Will November Spawn A Monster?

It’s Election Week for potentially the most consequential presidential election in my lifetime thus far. Well, I could also make the case that the 2000 election with its Supreme-Court-adjudication ending was pretty damn consequential too but at least, then, while I wasn’t thrilled with the election outcome, George W. Bush wasn’t vowing to become a dictator on day one. So, there’s that. I know the American population is stressed out right now and for good reason. Half of us feel we need a W to return to being the great nation we believe we once were and the other half are fearful that if we don’t win there will be no democratic nation left, period. The news is all over the place. The polls have us biting our nails. I see countless posts on social media from residents of other nations begging us to make the right choice. It’s been a lot and, frankly, I am exhausted.

I feel I’ve done all I can do to contribute to the outcome I would like to see on Tuesday night, or whatever day the election is finally decided. I live in Colorado where registered voters receive our ballots via mail. Most people I know do not vote in person and haven’t since ballots began being mailed to us in 2013. As a full-on introvert, there was no way I would be doing any in-person canvassing, so I had to find other ways to engage in the election process. Last presidential election, I did hours of texting for my candidate, but it turns out there was a limit to how much abuse I could handle from strangers in Ohio, so I decided to forgo that option this time around. Instead, I donated way more money to both the presidential race and the down-ballot races than I had planned to. What can I say? I was getting so many texts and emails it became impossible to ignore them all. I mean, Mark freaking Hamill texted me personally, well sort of personally, and how do you say no to Luke Skywalker? Then, I also ordered 300 get-out-the-vote postcards and requisite stamps and sent those out to Ohio because that seemed less likely to damage my psyche. And after that I requested 200 more and dutifully filled those out with colorful Sharpie markers and sent those too. I made sure my Gen Z sons ordered and received their ballots while at college in Washington and walked them through the ballot process, discussing all the state and local amendments and propositions. I put a sign in our yard and in our window. And I submitted my ballot early, and it was counted on October 23rd. Since then, I’ve been holding my breath. I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge in case I get to celebrate this week, but I also have a bottle of vodka in the freezer in case things don’t work out the way I hope. The election now rests in the hands of my fellow citizens who have yet to make their voices heard. I hope they have done their part to contribute to the outcome they would like to see.

Today, being the 80’s alternative Gen Xer I am, I listened to the new album by The Cure on repeat and that’s when it hit me. The true Gen X way to celebrate or mourn anything (in the absence of an 80’s arcade, shopping mall, or folded note on college-ruled paper) has to be done via music. To that end, I’ve decided tonight I am going to make election playlists to accompany either my champagne celebration or my vodka bath on Tuesday evening. Back in the day, I would have pulled out the old double tape boombox and press play and record simultaneously to create a couple mix tapes. Now I will just drag songs into a playlist, which will be infinitely faster and may represent progress. Either way, I figure this activity will keep my mind occupied tonight, which means I then have only one more evening of anticipation to endure before I get to watch Steve Kornacki ratchet up my anxiety at the big board Tuesday night. No one knows where we’re headed. Based on current polling, this race is the closest in years and the stakes feel overwhelming. When the Electoral Map is decided, I just hope I don’t end up swigging from a chilled handle of vodka singing REM’s It’s The End Of The World As We Know It because I’m pretty sure I will not feel fine about it.

Posted on 03/11/2024 by Me 1

May These Memories Break Our Fall

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, sometimes you gotta say ‘What the fuck,’ make your move.” ~Risky Business

On the 2nd of January, I said “What the fuck, make your move” and clicked Purchase on two resale seats for an Amsterdam date on Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. Buying resale concert tickets can be risky business, indeed, but missing this record-breaking concert event would be something I would regret, I told myself. I have grown to loathe feeling regret and avoid it when possible. So, I sold my soul to the demon I despise and paid StubHub a ludicrous sum, rationalizing I had no other choice. It was a personal imperative. For the past few years, Taylor Swift had been propping me up as I dealt with a lot of real life shit. The Tortured Poets Department became the final rung on my climb to catharsis. This concert was going to be a full-circle moment in part of my life’s journey, the launching pad for the next phase of my life.

In the months leading up to our tour date, we told our dirty little secret only to a select few because you never know if you’re actually getting inside a concert with a second-hand ticket. As I stood at our kitchen island making friendship bracelets and changing my mind umpteen times about which era I would choose for my concert attire, in the back of my mind the nagging thought we might not gain entrance at all swirled. I made my peace with the notion of listening to what we could hear from outside Johan Cruijff Arena and being grateful to be part of the tour in whatever small way we could, all while quietly reassuring myself seeing this concert live was a destiny that would be fulfilled.

At 5:30 pm on July 5th, wearing a black skirt, a “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” sequined t-shirt, and rhinestone sneakers, I crossed my fingers, scanned my ticket, and pushed through the turnstiles of Ajax Arena. Steve and I seeped into a throng of Swifties inside. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around. It was perhaps the most gentle and respectful crowd that arena has yet seen, fans politely inching past each other towards their designated spots. I’d chosen seats in the lower part of the upper deck close to the midpoint of Taylor’s massive stage. On one side of us were the New York City Gen Z’s from whom I’d bought our tickets and on the other side was a Belgian couple in their forties with their two teenage daughters. We exchanged some bracelets and easy conversation. Paramore, the opening act for the European leg of the tour, did their best to work the stage and warm us up for Taylor, but not a being in the place needed warming for Taylor. We were ready for it.

The clock appeared on the massive screen that ran the length of the stage. When it hit 13, the crowd began counting down aloud. I got goosebumps. The dancers appeared with their pastel parachutes undulating like flower petals in a breeze until they eventually settled into their spots, bent down, and allowed the fabric to carpet the floor. When the dancers stood again and revealed Taylor among them like Venus in the shell in Botticelli’s famous painting, the crowd roared. I teared up. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I was really there. This was really happening. I took a minute to survey the arena. Fifty-five thousand Swifties in all their Eras glory, singing along to “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince.” I was enchanted. “Here we go,” I told myself as I settled in for the three-plus story hours of love, heartbreak, drama, revenge, and redemption. I reveled in every minute of the show, taking care to be present by limiting my desire to record the moments on my phone. When the crowd began jumping to “You Belong With Me,” you bet your ass I jumped too. Well rehearsed, I shouted along during the fan participation parts, yelling “one, two, three, let’s go, bitch” during a break in the intro to “Delicate” and inserting my triple claps in “Shake It Off.” When Taylor got to the acoustic set, I allowed myself a moment to record the crowd. I said, “Remember this moment” in the back of my mind. And when she’d reached her last song and the band played the first notes of “Karma,” I gave up and let the emotion roll over me. The night had been timeless, but it caught up and it was time to grab our souvenir merch and head to the exit. So I closed the chapter on this era and stepped outside and into my next era.

It’s been 27 days since our Amsterdam concert, and I’ve been struggling for all 27 of those days trying to decide what to write about it in this post. The Eras tour has a film. When it wraps, it will have been seen in person by a staggering 10 million people, give or take. It has been reviewed innumerable times and myriad ways by Swifties, celebrities, bloggers, and publications. YouTube has countless videos of the show. Taylor Swift made the cover of Time with her ragdoll cat, Benjamin Button because of this tour. There is little I can say about it to add to what already exists in the world. There is no way to encapsulate the experience of standing among tens of thousands of fellow fans, belting out every word to every song, and vibing with strangers you’ll never meet whom you know somehow understand a part of you even some of your closest friends don’t get. It was worth every penny we spent, and I’d spend them all again. Taylor’s Eras Tour story will end in Vancouver on December 8th, and I will forever be grateful that as a middle aged, relatively new Swiftie I decided to ignore the haters and give myself the opportunity to be part of it. Life’s short, people. So, as Taylor says, “Make the friendship bracelets. Take the moment and taste it. You’ve got no reason to be afraid.” After all, taking a risk is only risky business until it pays off.

“Hold on to spinning around, confetti falls to the ground, may these memories break our fall.” ~Taylor Swift

Posted on 01/08/2024 by Me 0

Feminism, Friendship Bracelets, and Fearlessness

I have a confession. I saw the Taylor Swift Eras Tour film Friday night. And then I went back yesterday to see it again on a bigger screen. Ten years ago, if you had asked me to see or listen to anything having to do with Taylor Swift, I probably would have asked how much you were willing to pay me for it. But, if you’re doing life right, you need to be open to reassessing your previous beliefs and opinions. Or at least that is what I have been telling myself regarding my recent about face on Ms. Swift and her music.

My antipathy towards Taylor Swift began early in her career, around 2009, when she was a 20 year old pop country upstart and I was a 41 year old stay-at-home mom. I heard her hit “You Belong with Me” and realized I was well beyond the point in my life when I had the time or energy to relate to songs about teenage-relationship drama. My sons didn’t help change my mind about her, as they referred to her mockingly as Tay Tay Swifters. All the tabloid drama surrounding her dating life got old quickly, and I summarily dismissed her as not worth my time and went back to listening to my indie bands. Fast forward 10 years of emotional growth for both of us, in the summer of 2019 I stumbled upon her music video for “You Need to Calm Down” and had to admit I genuinely loved it. My respect for her, however, made a seismic shift with her pandemic albums, Folklore and Evermore, which were littered with influence by the indie music world I loved. Finally. We were running in the same circles, and her popularity began to make sense to me. Her penchant for storytelling in her music, her heartfelt, almost confessional-like lyrics, and the often dramatic melancholia in her songs reminded me of some of my favorite bands, The Smiths and The National, in particular. When I hit the depression I wasn’t aware I was in, her songs became regulars in my playlist rotation. Just when I had reached my lowest point and was existing in a constant state of numbness, her music made me feel again. I was able to wallow in and process my sadness and then find a way to climb out of it. It was catharsis.

“Hung my head as I lost the war and the sky turned black like a perfect storm. Rain came pouring down when I was drowning, that’s when I could finally breathe. And, by morning, gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean.”

“‘Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned, everything you lose is a step you take. So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it, you’ve got no reason to be afraid. You’re on your own kid. Yeah, you can face this.”

“It’s like I got this music in my mind, saying it’s gonna be all right.”

Maybe it’s the fourteen years of life and growth I’ve experienced since I first heard “You Belong with Me” or maybe it’s that sitting in the theater watching her on the screen, owning the stage in sold out SoFi Stadium like a boss, but I get it now. Taylor Swift is extraordinary because she has navigated a successful career in the music industry while growing up under a global magnifying glass. She’s lived half her life under constant judgment, speculation, and ridicule, but she took everything the world threw at her and somehow turned it to her advantage. Despite her fame and wealth, she still manages to seem human and relatable, referring to herself on stage as a 30 year old who sits at home covered in cat hair watching 700 hours of television. She’s a marketing genius with a creative mind and relentless devotion to her fan base and, as a result, everything about the Eras Tour has been monumental. The run on tickets, the sold out stadium shows, the extravagant stage production, the ubiquitous friendship bracelets, the three and half hours she played each night on tour, the donations to food banks in every city to which she traveled, and now the Eras Tour film (a gift to the fans who weren’t able to see her show live), these all highlight the magnificence and power of a woman seizing upon her childhood dream. As I sat in the theater yesterday, watching young girls alternately dance and stand together beneath the screen while Taylor looked as if she was singing directly to them, I saw a future filled with young women who understand they too are a limitless forces with the agency to never settle for less than what they believe they are capable of. That is priceless.

Say what you want about her as I did. Dislike her music if it doesn’t suit you. Joke about her dating life or the way her appearance in a box at Arrowhead Stadium drove up NFL viewership, but don’t do what I did. Don’t ever dismiss Taylor Swift as another pop princess. The Eras Tour film grossed over 95M this weekend. Taylor Swift may be a lot of things, including a cup of tea you would purposely knock over, but seventeen years, 12 grammys, and a reported 740M later, she is consequential. By all appearances, she has no intention of going anywhere, except up. And I’m definitely here for it, head first and fearless.

“Ask me what I learned from all those years
Ask me what I earned from all those tears
Ask me why so many fade, but I’m still here“

~”Karma” by Taylor Swift

Posted on 15/10/2023 by Me 2

Traveling Back In Time

This weekend I got to be a time traveler. I traveled back to the 1980s with my husband. We flew to LA for the Cruel World Festival, a music experience at the Rose Bowl featuring new wave and classic goth bands. To make the journey even more retro, we attended the pre-show festivities and the concert with a friend I have known since fourth grade, Kerry. This is not the type of concert I normally attend. Over the years after graduating from college in 1990, I embraced grunge and post-punk and then went straight from that into alternative music. Since acquiring satellite radio in 2009, I’ve primarily listened to indie rock. As I tell my husband, the 80s are a great place to visit, but I don’t live there anymore.

Still, I thought it was about time for a visit with my much younger self. So Steve and I boarded a plane bound for LAX Friday morning and headed to California. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew my friend would be an excellent tour guide, as she had kept up with her younger self and her love of 80s music. On Friday evening, Kerry and her husband let us tag along to a pre-concert 80s party co-hosted by Chris Olivas, former drummer for Berlin now known as DJ Christopher J. It was held at Mijares Restaurant in Pasadena, owned by co-host Tom. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I got was a fun evening filled with margaritas, great Mexican food, 80s-era new wave hits, dancing, and nostalgia.

Someone had wisely hired a photo booth for the sake of memories, so we enjoyed being silly and making use of it.

I met a lot of Kerry’s friends from the 80s cruises she takes every year. They were a lot of fun and were so kind to let us weasel our way into the celebration. After way too many margaritas, Steve and I walked the 20 minutes back to our hotel and crashed out to prepare for the full-day festival on Saturday.

Saturday morning, after obligatory coffee and some lunch, we caught a shuttle to the Rose Bowl. The festival was held at Brookside, a golf club adjacent to the stadium. The temperature was quickly approaching the forecasted high of 94 under clear skies, so we applied vats of sunscreen and swilled from water bottles because we are old enough to be responsible now. There were three stages to wander between and the sets were staggered, so it was a pick-and-choose menu.

We headed straight to start the party day off right with Dave Wakeling and The English Beat. One of my all-time favorite songs is Save It For Later, which I am sure Dave played especially for me. From there, we went to hear Missing Persons and then it was on to see Johnny Rotten and PiL (aka, Public Image Ltd). We had recently learned that Johnny has been home caring for his wife who has Alzheimer’s, so we appreciated that he took time from his devoted, kind-hearted care-giving to drop some choice f-bombs and share his rebellious alter ego with us.

After that, it was on to see The Church and then Violent Femmes. The Violent Femmes took me right back to bus rides in 10th grade when the alt crowd would sit at the front of the bus (rebels we were against the cool kids at the back of the bus) and sing along to Blister in the Sun playing loudly on someone’s boom box. Next we hit up Devo, which turned out to be our favorite concert of the evening. They pulled out all the stops with videos, props, and costume changes. Devo was never a favorite of mine when I was younger because I didn’t really get them then. I get them now, though, and can understand their idea that humanity is devo(lving).

After Devo we caught the first half of Bauhaus’s set before finding a spot to see Blondie. I had never seen Blondie perform and knew I might not get the opportunity again. It was pretty empowering to see a 76 year old woman on stage, still rocking out. Girl Power!

We headed towards the shuttle after Blondie’s set because I have already seen Morrissey perform and it was one of the most disappointing shows I have seen. I suppose I could have given him a second chance. Maybe Moz deserved it and would have redeemed his poor showing in Denver years ago, but I’ve never been great at giving honest, open-hearted, second chances to men who broke my heart once. I tend to be cynical that way, which Morrissey of all people should be able to understand since it was he who penned this lyric:“So now you send me your hardened regards when once you’d send me love.”

All in all, my return trip to the 1980s was a success. It was a blast to spend time with my old-school bestie reliving our high school days. And now I fly back to 2022 to rejoin my life, already in progress. It’s fun to find your younger self sometimes to check in and remember where you came from and how far you have come.

Posted on 15/05/202215/05/2022 by Me 2

The Troubadour of Sterling Ranch

One of the first things I noticed as we were settling into our new neighborhood two summers ago was a curious neighbor. I don’t mean curious in the way that he was curious or nosey. I mean only that I found him curious. I didn’t know what to make of him. He was decidedly hard to miss as I made the left hand turn leading towards our home. There he was. Standing on the sidewalk, playing his guitar and singing, smile broadened across his friendly face. The first time I saw this, I thought it was a little odd but I figured it might be a one off. Perhaps I was missing something. Maybe there was a reason he was out there playing and singing. Maybe he was waiting for someone and planned to greet them with a song. That made sense to me, so I went with that thought.

But as I continued to drive back and forth in the coming weeks as we settled into our new home, I noticed he was out there nearly every time I drove by. I eventually made my peace with the idea that this was a regular occurrence, but I struggled to understand why. My introvert self was deeply confused by this blatant display of extrovert power. What did he want? Was I supposed to acknowledge his playing? Was he playing for himself? Should I wave? He couldn’t wave back. Should I just smile? Nod a visual acknowledgment of his existence? In my 52 years, I’d never encountered a situation like this with a neighbor standing on a residential street singing to no audience in particular. Sometimes on walks with my dog I would see he was out there and panic. What do I do when I walk by? Should I stop? Is that what is polite? My mind could not fathom a situation in which a person would do such a thing. It felt so awkward to me because I didn’t understand why he was doing it and felt confused about what I was meant to do when I saw him. When I found myself driving by him, maybe for the third or fourth time that day, and running out of what I felt were legitimate ways to regard him, I would avert my eyes. And while I was thinking he was this crazy guy out there singing to himself, he probably was thinking, “How many times is she going to drive by today?”

Over the intervening years, I’ve accepted something about Chris. He is out there, in all sorts of weather on all sorts of days, because he is doing what feeds his soul. Who does that? You rarely see a grown adult performing and smiling on the street without a tip jar out for collection. It was a foreign concept to me. I know people who like their jobs, but I don’t often catch them executing their job on a public street. Granted, it’s a bit easier for a singer/songwriter to share the joy of what they do with others than it would be for, say, a teacher. You don’t often see elementary school teachers standing on the street reading aloud from The Giving Tree or whatever. So the more I thought about Chris and his playing and singing, the happier it made me. Here was someone following their damn bliss. It was so brazen. Chris is out there living his best life in plain view of everyone else. Once I got over my introvert conundrum regarding how to approach the visual of this happy individual singing his heart out, I decided he was inspiring, actually. And when I checked out his website, which was shared with me by our neighbors, I decided he was even more inspiring because not only is he a songwriter and performer, but he is also a poet and a published author. He’s a busy guy.

Chris is busy making the world a better, more positive place. It’s no wonder his behavior confused me. You don’t see much of it these days.

Rock on, Chris! We appreciate you.

Posted on 12/04/202212/04/2022 by Me 2

It’s Time For Live Music Again

After years of streaming concerts, it seems bands are ready to trek back out again for shows. Some musicians returned to the scene last year, but this year it seems there is an explosion of bands hitting the road after too long of a hiatus from their livelihoods. This is fantastic news for me. I’ve already got six shows on my calendar for 2022 and I expect that number to increase as I see what else is coming down the pike. I am looking forward to making up for the year and a half I lost to Covid-19.

This morning, out of sheer curiosity, I did my best sleuthing to determine how many bands I’ve seen over the years. I started seeing concerts in 1983. My first show was The Police when I was 15 years old. I’ve conjectured since then how many concerts I’ve been to, but it’s all been speculation. I stopped saving tickets stubs decades ago, so the list I was working on this morning was recreated out of the few stubs I kept, my Facebook and Instagram feeds, my Apple calendar, and my iTunes account. I’m sure I missed some, but this is what I came up with:

These aren’t all separate shows, as some of the bands were co-headliners or opening acts for other artists and some bands were seen at festivals. The numbers in parentheses denote the number of times I’ve seen that band live. It’s a little embarrassing, for example, how many times I’ve seen Sting in concert. I can say for sure, however, that he was the headliner at all those shows so that helps me better estimate how many actual concerts I have attended. I made a guess once that it was around 100 shows. Looking at my list and digging through my memory, I think it’s safe to say I’ve actually seen closer to 120 shows, and it may be more since I just realized I’ve actually seen U2 three times. I shudder to think how much money I’ve spent on these shows, especially when you consider ticket prices with fees these days, but in most cases I wouldn’t take my money back for the experience. There have only been a handful of shows for which I would like a refund of time and money.

My friend Heather and I at a very rainy Decemberists show at Red Rocks on my 47th birthday

Because concert going is one of my hobbies, I’ve turned my sons into concert goers too. Joe’s first show was Imagine Dragons at Red Rocks when he was 8. Luke’s first show (also seen when he was 8) was the Foo Fighters at Red Rocks. We love seeing concerts as a family, which has become costly for the four of us. Nonetheless, we’ll be seeing Spoon in May and The Decemberists in August together. Steve and I are flying to Pasadena for the Cruel World Festival on May 14th too so we can see 80’s bands. I will get to pretend I’m 16 again. All the bands will be showing their age and reminding us, in fact, we are not 16, but I’m looking forward to seeing Blondie, Devo, Violent Femmes, and Public Image Ltd. I also purchased tickets to see The National twice this summer and we’re going to Red Rocks to see The War on Drugs for the first time as well. Have I mentioned I’m excited to get back to shows?

I know stupid Covid isn’t done with us yet. I’m vaccinated and boosted, but I know I will be risking exposure to coronavirus by inserting myself into large crowds. I do not care. Being a music fan is as much a part of my identity as being a mom is. Some people live for sporting events, others for the theater. While I enjoy attending those things too, concerts are my happy place. I’m ready to get back at it. I’m overdue.

Posted on 05/04/2022 by Me 0

From Darkness To Light, or Here Comes The Sun

I love listening to music. I like it so much that it is difficult for me to listen to books or podcasts because there is no time for them. When I am in my car driving to one of my gazillion errands or wearing headphones while doing work around the house, music is what keeps me going. It transports me. And I need to be transported out of my busy, monkey mind most days.

For most of my life, I have liked music other people consider dark. Maybe even too dark. I like depressing lyrics, songs about heartbreak, music that makes me feel part of a bigger whole. When a friend told me that she loved “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves, I mentally rolled my eyes. I just can’t get behind that. I never really thought much about my proclivity towards dark, brooding bands with melancholy and depressive lyrics until other people pointed it out as something odd. It didn’t feel odd to me. It simply was what I liked. Recently, though, I realized sad songs are what I relate to. They make sense to me. I can inhabit them because they seem to reflect my experiences. Happy songs? Well, I just haven’t lived from that walking-on-sunshine place yet. But play me a song about a broken relationship, a girlfriend in a coma, or some serious self-loathing, and I can meet you there.

Here are some miserable (but great) song lyrics that have resonated with me, so you can see what I mean:

“I never thought about love when I thought about home.” ~The National, “Bloodbuzz Ohio“

“I know I’m unloveable, you don’t have to tell me…I wear black on the outside ’cause black is how I feel on the inside.” ~The Smiths, “Unloveable“

“And at once I knew, I was not magnificent.” Bon Iver, “Holocene“

“Going out of my mind, never getting what I wanted, getting what I needed, I left myself behind.” CHVRCHES, “Get Out”

“Take a good look at my face, you’ll see my smile looks out of place, if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears.” Smokey Robinson & The Miracles, “The Tracks of My Tears”

“Start asking for forgiveness in advance, for all the future thing I will destroy. That way I can ruin everything.” Julien Baker, “Hardline”

“The best of us can find happiness in misery.” Fall Out Boy, “I Don’t Care”

Depressing, right? There are a lot of songs about misery and pain. They are easy to find. When I first started getting into music in middle school, I gravitated towards gloomy songs because it was easier to sing along with something that resonated with me than something that felt shallow to me. I know dark doesn’t directly translate to deep or anything, but with dark you are in the ballpark. Or, at least, that is what I would tell myself; the mournful songs mean I’ve lived sadness and delved into the depths of human misery. That’s kind of deep, right?

Over the past few years, I have noticed I’ve begun to find some positive, happy songs that suck the depression right out of me. I think this is a good sign. I suspect it means I am growing, and my outlook is changing. I’m not sure I will ever walk away from my depressing songs because they are part of me still but, if I can get to a place where happy songs reflect my inner life as much as gloomy ones, I’m on the right path.

And, to end on a positive note because I am heading in a positive direction, enjoy some of these lyrics from a song that inspires me in all the best ways:

“I used to lay low, hiding in the shadows, so don’t give me dark days, I already had those. I’m just trying to figure out how to be myself right now. I don’t wanna lay low, hiding in the shadows. So I wake up, I get out of bed. Stay up, stay out of my head ’cause it’s dangerous and I don’t wanna lose my mind, no. I just wanna shine like the sun when it comes up, run the city from the rooftops ’cause today’s gonna be my day. I just wanna climb to the top of a mountain, standing tall when I’m howlin’ ’cause today’s gonna be my day.” Fitz and the Tantrums, “I Just Wanna Shine”

Suck on that, misery!

Posted on 04/02/202204/02/2022 by Me 0

The Beating of My Own Drums Returns

I took my first drum lesson five years ago on September 15, 2016. Playing drums was something I had wanted to do since I was a child, and at the ripe old age of 48 I finally decided to go for it. I found my instructor online (the introvert’s way), but I knew instinctively he was the right person for the job because he had previously been a practicing Buddhist monk. It was going to take Buddhist-monk-level patience and calm to deal with my level of anxiety about this big step. I had spent most of my life up to that point purposely avoiding situations that made me uncomfortable, such as learning new skills in areas where I had no knowledge base. Meeting a stranger at a music studio so he could help me learn to play drums ranked about a 10 out of 10 on my discomfort scale. Still, I somehow managed to show up to the lesson, anxious as hell and sober as a judge. I remember that first lesson as an out of body experience. When it was over, I walked back to my car berating myself for being such an uncoordinated, nervous, and uncool dork. These are not things you want a drummer to be.

I persisted with my lessons, though, because Jeff was beyond awesome to me and for me. Ashamed as I am to admit it, there were several lessons in the first year where I got overly emotional when I couldn’t get a beat or fill or technique and wound up teary eyed and too stressed to continue. Jeff, thankfully, did not freak out at this crying middle aged woman and channeled his Buddhist training to help me get to a better mindset. As time went on, I began to believe I could actually learn to play drums. I had no plans of joining a band or performing in front of others. I simply wanted to be able to get behind a drum set, put on some headphones, and play along to songs I enjoy with some level of competency.

In March of 2020, when everything in-person shut down, so did my drum lessons. Jeff set up a situation where we could do drum lessons virtually, but it was not my thing. So, I stopped taking lessons. I told myself I would play at home, but I didn’t. There were four of us full-time in our house then, and taking up space and banging on drums didn’t feel right. When we moved to our new home, my sweet spouse suggested we have a room finished in the basement for my drum set. It was finished in January of this year, complete with insulated walls to quiet my noise. But, I still didn’t play. This is all on me. No one in my family said I should stop bothering them. I just felt awkward about it. Taking up space in my own life is something I have struggled with for years.

Today, though, I decided it was time to do something for myself that benefits literally no one else. I went into that tiny room in the basement and set up my drums. I put a poster on the wall. I dusted off the kit. I found all my drum notation and skill books. I located my metronome and charged my wireless headphones. And then I played. It was rough, but drumming is a motor skill that uses muscle memory, kind of like skiing or riding a bike. It didn’t take long before I was remembering beats and somewhat successfully playing along to some songs I knew well once upon a time. I was still awkward, but it felt good, like coming home.

I have decided to keep going. It’s good for me to keep learning. Jeff taught me how to read drum notation, and I have a plethora of song books to teach me how to play along with the Foo Fighters, Green Day, and Nirvana. Now that I have a tattoo, it seems like continuing drumming is compulsory, right? I’ve got some work to do to turn my little drum studio into my own oasis, but I am finally ready to make it my own.

I may never be a great drummer, but working on the skill is enough for me. It will keep my brain flexible as I age. Maybe someday my grandkids (when I have grandkids) will think I am badass too. That would be kind of cool.

I might need another tattoo, though.

Posted on 14/09/2021 by Me 8

I Wanna Rock N Roll All Night — In Person Again

Last night my family and I did something we haven’t done since February of last year: we attended a concert in person. What seems like ages ago, we purchased tickets to the Hellamega Tour featuring Weezer, Fall Out Boy, and Green Day. The show was supposed to be last July, but then we all know what happened. So, it was rescheduled. The concert was held outdoors at a soccer stadium and we are vaccinated, but still we were a little wary about attending because of the crowd size and our knowledge that the vaccine we got is only 66% effective against the prevalent and more contagious Delta strain of Covid-19. Since Joe is heading off to college tomorrow and doesn’t want to end up in quarantine, we decided as a family to wear masks just in case someone we encountered in the 20k people crowd was contagious.

The show was held at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, which shall henceforth be known simply as “not my favorite.” We paid $20 to park in Egypt and walk a literal mile to get to our seats. The venue’s web site listed that you could bring in one factory-sealed water bottle per person. I don’t normally buy water bottles because, well, single-use plastic, but I bought one for each member of our family just to be told at the gate that they were not permitted. Grrrrr. Once inside, we ended up spending $20 for four bottles because capitalism. Not certain I will clamor to see a show here again.

That said, the concert itself was AMAZING, easily one of the best shows I’ve ever attended, and I have seen somewhere around or above 100 live concerts in my estimation. Due in part to the parking nightmare and the cross-country trek to our seats, we were a little too late to catch the majority of the Weezer set. We saw Weezer in July of 2018, though, so we decided to make our peace with it and adjust our attitudes accordingly to prepare for the rest of the show.

Luke and I had seen Fall Out Boy together in 2015, so we knew what to expect. Patrick Stump had zero trouble with the altitude that often trips up other singers and belted out their set list like a Colorado resident. The stage show, complete with all manner of pyrotechnics, including flames shooting from Pete Wentz’s bass, was great. Fall Out Boy performs true to their album sound and with twice as much energy. I started listening to Fall Out Boy in 2005 when the boys were just 4 and 2, so it was fun to have Luke turn to me during some of their older songs I was singing along to and ask, “What is this one called?” It’s always good to surprise your kids with your knowledge about anything. And I loved when Pete Wentz called out a person in the front of the stadium for being on their phone too much. He reminded the crowd that we’ve been locked up looking at our phones at home for a year, and it was time to put them down and live life. Preach it, Pete!

Green Day and Billie Joe Armstrong making the world sing again

As expected, Green Day was the highlight of the evening. Before they came on stage, the speakers blasted Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody for a little pre-show sing along. When Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt, and Tre Cool started the show off with an oddly appropriate American Idiot, they set the tempo for the rest of their set. They were rocking like it was 1991 and they were still 19 rather than 49. I had to marvel that I have been listening to this band for THIRTY years. I couldn’t decide if that made me really old, them really old, us all really old, or all of us just incredible cool. Billie Joe made a point to remind us all several times that we were alive and finally here to enjoy live music and that we should all be basking in the joy of the moment. So, we did. When they covered Kiss’s 1975 classic I Wanna Rock n Roll All Night, the crowd was a haze of jumping, clapping, and singing along. At times it felt like the entire stadium could be heard miles away. And during a couple particularly punk songs, I was transported back to the person I used to be, the one who would end up in the middle of a slam dancing group on the venue floor. (Mind you, I didn’t do that in the stands because I’m 53 and that might no longer be a wise choice.) We left physically exhausted but mentally energized, without a second thought to the ticket price that initially had given me sticker shock.

It had been 18 months since I had seen a live show, long enough that I had nearly forgotten how much being in person at a show is in my DNA. I have been seeing concerts since I was 15. Some years I could only afford one show, while other years I saw upwards of ten. There is something magical about attending a concert, knowing that all the strangers there have something in common with you. They also like this music enough to invest in it. There is nothing like singing and dancing along with thousands of other people who share your love of music. It’s intoxicating. It brings me to tears at some point during every single show. How lucky we are to have music to remind us that life is worth living even when it’s been challenging and somewhat dark. Last night was a good reminder that those who enjoy live music are never truly alone in a crowd.

Posted on 26/08/2021 by Me 0

Sorry, B.B. — The Thrill Is Not Gone Yet

JusDrums — Trying to overcome negativity while wearing a shirt that says NOPE. Me in a nutshell.

This weekend I am doing something I have never done before. I am going to be the drummer for a band — live and on stage. When my drum instructor mentioned back in July that he was going to set up a performance for some of his students, my first reaction was to laugh, all the while thinking Oh hells no! When he asked me what I thought of the idea of performing, to my surprise, while my head was in a there’s-no-way-nuh-uh-you-can’t-make-me space, my mouth opened and spoke what I knew in my heart.

“It would probably be good for me.”

We chose a song for me to perform at the exhibition. And we were off.

Jeff showed me a preferred beat for B.B. King’s The Thrill Is Gone, a slightly stepped up version of a beat I know already. But the minuscule sixteenth beat that the “fancy” (as he called it) version added turned out to be Herculean in scope for my brain. I have only one other drum beat in my repertoire that includes a sixteenth beat hidden among the eighths. That beat took me four months to get under command. I’m still not proud of my fluidity on that one, but at least when Jeff tells me to play go-go beat I no longer stare at him blankly. Progress.

Learning drums is a formidable task. You are training four limbs to do four different things, all while operating from the same one brain. No brain wants to operate four limbs independently. Humans don’t work that way. To drum, you have to retrain your mind to get your body to do what it has no natural inclination to do. Learning to drum requires infinite patience with oneself. I am infinitely short on patience for all things, most especially myself.

I spent the last two months whittling away at the mental impediments to procure the fancy drum beat for this song, all the while continuing to learn the other elements so I would be ready in time. I was fully committed to performing that fancy beat. And I spent an hour to two a day for fourteen days after the boys started school again working on it with my new bass drum pedal so I could go into my lesson last Friday and show Jeff I had met my goal. And I really thought I had gotten there, or at least within striking distance of there.

I hadn’t. When I got to my lesson, I could not do the beat. My brain and my right foot, in complete defiance of every bit of progress I had made, flat out refused to pop in that extra note. Each time I missed it, I grew more anxious and more despondent. I had spent triple the amount of time I usually ferret away for drum practice to nail that beat, and in the clutch moment it had vanished. Sensing my frustration and with a week left before the scheduled performance, Jeff told me to scrap it. He told me to focus on the groove and let that beat go for now. I agreed that was the best decision, and we continued the lesson without it.

The moment I got to my car, though, I lost it. The tears gently fell and my head ran a steady stream of self-flagellation until I reached my son at school and pulled myself together. Perhaps drumming wasn’t for me? Maybe it was time to burn the sticks and drop the kit into the dumpster? Maybe this dog was too old for new tricks? A year into drumming, and I still sucked at it. I felt lower and more exposed than a naked mole rat. I was an imposter and soon an entire audience would know it. Fantastic.

I have spent the last week doing some additional brain retraining. I haven’t been focusing on that bass drum part. I have been getting my ego in check and my attitude on straight. Turns out this has been nearly as difficult as acquiring the fancy drum beat, but I am finally there. Drumming is supposed to be fun. It was always supposed to be fun. I knew it would be difficult and, to be honest, that is why it appealed to me. Drumming is about the sense of accomplishment when something clicks and becomes automatic and I am able to advance to the next goal. The trick lies in not focusing on what is left to learn and instead noticing how far I have come from the point a year ago when Jeff handed me a pair of his drumsticks and I sat behind a kit for the first time ever.

I am performing on Saturday for better or worse. I’ve decided to be excited about it. I’ve decided to remember that the best things in my life have always come at the end of my comfort zone when I have taken on something that scared the bejeezus out of me and that I wasn’t sure I could handle. I’ve decided to play and be present and let go and not expect anything but a three-minute-long life lesson. It’s about the journey. I’ll get that fancy beat eventually. Until then, I need to refocus on the ride because B.B. was wrong. The thrill is not gone and, knowing my determination, it won’t be gone until I am.

Posted on 13/09/201713/09/2017 by Me 2

Live Now and Zen

Because even when it seems like a gag gift, the present is still a gift