

Sunday we went to a service at Westminster and each did our own thing at the National Galleries. I didn't realize there would be a quiz afterwards, but apparently, there was. I spent most of the time in a daze shocked by my mere proximity to The Yellow Chair. (You know what I'm talking about, Mom.) There were some Saint Remy moments that about broke my heart. He totally knew his time was running out and I love that he didn't even completely cover the canvas. I also sort of gave a lot of time to Degas. Young Spartans, yes. National Galleries, you get a check plus!

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I also got eaten by a lion.

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Then I was chastised and lectured for not liking Monet. Because "YOU LIKE VAN GOGH!"

As Byron pointed out: "But they're not even remotely similar."

To which he replied, "Yes, they are!"

No. No, they're not.

Monet was far too cerebral when he painted. He looked at it like a science, not an art.



Westminster's service was a bit of a letdown. For such a renowned Abbey, you would expect something ethereal, something earth-shaking, something faith-creating. It's cool, though. The choir was gorgeous.

Then we went to Hyde Park and chased down some pina coladas at Trader Vic's. Amazing.

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From London

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Then I asked some kids if they knew where Peter Pan was. Blank stares. The statue? Oh, that. No. An older gentleman gave us directions and we found it just in time to be silly and get kicked out of Hyde Park because it was closing. These things happen.

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From London

I made friends with a seventeen year old soldier while we ate a quick dinner at the tube station.

Monday, we did the Tate, went shopping, and caught our flight back to Edinburgh. By this point, I was nothing but tired and wanted nothing more than to pass out. Shetland tomorrow was about the only thought I managed as I drifted off to sleep in my own safe bed.

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Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well.

Podcasts were pretty clearly invented by the devil. Podcasts, blogs, facebook, email, all of it. Invented by the creepy androgynous floating creature in The Passion of the Christ.

Star lyrics I'm dying over:

"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'

The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.

You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."


Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.

He deserved it.

"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."

It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."

I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.

At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.



Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.

Father. My. Children.

Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."

Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)


Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.

"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."

Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.


Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.


Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.

Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.

By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)