More Music, More Memories

I often write just before falling asleep. I can't count the times I've literally drifted off mid-sentence, only to find my journal (a $1.29 notebook) beside me the next morning. My thoughts tend to be clearest whenever I'm in bed (how's THAT for a pickup line?). I also enjoy reading everything I wrote the nite before, because I rarely remember the specifics. It's like reading a book you haven't opened since childhood. The story is familiar, but the details have been forgotten. Anyway, that's my disclaimer for the following, which I wrote a few nites ago.

I saw my ex for about an hour back in November. I hadn’t seen her since we’d broken up a year earlier. Everyone I know told me I’d realize she’s not worth the heartache, the pain, blah blah blah, once I saw her again. I believed them, perhaps because I wanted to believe them. Unfortunately, for the brief period of time I saw her that late Sunday morning, we cliqued as if the previous year hadn’t existed. She made me laugh, she made me think; she was just as beautiful as before (I edited this past line cuz I apparently write unbelievably sappy staff when I'm half-awake). Just as I began remembering the little things I love about her, I had to return to DC.

Two days later, while exploring a used CD store in Adams-Morgan, I purchased Ryan Adams’ (no relation) Love is Hell: Part Two. I’d never really listened to him before, but wanted some new music for the next day’s Chinatown Bus trip to NY for Thanksgiving. Coincidentally, I was heading north the same day she was heading home. Every time I listen to that album, I think of the late autumn rain rinsing the crowded bus, cars whizzing by as I rode north on I-95, looking for a Volvo station wagon, expecting to see her behind the wheel, heading home w/ a final few memories of me. Whenever I listen to that album, I’m back on that bus, swallowing miles of highway by the minute, wishing the rain would wash everything away.

You Will Love This Singer (that's an order)

Not since I stumbled upon Damien Rice two years ago have I been this excited about a relatively unknown musician. The reason? Her name’s Emiliana Torrini and her voice is simply amazing. I first learned of her during my radio show w/ T-Rock. We played her album every once in a while, chuckling at song titles such as Tuna Fish and Weird Friendless Kid. I eventually fell in love w/ her Bjork-ish voice. While visiting my parents last weekend, I got around to downloading some of her songs and put them on CD.

I’ve been listening to her daily the past 10 days, part of me returning to that small radio booth w/ T-Rock as we relished every minute of our senior year. Whether we were prepping for a school-sponsored open bar or our weekly tradition of dollar margaritas and The Osbournes, Torrini’s music serves as a rich reminder to a much easier time, when our biggest concerns were which songs we’d dedicate to our exes and which god-awful Jimmy Eat World song we’d make our listeners suffer through. For the record, we both thought their 2002 hit Sweetness was hilariously awful, which resulted in us cracking up every time we heard it, especially after it became so popular months later. The funny thing is, this morning while showering, that song came on the radio and I immediately broke into a ridiculous dance. So anyway, check out Emiliana Torrini. I recommend listening to If You Go Away and Sunny Road, as well as anything from her Love in the Time of Science album. You won’t be disappointed.

FLEX! and release....FLEX!

I’m trying to figure out what it is about magazines that draws me to them. I’m trying to figure out why I love buying them, flipping through them, taking them on trips and looking forward to a night on the couch with them.
Maybe it feeds my attention span. Flashy and colorful, short stories and interesting factoids to take away. Beautiful pictures of beautiful people doing interesting things that cost a lot of money.
When I read fashion magazines, I hope to walk away with new ways to apply eye makeup, or an idea for chandelier earrings I need to try and make. When I read cooking mags, I look for one recipe to try at the next party or potluck. And when I look at fitness magazines, I look for a tip or new exercise to help me to take off “the last five pounds”.
I have a lot of expectation when I pick up a magazine. I’m looking for these specific things, and also, to relax.
Unfortunately, I usually end up a little dissatisfied with the time I spent flipping. Maybe it’s because I am looking for realistic things to take back into my life and use….but most magazines are about fantasy anyway. At least, traditionally. I appreciate attempts to break down recipes, outfits, fitness plans, vacations and major purchases. But I sometimes feel inadequate when I think about what they suggest I should do, what I should look like, how much time a should spend flossing or lifting weights or (for you Cosmo lovers) doing kegels.

I'm an H2O Ho!

They say water makes up as much of 60 percent of our bodies. That means my brains and bones and breasts are hypothetically just floating around inside of me.
But that’s neither here nor there.
What is here, and there, is the fact that I can’t seem to figure out why drinking 60 ounces of water a day is so good for you. I understand water flushes your system, rids the body of toxins, fights fatigue and makes you more popular (scientific fact), but I DO NOT understand how to make myself stop urinating so much.
Literally at least twice an hour I’m up, walking by the receptionist, who I think has decided to pretend I don’t walk by so often. It must give her too much to think about. So that means every 30 minutes I use the bathroom. Every 30 minutes I have to stop what I’m doing, walk by the receptionist and pee. Not like right by the receptionist, but in the bathroom.
Does anyone feel my pain?

I wanted to visit Inglewood

Excuse my absence, I have been, as the Greggster so refers to it, on the Left Coast.
Spent the past few going going, back back, to Cali, Cali…..and for the record, I am not cool enough to live there.
I think what fascinated me the most (besides the fact that I somehow managed to find the most HORRIBLE HOTEL IN THE STATE) is that the women of So Cal appear to be suffering from huge identity crises- they wear their jeans low, their rainbow flops loose, their straggly hair blows in the wind, their t-shirts are small and faded and their language reeks of “dudes” and “bro’s” and “awesomes”…Yet their jeans are designer, their flops cost 40 bucks, their hair is highlighted, and their t-shirts were certainly not obtained from the Goodwill. This is rich trying to look poor, but not dirty, while pulling off casual and dressy at the same time. It’s beach bum meets punk meets glam meets the spice girls.
Simply put, it gives me a headache. And I’m just not cool enough.
I would like to steal some of their weather, though.
I did not see the governor…Or govana…. But if I did, I would have asked him to say the word gubernatorial.