Thanks

To the girl in the cute sundress and flip flops on East Carson:

Thanks for telling me that I looked very nice, I needed that.

soon

new post(s) soon.

Finally Fixed-ish.

They finally fixed the sinkhole in front of my house. After numerous comically erroneous decisions on the part of the city, and multiple grand street collapses, the street on which I live is now mostly level (except for, you know, the storm sewer that is caving in on the corner). Allow me to remind you that I first called about this sinkhole in July 2007. I'll be generous and say that it only took them 9 months to fix something that started out being relatively minor (I'll dig up pictures) and then turned into something that could swallow a few houses.
before:

"Isn't that just a pothole?" No, my friend, absolutely not. If you look at it in the right light you can see the hollowness that is occurring in its depths. Also, potholes, in my experience (and allow me to remind you that I live in Pittsburgh, the champion of potholes) are not 2 feet deep, with a 4 foot by 4 foot expanse of hollowness hiding beneath a roughly 1 inch layer of asphalt. This thing was no pothole. To further prove my point, I'll show you the "after" picture.
after:

Yes, that darker asphalt shows the extent of the repaired damage. Pretty impressive. The original picture of the small hole was taken about 2 feet behind the jeep's rear right tire. Obviously that little hand-sized guy was a harbinger of doom. Fantastic.

The day after the crews packed up and went home, I found an elderly man (who can be seen chatting with another elderly man every evening on our street corner around 6 or 7pm) shuffling around in the street, looking at the caliber of the work.

I was entering my house after walking my dog and stopped to talk to him. I said something like "Pretty impressive, huh?" He looked up at my slowly, assessed me, and then replied "I wouldn't say 'impressive' but it's something." He paused and then waved me over to him, all the while eyeing my puny dog suspiciously.

As he pointed out the errors the construction workers had made, I looked at his outfit. He wore khaki high-waisted (old man) pants, a short sleeve button down, worn tennis shoes, and a mesh-fronted baseball cap with a veteran's patch on the front (I couldn't see which branch he was in without being rude). As I inched closer to him, he showed me the tiny slits in the concrete they'd neglected to patch with tar, and then explained to me how the rain would collect in the slits before eventually eroding the pavement in the same place all over again. As I stood next to him, I caught wind of the scent of my grandpa. There's really no way to describe the scent but "clean" and to say that it's only something I've ever smelled on my grandpa. Maybe it's a vintage aftershave, or some really old bar soap. Or maybe after a certain amount of years, veteran's just have a common scent. I don't know, but it was the same. I practically stepped on this man's toes filling my nose greedily as memory after memory poured over me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and say "I miss my grandaddy terribly and I don't get to hug him nearly enough, please ignore me while I hug you." But fortunately, I exercised some self-control.

I wasn't able to pay attention to everything he said to me, but I heard him say that they'd dug for a gas leak by his house and that, after they found and fixed the leak, they left the holes open and they collected with water and caused all sorts of trouble.

"That's so frustrating," I said to him.
"Frustrating? I think that's putting it pretty mildly."

I paused. "I was trying to be polite."
He stopped and thought to himself for a moment and then said "Oh, well, thank you," and then he smiled and nodded at me as if to say "you're not so bad."

The dog was getting antsy so I started toward the house and wished him a goodnight. He replied in kind and then he did something that took me by surprise--he thanked me for talking to him, and said that he had enjoyed talking to me. I told him likewise and I really wanted to explain to him about my grandpa and how I was so grateful to him, but I knew I couldn't do it without sounding crazy and getting emotional, so I waved and walked inside, choosing to keep the thoughts to myself.

Except that now I'm sharing them with you, whoever you are. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a phonecall to a sweet-smelling blue-eyed veteran with a voice like Southern butter.

Sweet Sunrise

I just looked at the weather forecast and saw that the sun is set to rise at 6:50 tomorrow morning. I am so excited not to the wait for the bus in the dark. I think this means my days of moon-lit commutes are coming to a close.

My boyfriend will be done with finals in less than a month. Sunny mornings and my favorite boy: two things I love coming back into my life at the same time.

I Get Satisfaction Everywhere I Go*

I bought my boyfriend Clutch tickets for his birthday. The last time they came around, the show sold out (as it did this time) and he was unable to go so I was pretty excited to remedy that with this gift.

Unfortunately for me (and he), Clutch (who put on a fantastic show) came to town on a Thursday (re: work night, with another work day to follow). We were so very tired by the time 7:00pm rolled around, but he got some dinner and I put on one of my favorite pairs of ripped (authentic, not Abercrombie) jeans and a camo t-shirt and attempted to transition from "office building" to "distorted-Southern-rock-lover" as quickly as possible. Luckily for me I own the aforementioned ripped jeans and a camo t-shirt, and the bags under my eyes made me look appropriately heroin-chic; needless to say, I was pretty pleased with my 5-minute transformation.

When we arrived, one of the openers was already on stage (bonus points to us for not having to listen to bands we don't care about), and there was no line outside. The notion that Clutch fans could potentially be a rowdy bunch was reinforced by the fact that the venue had beefed-up security - re: an extra man checking people who went in.

Over the years, I have become sort of a master of eluding security. I don't ever intend to do it, nor have I ever done any harm, rather I just forget to take stuff out of my bag that venues don't want inside (most often mace).

I was going to explain what I got past security and how, but I feel that could potentially allow people to abuse the system. And actually, let me set something straight, I didn't actively hide anything from security - I just didn't point out anything either. Anyway, I was pretty disappointed, because while it saved me the hassle of having to return to the car, I realized (as I have at every venue where this same thing has occurred) that if I could inadvertently get something past security, so could someone with bad intentions.

When we finally entered the building, the crowd was exactly what I imagined it would be, but more extreme. At least 50% of the concert-goers had Neil Fallon-esque beards (whether it was in tribute, I cannot say), and there were lots of flannel shirts, baseball caps (both forward and backward), mohawks, faux hawks, leather jackets, and an unbelievable amount of tobacco. Every guy there seemed to be smoking a cigarette and holding a beer, and every girl there appeared to be wearing black eyeliner and some sort of Fox Racing apparel.

Later, as we stood listening to Murder by Death (who put on an amazing performance as well), I looked mournfully up at the ceiling fans that the venue refuses -always- to turn on. The place was so smoky that the air seemed foggy.

A group of of guys stood in front of us shoving each other and generally have a good time goofing around. They were all probably in their late 20s and quite drunk and it was amusing except for that the fact that they kept bumping into me, and one began to gesture wildly forgetting that he had a lit cigarette in his hand and I had to dodge the cherry a few times.

I felt sentimental for the days when coming home from concerts with cigarette burns and bruises was like coming home from battle with scars. For years my friends and I remembered our great concerts by the tiny reminders on our bodies. Sometimes when I am at my parent's house I look through my ziploc baggy of concert ticket stubs and inevitably come to the small white piece of towel that belonged to Anthony Kiedis for a few minutes when he wiped off his concert sweat before throwing it into a chaotic crowd. It was at that Red Hot Chili Peppers concert that I crowd surfed for the first time. It's hilarious to me how brave I was when I was younger - I wouldn't think of doing that now. It seems so stupid and dangerous - almost everyone is dumped unceremoniously onto an unforgiving concrete or dirt floor after their short tenure on top of the world. I was lucky enough to make it up to the security barrier between the stage and the crowd where some really, really big security guard gently plucked me and set me down in no man's land before shooing me away.

As you can see, this show made me pretty nostalgic and thoughtful. I worried that I was aging too quickly. 23 seems awfully young to have hung up my crowd surfing shoes. I wondered why I felt so tired after a day of work when everyone else seemed so vibrant and eager to take on the night.

Just then, one of the goofs in front of us pushed someone who was trying to cross our paths. He didn't do it aggressively, he did it because he was looking on the floor. He frantically got out his lighter and started hopelessly pawing through the cigarette butts and broken glass. I saw him squeeze one of his fingers in a helpless gesture. I realized he'd lost a ring.

While most of the people around us were still trying to figure out what he was doing I crouched on the floor and calmly looked for the tell-tale reflection. I found his ring, touched his shoulder and pointed. He picked it up and screamed "thank you" several times although I only know this because of the shapes his lips made. It was too loud to hear him.

When the next song ended my boyfriend leaned over to me and said "God, wouldn't it be awful if that was his wedding ring." I laughed really hard.

After a few more songs, the guy (whose gestures had become significantly more subdued) turned to me and said "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how much trouble I would have been in." I laughed a little and then had to ask him the obvious question - "was that your wedding ring?" I shouted the question across the noise of the background music and indistinct chatter. His eyes widened and he nodded his head vigorously before slowly shaking his head in disbelief and saying something like "phew" before turning around to his friends again.

How hilarious is that?

"Honey, I'm sorry. I lost my wedding ring at a Clutch show while I was drunk."
"What?!"
"Well, technically it was Murder by Death, but you know I went to see Clutch."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No no, they weren't bad at all - they have sort of a horror-flick rockabilly sound. Quite good. They have this hot little cellist, but that's really neither here nor there."

I guess my concert-going days aren't really over, they, just like everything else, have changed. Instead of being the stupid blonde girl whose well-being is completely dependent on the good will of others, I am now more like the security guard who helps people when they get in over their heads. I'm still a part of the show, I'm just playing a new role.

I was at an outdoor concert once, in which I was in the full-sun 90 degree weather for 6 or 8 hours, and I became terribly dehydrated. I made my way up to the water buffalo (only by the grace of God, I imagine) but didn't have the where-with-all to get a drink of water. I sat down with my head between my knees and tried to go to sleep. Two strangers came along and got me water and forced me to drink it. Eventually my friends found me and sat with me and gave me water enough to rehydrate me. Thinking about that time is scary for me. I try never to be dependent on the goodwill of strangers. Oftentimes, strangers don't have much goodwill. I guess though, that for every person who gets in over his/her head, someone has to be there to help.

I find that at concerts, there are generally far too many of the former and far too few of the latter. As such, I guess I'm okay with being at a point in my life where going to a concert now means being the person who helps find the wedding ring, instead of being the one who loses it.

After Clutch came on, a very tiny girl teetered over near me and the boy, and began taking very sloppy swigs of a domestic pounder. She seemed to be getting drunker by the minute. I leaned over to my boyfriend and sarcastically told him that I just wasn't up for being vomitted on. He rolled his eyes at the girl and we started to venture away from her. For a minute I considered getting her a cup of water or asking if she was okay, but seeing her behavior and the behavior of the friends around her, I quickly filed her into the "not worth it" category. I wasn't in the mood to be vomitted on, or yelled at by, a girl who couldn't hold her booze.

When we reached our new spot, a big guy in front of us was dancing and shoving the crowd happily. Big guys seem to think that they can forget they're big at concerts. Hey big guys, you're still big. Big enough, it turns out, that your elbow, once thrown, will meet my eyesocket with remarkable accuracy. I cringed and told the boy I was fine. I rubbed my eye a few times throughout the night wondering if he'd left a mark.

When I got into the car after the concert I was surprised, not by the fact that I had a cherry red mark under my left eye, but by the fact that I was proud of it. I smiled at my boyfriend that night as I changed out of my smoke-saturated jeans and t shirt, and laid out my button down and pencil skirt for work the next morning.



*The title of this blog comes from the song "Electric Worry" by Clutch. You should also check out "Burning Beard" by Clutch and "Brother" by Murder by Death.

Flattered

by the fact that I reached the big 1k in hits. New post soon.