Memory Lanes

Sunday ended up being a trip down memory lane. And it offered varying degrees of enjoyment and sadness.

Twin was in town and invited ChiChi and I to partake in her usual Sunday evening ritual—family dinner. With the prospect of spending the evening with her parents (especially her wonderfully hilarious father, Jumpin JT), her brother and his new girlfriend, we happily accepted.

And without a doubt, this dinner was exactly as it used to be. Twin’s brother said highly inappropriate things. Her mother only freaked out about them cussing and talked to the dogs like they were people. And Jumpin JT talked about how difficult his job was and his newly acquired Warhol poster. ChiChi found fuzz in every single bit of her food (she, as always, was the only one). I chatted with her mother about Real Housewives of New Jersey (her favorite is Teresa). And Twin’s brother’s girlfriend was…nice.

After dinner the Triplets (as we’ve once again been called) ventured over to Adult’s house so we (minus me) could have a drinky-drink before heading back down memory lane in the form of an All Get Out show,

Back in the day this would have been the highlight of my month. I would have carefully picked out an outfit that was functional and hot as hell without looking like I was trying too hard. I would have bought a new pack of smokes for the occasion and gone out of my way to chat it up with the All Get Out boys.

Not this time. I didn’t carefully pick out an outfit (though I did still look pretty good) nor did I buy any smokes. Rather I almost forgot about it entirely.

About half way through the walk from Adult’s to the place they were playing I was hit by a brick in the form of a massive realization—I didn’t even want to go to the show. I knew they people that were going to be there.:

Kids that certainly acted their age. People I didn’t want to see. Other people I used to go to school with that I semi-intentionally stopped talking to when I left for college.

And I knew what my night would consist of:

Forking over money I don’t have to watch bands I don’t like. Walking outside between bands to watch underage kids chain-smoke. Standing in a too crowded room while said immature kids tried to be friends with the bands.

And you know what?

I was completely right.

Within minutes of getting there I was…angry. Everything about that scene was rubbing me the wrong way.

The other 2/3 of the Triplets felt the same way so we went back to Adult’s house until AGO went on. Even then, Twin and ChiChi only stayed for a few minutes.

I was determined to get my money worth so I stayed the entire time. And they were great, as usual.

It was their first song, though, that I remember most.

They played my favorite—Lucky Bastard—but this time it hit me in a completely different way.

“We always want more,” “I love my neighbor more than he loves his wife,” “I want to go home.”

Yeah, this got me.

I often jokingly lament my lack of a home. And it’s not just because I want a set of All Clad pots and pans or that cool futon from Target. It’s because this little flower needs somewhere to spread her roots.

None of Papa’s houses are my home. The Dirty Dirty isn’t my home anymore. The Big Apple certainly isn’t my home, despite my many wishes. And as much as I love the Boro, it still isn’t my home.

I used to want to live a transient Kerouac-style life. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that just won’t work for me.

I need somewhere to return to. I need a constant.

I don’t have that now.

Maybe this is another part of growing up—learning to let go of things like that and go with the flow.

If so, I think I need a remedial course.

All Get Out, a review

There was nothing too unusual about this particular night at Café 567. It was a little colder than normal and a Christmas tree filled one of the front windows, but the crowd was the same, all huddled outside to smoke cigarettes and wait for the highlight of their night—All Get Out.

Over the past two years the Charleston, SC based band has become a staple in Macon. Their near-constant touring always seems to bring them through the MacTown, as guitarist Mel Washington learned it is called, where they’ve cultivated a large and dedicated fan base, due entirely to their less than typical rock star attitudes. Nothing demonstrated the close relationship between band and town better than the giant group Christmas photo lead singer Nathan Hussy requested the crowd’s presence for after their set, which was more amazing than usual.

After recently spending time in Atlanta recording their first full length album, Nate’s voice was hoarse. The crowd, including myself, didn’t seem to mind because they only began to sing louder, per Nate’s request. This was more than likely the last time AGO would be exclusively playing their old songs as well as their last show of the year, which gave them full license to play around with the songs everyone had become so familiar with. Nobody minded the variations, which included even more emotion packed screams from Nate despite his nearly inaudible voice.

If you have seen these wonderful men play in the past, or ever get a chance to see them, I suggest watching the drummer, Gordon Kiefer. The first time I saw them play he at one point stepped away from the drums, curled up in a corner and appeared to be sleeping. He later laid face up on his bass drum. Over the months he has toned down his on stage antics, but he seemed to dust them off for this show, where he started off by roaming around his drums and again appeared to be asleep for a brief time. Another thing you would have noticed if you paid careful attention to each member was Mel’s pained expression during “Come My Way,” specifically at the beginning when singing about the companionship of a dog. I attribute that to the recent death of his Yorkie, Princess. He recovered quickly, though, by channeling that emotion into one of the next songs—Lucky Bastard, my personal favorite.

The show, which was full of witty and familiar banter between everyone in the band except Gordon, who never gets a microphone, and the crowd, concluded with the ultimate form of bonding and show of trust—bassist Mike Rogers crowd surfing. While some people jumped at the chance to catch and support Mike, others, like myself, ran at the thought possibly dropping him. I’m sure he understood.

This show was the perfect way to begin my Christmas break. I’m now left eagerly anticipating their next show and the release of their album. I’m sure neither will disappoint.

Happy Merry

I’ve been home a few days and to say it hasn’t required quite an adjustment would be a lie. It’s not so much that I dislike being home, but that I have to readjust to living with other people who’s needs, desires and actions affect mine. It’s certainly strange.

Luckily I’ve had a few things to occupy my time.

I’ve jumped into the kitchen with both feet and plenty of flour. And thanks to Mother’s favorite new kitchen addition—a TV—I’ve made it my sanctuary. Already I’ve baked sugar cookies, buttery almond cookies and iced Mother’s gingerbread cookies. I was even able to set some dough aside for when Father and co (this time including their new dog, Toby) come into town. Yesterday Coco and I spent a good deal of time melting chocolate and dipping gummy bears, almonds, and cashews into it. It created quite a delicious concoction.

I’ve been spending a bit of time with Adult. From all of our bonding time I’ve come to a glorious conclusion—I completely and totally took him for granted before. When we were dating I was a semi-horrible girlfriend/person because I thought he would always be there and that I was more important to him than he was to me. Talk about conceited bitch. Well, I now realize that while we’re almost definitely not meant to be romantically involved, he’s one of my dearest friends. And it’s not that I adore him, because adoration is a novelty and doesn’t always develop beyond that. I really and truly care about him and enjoy spending time with him.

Another thing that has brightened my spirits is a visit and show by one of my favorite bands and favorite people—All Get Out. They played in town on Sunday night, their last show for the year, and it was amazing! (A review will be coming soon)

^Can you find me?^

Correction: Their set was amazing. Everything else left a lot to be desired. That, I think, was the most pleasant surprise I’ve gotten thus far. That scene—the music scene in my Dirty Dirty town—used to be my scene. I loved it. I knew the people who created the scene; I knew a lot of the bands; I knew a lot of the crowd. I thought that was where I belonged and missed it when I moved up and out. Being back at this show, though, showed me the error of my thinking and clarified just how much I’ve changed. Despite the fact that I knew a large handful of people there, I didn’t want to talk to them. The large crowd and omnipresent cloud of cigarette smoke annoyed me. I had no interest in the opening bands or trying to get to the front for all of them. I was there to see All Get Out and that’s all I really wanted to do. Luckily, it seemed Coco felt the same way and we stuck together while Twin ran around with her jailbait high school posse.

I’m so glad I’ve matured past the point those kids are at.

And I’m so glad that tomorrow at 10am I’ll be sitting at the airport because I am city bound and glory be. (An altered quote from Kevin Devine—educate yourself).

Yes, that’s right. This big apple baby is once again making her annual pilgrimage “home”. Because both Parents’ families still live up in Yankeeville (Long Island, NY) we spend Winter Holiday (political correctness!) up there, where I happily and greedily soak up the accent, pastries, pizza and driving techniques. Mother might not be fond of the “harsh” New York culture, but I love it. I also love seeing my family because most of them seem like overdone parodies as opposed to real people. Example: Father’s father wears unbuttoned silk shirts to expose his chest hair and gold chains, a gold and diamond horse head pinky ring, he invents and uses racial and homophobic slurs, recently moved to Florida and dates multiple women at once. Mother’s youngest sister bought the second youngest sister’s son real, legit for shit numchucks. He’s maybe 8 and they’re illegal in New York. I could go on, but I have far too large of a family for that. Moral of the story—they’re crazy and I love them.

And I love Beastie Boys, who are now coming from my stereo. So, I’m leaving you for them. I apologize, but you understand.

Happy Merry.