Hipster

Yep, the Hip were back in town yesterday - I took the day off to spend with them (ended up spending part of it at the mall, bought Matt a shirt, very fond of gift giving). Matt, again, couldn't see the show because his parents flew in last night. I am very fond of his parents, too, but I told him, "Honey...the Hip...I've had it planned..." and he understood. His mom told me, "Yes, of course, go have fun - we'll see you tomorrow." She and I see eye to eye on just about everything. Good news.

The Hip soundchecked at 4:30 and I invited my dad to come along. He's such a cool guy - dropped everything and met me at the Vogue. What man does this? My dad, that's who. We were the only two at soundcheck, and I said, "Dad, this is the life for me." Chuckling, he replied, "It really is, isn't it, honey?" He knows it's the music I love; I am, after all, his daughter.

After they practiced (a cover - the Hip actually sang a cover last night: Helter Skelter), they all came off stage and introduced themselves to my dad. It was a shining moment; I was very touched. Gord Downie said, "I have to meet this young lady's father..." My dad told them what a good job they did (four songs, hee hee), and they all talked instruments and kids. It was a bit surreal, but great.

Gord S. and I hung out in Ripple, had dinner, and I met up with Jennerator (had one beer) until it was show time. I sat at our reserved table like a good girl for about the first 10 songs....then I headed up to the front where a bouncer tried to remove me. I looked at the band and they nodded to him, so I got to stay in my own private, secured spot for the rest of the show. I'm a very loyal friend, but when I'm at a show I tend to wander off into solo spaces. I commune with loud speakers quite well. The Hip played Long Time Running for me, and this time I almost cried. It holds new meaning: Well worth the wait.

I called/text messaged Matt all night, and it does amaze me how, while standing there in all my glory, I missed him. That independent "I'll do what I want when I want" feeling is gone; however, I still dig the music.

Several friends were at the show, all told me I'm glowing. I am. I had three "backstage" passes, but ended up getting about 7 people back to meet the band. They all said, "You made my life - I owe you," and I just smiled. I actually left before anyone, left them gawking and talking to the band members, and I headed home to real life. But don't get me wrong, I still dig the music.

Today's Notables

I'm easily entertained.
I have Florida sand in my purse, shoes, suitcase, cell phone.
I'm packing and purging and sorting through everything.
I'm looking forward to the blasts from my past Thursday.
I have the only reserved table.
Luck follows me.

Back Home Again In...

Matt and I reluctantly returned home from Naples on Sunday. Saps. We enjoy 24/7 coalescence, and never seem to tire of the hand holding.

Eva cried when we left, which made me feel awful. Matt played soccer and football with her, and threw her around in the ocean and pool for a couple of days. Eva squealed with delight. My mom and sister looked at me and nodded. Girl sign language. I nodded back: I know.

We spotted my mom’s pet alligator, Aloisius, and Matt and I took copious photos, most of which require developing (I still prefer film!). We watched a suicidal egret apparently begging to be eaten, but I screamed "Fly for your life!" and saved him. Phew.

Other photos are displayed at the bottom of the page…

Matt and I got our much-needed time alone at the boutique Bayside Inn. We ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at fancy places, so it’s carrots and apples for me all week. If you're ever in Naples, Cafe Lurcat on the square - it's unbelievable.

We lay on the beach soaking up rays and bottled water. I introduced Matt to a little thing called sunblock. California boy.

Matt’s finest moment was when he fell over the bed one night and landed on the floor. I wake up every time he moves, so I was awake to witness the whole scene. I saw a perfect silhouette of flailing arms and legs; then, nothing. I lay quiet for a moment thinking, “Do I mention it…do I say something…do I ask him where he is?” He stayed on the floor for a few seconds and I finally said, “Honey…you ok?” He got back into bed and said, “I’m great; nothing to see here!” I laughed hard for 3 a.m., so hard I had tears running down my face. He joined me, and I don’t think we ever got back to sleep…

We talked and planned and thanked our lucky stars. The next several months should be unreal…can’t wait.

Adieu The Dying Moose

For a few more weeks, Matt and I will be living in our ethnic little neighborhood...the one without a single restaurant (we do have a Starbucks, or course). We cannot wait to get out of our place, can't wait to never again hear the trash collectors at 3:00 a.m., or the upstairs flush that I've come to call "the dying moose."

What I will miss is the little black man that stands outside the Children's Museum and waves to every single car passing in morning traffic. Has anyone seen him? Adorable!

I was at the bank at IUPUI the other day and another little old black man began chatting me up. We started talking books, and he threw out black authors: Alice Walker, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes. Yes, yes, I know them, I said. The Color Purple was one of my faves, and I told him that if I have a daughter I'm naming her Harper...did he know why? Yes!

Right before the bank teller called me forward, the little man said, "Miss, you have very good diction."

I gave him a wink.

R&R Coming Right Up

Oh, what a beautiful morning…

We had a great weekend. Busy. I was up early both days, 6 o’clock on Sunday. It’s my ritual to cook at least one big breakfast over the weekend, and I’ve mastered Matt’s ham and cheese omelette. The more he's around me, the earlier he emerges from the bedroom. I say, “Why waste life in bed?” and he agrees. Plus, we’re preparing ourselves.

Matt worked yesterday then called and asked if I wanted to visit the grounds of the art museum and soak up sun...my favorite spot! He even packed a picnic. Last night we saw Agatha Christie's The Unexpected Guest at IRT. I love introducing him to my haunts.

Matt saved a little mouse in our basement gym yesterday! My hero. He thought about bringing it home for a pet. : )

This will be a very short week then we’re off to vacation in sunny Florida. We’re visiting my sister/niece/mom in Naples for 2 days then staying at a swanky hotel on the bay, no family allowed. I adore swanky hotels; it’s just this thing with me. I love pretending I’m Eloise (the little girl who lived at the Plaza in NYC) for a few days.

Generally, I hate Florida. I hate the prickly vegetation and the high percentage of morons who live there. Hate the mentality. Hate Corvettes. So many gold chain necklaces, so little time. I loved visiting my sister those 11 years she lived on South Beach, but I never wanted to live there. It’s the perfect place for her, being an artist. She painted many hotels and restaurants on the strip in SOBE, and now Napleites pay exorbitant amounts to have murals painted on their children’s bedroom walls. Amazing.

My mom has an alligator living in her lake: I mean, that’s just weird. It’s so hot in the summer that you have “shine face” no matter how much M*A*C powder you pack, and towels never dry without the fluff cycle. Give me California (and give it to me soon!!).

Matt went to Florida once as a kid, but doesn’t remember it. He’ll like Naples and 5th Avenue…me in bikini. : ) He asked, “Can I surf?” I said, “Sure, baby, if you want to get nibbled by a shark.” No surfing! Just the ocean, books and tiny little drink umbrellas. We’re already riding our own wave…it's a long one.

Impulse Shopping No More

Tantamount to the Tragically Hip ever breaking up (shudder the thought), my favorite Broad Ripple boutique, Turandot, is closing. Pronounced exactly how it looks (people who say "Tur-an-doh" bring chalk screeching across my ears - it's an Italian opera, folks), it is where I've purchased at least 37 necklaces, 12 rings, 72 candles and every wedding or birthday gift I've handed out in 15 years.

Where will I spend my money now?

I actually have an answer for that. Stay tuned.

Le poulet est pourries...

Oh, God.

The first truly gorgeous weekend and I was sick for most of it. Ate some undercooked chicken on Thursday night (that I, um, undercooked) and by 4:00 a.m. I was visiting the bathroom pretty regularly with stomach poisoning. No work Friday, never got out of bed except for violent vomitting, and Matt waited on me hand and foot all weekend.

He kept trying to feed me, went out and bought me the strawberry/banana smoothies I love. After I had one, unfortunately, I sat up...and it came back up...on my sweatpants...which were really Matt's sweatpants. I took them off and told Matt I was heading back to bed. He eyed the pants and said, "Do we have any long tongs?" He kicked them all the way to the laundry room, and when he got there I heard him yell, "Hey - these are my sweats!"

Proof that I can still laugh with martian death flu.

Saturday I felt a little less pitiful and we took a walk on the Monon, then headed to my dad's for a barbeque...chicken! "Please God No!" I said, so they made me something more pleasing. That's about as high maintenance as I get.

Matt said, "Your dad is so philosophical...I could talk to him for hours." My dad gives such great insight on relationships, love, children, marriage. He's a sage with a huge heart, and I adore him.

The quads are getting ready to drive and they're applying for JOBS! The boys have steady girlfriends who hang out at the house all the time. Where did the time go, my babies?!

Tonight, Matt and I are heaing to Bella Vita for dinner, no poultry. We are living life in the slow lane, and it feels good.

Triscadecaphobia

Happy Triscadecaphobia Day!

Triscadecaphobia is the fear of the number 13. Many believe Friday the 13th is an especially unlucky day.

In Ancient Rome, the citizens dedicated the 6th day of the week to their beautiful Goddess Venus. Eventually this day evolved into Friday, and was considered to be the luckiest day of the week.

Muslims claim Friday as the day Allah created Adam, legend has it that Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit on a Friday, and later died on a Friday.

Christians consider Friday as the day on which Christ was crucified by the Romans. The Last Supper was Jesus said goodbye to his apostles before being crucified. How many were at the table? 14, including Judas.

Next up was Friday, October 13, 1307. The Pope of the church in Rome in Conjunction with the King of France, carried out a secret death warrant Against "the Knights Templar". The Templars were terminated as heretics, never again to hold the power that they had held for so long. There Grand Master, Jacques DeMolay, was arrested and before he was killed, was tortured and crucified.

The Scandinavians believe that the number 13 signified bad luck came from their mythological 12 demigods, who were joined by a 13th demigod, Loki, an evil cruel one, who brought upon humans great misfortune.

Please proceed with caution.

Farewell Vonnegut

If I write one more article or press release, design one more newsletter or direct mail piece, write one more grant or change one more detail on our website, I'll scream. I cannot wait for our vacation, belly and all. My favorite thing Matt says: You win in every category. My other favorite thing: I think it's sexy. : )

Why can't I stay home and write a book? Why must bills exist?

Kurt Vonnegut died today. Kevin and I saw him speak a few years back. Old and sharp and wry, just the way I like my authors. We'll miss him.

Treadin' Trodden Trails for a Long, Long Time

Friday, we had dinner with my bestest guy friend Eric and his new keeper girlfriend Stephanie (a la Sandra Bullock, only prettier) at Oakley’s. Matt and I arrived early (being prompt is my mantra) and received free situational comedy as we witnessed a room divider fall on two customers. I live for moments like those. It fell once, and they put it back up. The second time it fell in the opposite direction and landed on a lady’s head just as she tasted her gourmet mushroom soup. She exclaimed, “Ouch!” and I laughed, because I’m a horrible person, but she wasn’t hurt, so there. Matt said, “This place is a litigator’s dream!”

Eric is more organized than I could dream of being, and he’s not even a Virgo. One of the most sought-after production managers in the country, he’s befriended many bands over the years (and, thanks to him, so have I!). He and Stephanie already booked flights to Palm Beach to hang out with the Dave Matthews Band in September. I thought Matt and I were on top of our flights in May!

Digression: I met Dave Matthews backstage once. I planned the whole thing. I wore my college boyfriend’s Virginia t-shirt, and Dave came up to me and said, “I’m from Charlottesville!” I said, “Really?” (This was my trick, to play it off, be cool, not tell him I spent every other weekend there for five years.) He then said, and I quote, “I have to kiss this girl for wearing this shirt.” There were about 4 people standing around, including Eric, who just looked at me and laughed. I closed my eyes and puckered up, I guess, and felt Dave’s lips gently plant one on my cheek.

(Oh well, a Dave Matthews kiss on the cheek was fine, given that I’m not really a fan, anyway. I was much more excited when Peter Gabriel said hello and bowed to me in the backstage hallway!)

Return: Saturday Matt and I searched for places to live…and I think we’ve found one. The coolest part about it: a screened-in porch with a fire place in the middle of the backyard. It’s for sale or rent….hmm, decisions, decisions. Matt kind of wants to rent in case we move, but my savings is burning a hole in my bank account. I’ve never bought a house, and I keep throwing money into the “someday” account. In the back of my mind, I’ve always saved it for my escape to the South of France, it’s just that now I have a guy I’d take with me. Nice is so nice.

Sunday, I woke up extra early to place the Easter basket Matt's "bunny" left for him in a hot spot. I heard Matt stirring, so I quickly plopped it on the bathroom floor. Matt got up, walked in there, and said, “Honey, the Easter Bunny visited the bathroom!”

We visited my grandmother yesterday, who has a crush on Matt. He said the feeling is mutual—he is amazed by her sharpness and wit. They renewed their memberships in the Mutual Admiration Society, then Matt and I headed home to cook our Easter ham. Not a good day to be a pig, eh?

My sister did a last minute trip to Walgreen's for some extra loot for Eva. Problem was, she took Eva with her. Although it was a clandestine mission, Eva opened her stuff and said, "Mommy, the Easter Bunny shops at Walgreen's too!"

This Planet Earth

Today it is raining; I am pensive and solemn. We’ve watched “Planet Earth” on the Discovery Channel for the past two nights, and I haven’t been able to sleep due to worry about polar bears. This is my curse and my blessing of being hypersensitive, especially to animals.

Sure, I have data and answers about greenhouse gases, and a truly honest Republican administration (wait, did you catch the sarcasm there?) that says, “Who…us?”, yet I am flummoxed by how human beings, myself included, can ultimately care so little and do so little for the survival of these magnificent animals.

Bears have always been my favorite animals to watch. I prefer Kodiaks, but today I’m turning it over to the polar bears that are suffering, starving and drowning by the hundreds. Not that I wouldn’t protect you too, little seals, but you are the sustenance of the Arctic’s bellwethers, and there are plenty of you to go around.

I’ve been looking for ways to adopt a polar bear today, to no avail. I did find a website that allowed me to adopt Manfred, the Kodiak from Legends of the Fall, but I want a polar bear for a pet.

Last night, after watching a young polar bear surrender to the precarious ice, I told Matt we should help collect them and put them all in zoos. I know, shudder the thought, but at least they’d be alive. At least I could relieve this guilty conscience.

By the time my children, or maybe their children, are grown there will be no polar bears. Makes me want to ride a bike to work, but I would look silly, and where would I keep my bike all day, and what about rain storms, and what about days I wore skirts and, oh, someone else will take care of it.

He's My Cousin...

Matt and I went to see “Goldie,” a cool local black jazz singer, last weekend. We’d seen her at the Chatterbox before and, after requesting something by Nina Simone, were surprised when she nervously said, “Someone else asked me to sing something by her…I’m not at all familiar.” Zak! That’s like an English major never having heard of onomatopoeia.

This time, Goldie seemed a little more comfortable in her skin (although she still didn’t manage one single Nina song), but she had this audible schizophrenic thing going on where she dipped her solos low into a crazy baritone, then lofted them high into a childlike soprano cartoon character. The act needed another dress rehearsal.

Sitting next to Matt, with his raised eyebrows and I’m-gonna-lose-it face, gave me the kind of uncontrollable laughter attack I used to get in church. When she broke into a soulful original about her love for her husband, and I thought she was singing about her cousin (it sounded like a drawn out “c-o-u-s-i-n,” I swear), Matt said, “Jill, I’m gonna lose it – let’s get out of here.” And so we did.

Learn some Nina. I’m just sayin'.

Swim Meet

Matt and I house hunted all weekend. I go for the charming, Old World, dark wood accents and pine floors; Matt wants to be close to restaurants. : ) All we know is we've gotta get out of the 'hood we're living in now. We're going to rent a house in Meridian/Kessler or Butler/Tarkington, both of which Matt calls "Broad Ripple." He said he could live on the corner of Kessler and Meridian and it would still be Broad Ripple, to him.

We did manage a night out to the Jazz Kitchen on Friday, and we "swung" by Jason's State Masters' swim meet held way out in Bumbletucky Avon on Saturday (he won all 4 events he was in, of course. Lane "5" in photo). Jason's friends nicknamed him the appositive "diamond" years ago. Jason was always the champion swimmer; I was the putz-around-the-pool-being-cool lifeguard/diver. If he is the diamond, I am the piece of glass you step on at the beach.

I hadn't watched him swim since his college years. It was so fun watching the next generation, Liam and Finn, screaming "D-A-D!...D-A-D!" as Jason glided through the water. It was just as wonderful having them climb all over Matt and me. Adorable little beasts.

Happy Birthday, Billy Collins

Billy Collins, Poet Laureate 2001-2003

Billy Collins was born in New York City. He is one of America’s best-selling poets. His books include “Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems” in 2001, “Picnic, Lightning” in 1998, and “The Art of Drowning” in 1995. In October 2004, Collins was the inaugural recipient of the Poetry Foundation’s Mark Twain Award for humorous poetry. He has served as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library and he is a distinguished professor of English at Lehman College, City University of New York, where he has taught for the past 30 years.


Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins

Memory: Luna

I keep threatening to put more of my concert reviews on this blog, just like I’ve been threatening to post every single band photo I’ve ever taken (well, almost every single) on Flickr.com. I’m not lazy, I’m just busy. Where in the hell do these myspacers find the time?!

I’ve been listening to Luna at my desk today: the perfect rainy Monday music. Sadly, the band threw in the towel a couple of years ago, but I'm reminiscing having beers with Dean, the lead singer, in Chicago one night several years ago with my (that particular night) extremely intoxicated friend Alex. Star-struck days were so fun.

The funniest Luna story, however, was when I finally got to see them in Indy. A pretty girl started screaming at me out of nowhere about her boyfriend, with whom I’d had three dates (and, of course, he hadn't mentioned her). As a rule, I never argue with crazy people, and I simply said, “Thank you for the information.” She stood there continuing to tell me recent stories about the two of them and I said, “Look, thank you. Boyfriends come and go, but Luna has never been to Indy. You’ve paid your money, so you’re welcome to stay, but the band is about to take the stage so please remove yourself from my view” (oh, Jill, so quick on your feet!).

Her face went white. Shucks, I'd disappointed her; she was hoping for a fist fight, I think. She left, missing one hell of a show. I still remember her bright red lipstick; I forgot to ask her the color.

Perplexed for about 12 seconds, I wondered how in the hell she knew where to find me. Ah-ha, the preview:

Nuvo Newsweekly
Luna Preview
Feb 4 - Birdy’s

Despite the bleak dull-gray of winter, a full moon rises: The softcore rock band Luna will play their inaugural Indy show at Birdy’s on Tuesday, February 4. You there, romantic and pining sap…you don’t want to miss it.

Forming Luna in the early 90s after leaving his band Galaxie 500 (the predecessor to Luna’s delicate rock), lead singer Dean Wareham is still lead singer/guitarist/protagonist, though the cast of band characters has changed several times throughout the years. Drummer Stanley Demenski (The Feelies) has long since been replaced by Lee Wall; Justin Harwood (The Chills) by beauty Britta Phillips, yet Sean Eden holds his own on lead guitar. Hardly label allegiant, Luna recently set up camp at Jetset Records and, derivative of Galaxie 500, keeps producing gorgeous, restrained torpor in their own kind of Velvety Underground. Their 2002 release “Romantica” is followed up by their seventh wonder “Close Cover Before Striking.” Strikingly so, is a familiar template of their soft melodic flux. Harvard graduate Wareham’s unique, attentive voice forces most radio stars to keep beating the hackneyed dead horse. His timbre is melancholy and sweet, like an organ pipe that’s allergic to candy, and many of his lyrics border the insane: “Is there a doctor in the house? In the house of pancakes…”

Luna derived its name from Diane Keaton’s character in Woody Allen’s movie “Sleeper,” and ‘sleeper’ terms an apt resolution for Luna’s slowly advancing popularity, but that’s what makes cult bands good—right? Myself, and three others, once waited to meet Luna in a dismal Chicagoland alley after they played a show: the three of us, strangers, were from Indy, Bloomington and Terre Haute. Wareham, probably surprised that the Hoosier hand he’d just been dealt was not, in fact, euchre, grinned and said, “I guess we’d better get ourselves to Indiana.” And so they are, and they’re so worth your Tuesday night.

Lady In Waiting

My honey is on a jet plane heading back to me – I pick him up first thing in the morning. The week went by so quickly. Forget Skype: we talked 1-2 times a day from his cell phone (cannot wait to see that bill, charged to his company, of course). He had some pretty interesting stories of the astounding socio-disparity between Dubai and Delhi: marble streets in Dubai; cows in the streets of Delhi. Told me some other pretty interesting stories too. We can’t wait to hit “resume” on our life tomorrow.

Ironically, I heard at least 4 stories on NPR this week about Dubai’s corruption. Each time Matt called, I’d fill him in, and he’d say, “Doesn’t surprise me.” Single women from Indonesia, Philippines, etc. go there to earn a buck for their starving families. They end up as housemaids, where it is written into the law that they have no rights because they’re “family.” They’re beaten, sexually abused, and work about 20-hour days. Horrible. Matt said it’s not a place he’d care to see again.

While he was gone I bought a banjo…ah, she’s a beauty, a 5-string Fender. He called to tell me about his last day in Dubai, and I said, “That’s nice, I visited Sam Ash music; $400 later, I own a banjo.” Matt started laughing and said, “You’re kidding – that’s so cool!” Talk about disparity, but that’s why we get along so well. He’s the serious (although, for an attorney, wickedly funny) merger/acquisition type, and I’m the artsy one who starts a new instrument on a whim. Last night I sent him some photos of me holding my banjo, and I guess I’ll take some blog-friendly photos soon enough. : )

I’m researching vacation destinations today, and when he returns we’re running off somewhere for a week together. No family, no Treo (ok, probably the damn Treo, but we’re not answering it) and absolutely no one bothering us.

Maybe we'll go to Springfield, Illinois.

Matt's Underwear

Recently, Matt purchased some silky, sexy colorful new underwear. He got them home, ripped the tags off, tried them on and decided he wanted the next size up (perhaps I feed him too well?).

Since they couldn't be returned missing the tags, Goodwill does not take underwear, and they weren't really used, I gave them to my brother, who is exactly Matt's height, same build, just a little leaner (just a little).

Today, Jason sent his wife and me an e-mail with this subject line: I'm wearing Matt's underwear. He continued, "They're silky and soft and nice. Fit like a glove. Thanks."

I'm still laughing. No photos with this particular post.

Hip Day!

Gord Sinclair did a radio interview this week with local station WTTS. The DJ said, "We're getting a lot of calls regarding your new album and your upcoming show at the Vogue." Gord replied, "I think I know who's calling..."

The Hip were in town Tuesday so I took the day off (and the following day, too). They were stuck at Conseco Fieldhouse for the day, so I picked up Gord and Rob and took them to the art museum for the afternoon. Rob and I went head-to-head on our art history, and I had to rebuff a couple of his “facts.” We grabbed a late lunch at Wolfgang Puck’s and I gave them the Meridian Street tour, then I returned them to their rock-n-roll setting for sound check.

I attended the concert solo, and I give Matt so many cool points for this. Not many men are confident enough to allow their girlfriend to run off with 5 guys in a band, but I talk about/to them all the time, and Matt knows we’re friends. Besides, poor Matt was working late, but he trusts me completely. He and I keep growing into this amazing perfectness and, silly as it is, we text messaged all night. I’m with the guy every single day, yet I text message with him during a Hip show. Who am I, and what have they done with Jill? I’m taking him to the next show, for sure.

The show? Oh, amazing. The band let me sit in their guitar pit, just off the stage. I parked it right behind the Who’s wealth of guitars. There were already hundreds of people at the show, either there to see the Hip (I heard many scream-outs), or waiting for the Who to take the stage, but I was too shy to look out…I was basically sitting in front of everyone. The Hip only played a 50-minute set, but I sang every word and they all smiled and nodded to me throughout the show. I felt kind of, ya know, spoiled.

Their entourage wasn’t there since, after all, they were in Indy, so I got them all to myself backstage, where we sat, drank beer and talked until the Who finished. I got to be witty and bubbly with no outside interference!

A cute African American woman (I’m socially conditioned never to say “black” anymore, although I’m almost certain this woman had never been to Africa – another blog) was sitting outside of Roger Daltrey’s room, guarding his privacy. I walked by and said, “Cool job!” She admitted that she’d never heard of the Who until THAT DAY, and I said, “Oh, honey, you are sitting outside the room of a very famous person.” She smiled and asked, “Really?” So, so cute.

I am not a Who fan. Gord and I walked across the street to Mo’s, and I caught one song from backstage, the “Whoooooooo are you, who who, who who” song. A conversation ensued:

Gord: You like this song, don’t you?
Jill: Um, I know this song. Not my thing.

We had one beer at Mo’s, and they were off to Rochester, NY. The boys are back in May, and Matt’s in for such a treat....since he likes when I'm witty and bubbly. : )

Spring Dreaming

Matt nudged me this morning, saying, “Honey…the sun…look!” He neglected to mention that it’s also Friday. Ah, so happy.

We had several “OMG!” moments this week, but it passed, as things do, and tonight we’re going to snuggle close over a relaxing feast at R Bistro. I’m turning Matt into a regular foodie.

….Which leads me to the dilemma he’ll be facing soon when he travels to Dubai and India: what will that boy possibly eat? He’s a wee bit of a steak and pasta kind of guy (no steak in India), so I told him I’ll pack him lots of snacks for the trip. He plans to live on beef jerky (possibly the grossest “food” known to mankind). I shudder.

Not that I want to see him go, but I love the missing part. A little separation is good. I’ll miss the daily email exchanges and his call every afternoon at lunch time to “see how I am,” but honestly, I revel in doses of alone time. He’s downloading Skype to my computer, and loaning me his microphone so that we can talk every day. I wouldn’t tell him this, but that makes me purr inside.

My friends across the country are saying, “Come here for a week!” San Francisco is tempting. Free plane fare to any Hip show (currently on tour – tickets on sale now) is even more tempting but, strangely, I look forward to my role of taking to /picking up from the airport, hearing him on Skype and awaiting his return. It’s romantic, and I’m a sucker for that.

We’re planning our own trip when he returns. We’re considering Ixtapa, as we both like Mexico. I haven’t been to the parts where he has been, and vice versa. We may settle for Florida. Where ever it is, it’s going to be hot, and there’s going to be sand and a whole lotta lovin. After all, Spring is in the air.

His company just acquired a very large distributor in Denmark, and minutes after congratulating him for finally closing the deal, I said, “Let’s move there!” I’m pretty sure I was born to live in Europe – I absolutely love it there. Matt said, smiling, “Hmm…could be a possibility.” Oh please oh please oh please. I can write anywhere!

One of my favorite memories is the day I took a bike ride by myself in the countryside of France. I rode one of those big “Dorothy” bikes from the Wizard of Oz, and I swear a huge baguette on the back would have completed the look. I stopped and took photographs, picked wild flowers, walked in fields of lavender and waved to the locals—I want more days like that.

Matt and I kick around a California move a lot – I was “made” there, and he was raised there, and we both certainly have the laid-back attitude (and blonde locks). But there’s history, culture and sophistication throughout Europe that no city in America contains. Certainly not Las Vegas, and by no means Reno. I’m fairly certain of that.

We’ll figure it out; we’re both seekers, so that’s half the battle. And now I must go write something for a living…

Sweet Comic Valentine

Damn it, if I were cooler and had a Myspace account, I could emoticon my present mood, but I’ll just have to verbally express it here: sick of winter.

Valentine’s Day was good: Matt and I celebrated our first date and first kiss by eating at the Rathskeller for dinner…where we had our first lunch date two years ago. Suddenly a German biergarten seems wildly romantic.

It was such a cold, snowy night. We’d enjoyed two snow days at home, a whole lot of lounging around making each other laugh, and last night I got him to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Nothing bad could ever happen there.

A little e-drama came in from Tyrannosaurus Ex, but now I just shrug and go to sleep. I look back over the past two years and realize that so much has happened, but it’s all good. It’s like eating scrambled eggs in the diamond section pretty much every day.

Up All Night

I have been in fighting relationships before, relationships that turned me into a yeller, and relationships that turned me into a mouse. With a couple of boyfriends, the authorities have yet to find the bodies. It is nice to finally be in a relationship where we rarely, if ever, argue. Sure, we’ve had some blow-ups over the past year, but Matt finally backed his bus out of the cul-de-sac and parked on my street, leaving us nothing but time on our hands, always happy.

When we do fight is while we’re sleeping. Each night I have to come up with my escape route for Matt’s utterly chaotic 8-or-so hours of slumber. I have never experienced anything quite like it.

First of all, he talks in his sleep. No secrets have ever been revealed, but often he’ll sit up and say things like, “I told you not to go in there!” or “Damn it, I don’t know!” and I wake up thinking, “What the hell?” He’s a vivid dreamer, and he physically participates in them.

The avalanche: Often times, in the middle of the night, Matt lifts the blankets and sheet, rolls over in mid-air and “lands” on me, while also pushing me to the edge of the bed. Regularly, this leaves me less than 1 inch of personal space in which to, ahem, rest.

The gate: When I feel the avalanche about to erupt, I lock one leg down, creating a gate that he can’t get past. This eliminates being completely pushed off the bed, which I have experienced. When getting pushed off the bed I simply get up, go to his side and sleep on his pillow until the avalanche erupts in the other direction.

A tip for sleeping with someone like this: always keep a reserve of blankets wadded up near your head so that you can fist them pretty quickly. Obviously, I’m a light sleeper, and can think through these scenarios consciously, reacting appropriately.

After Matt’s consumed a few beers and/or a few glasses of wine, I really must be on my toes, so to speak. Last week, after being pushed off the bed at 3 am, I got up and took digital photos of him lying in the pile of blankets...on my side of the bed. I showed him my proof in the morning, threatening to publish it here. He shrugged. I really don't scare him, I'm afraid.

I like the idea of spooning, but I'm a spooning menace. I mean, it’s nice to start out that way, but within ten minutes I’m usually hot or uncomfortable. But I find him in the middle of the night, snuggle and get warm again then I shut the gate.

Almost every morning I have a sleeping story to relay; I usually threaten him “if it happens again…”, and we laugh.

Babel On And On

There’s a sadness in George Bush’s eyes; with the lowest approval rating ever, no laudable plan in sight, and no brain to speak of, it’s gotta be tough getting out of bed in the morning. We watched his State of the Union address last week, and for the folks out there who’re still holding on for dear life thinking that speech (which, of course, he didn’t pen) was anywhere near sorting through “a drawer full of diamonds” (puuulease) … well, your cold day in hell is coming.

Bush, you do understand the term “babel?” We don’t understand you.

I actually feel kind of sorry for him – I never make fun of the mentally handicapped. But I can’t look at him. I spent most of my time watching Nancy Polosi blinking and slyly trying to work a seed out of her tooth with her tongue.

And the gallery of heroes, come on. “Zoom in on that highly decorated fella (Bush’s words, no doubt) … no, not that one … the one with the scar on his face. Make the public see his suffering and how I’ve brought him here to exploit him!”

And the subway hero: cute. Blowing kisses. Did a good thing. 15 minutes pass slowly when you can't survive poverty. Enjoy it.

I didn’t write home about Democrat Jim Webb’s rebuttal speech, either. He would have seemed more comfortable, more believable, wearing a turquoise silk smoking jacket. And I didn’t really care about his father’s picture – I have better pictures of my dad in Vietnam. That was your one chance, dumbass. Give us more!

I’m not on a bandwagon here: I’ve backed Obama for years. As I shake my head, I am hopeful.

Mazel Tov

Matt and I attended our first Bat Mitzvah over the weekend for the daughter of his boss. I have always been known as Jill, friend of the Jews, but it was my first glimpse into the rite of passage for thirteen-year-old Jewish kids.

The event was beyond extravagant, and Matt and I figured they dropped well over $50k. They made us work for our dinner, though: a 2 hour service in the morning (we didn’t understand a damn thing), tons of prayers, speeches, videos and “the chain” (that stupid dance thing they do at these types of things) before dinner. We were starving.

Thirteen-year-olds have come a long way. When I was thirteen I certainly didn’t own an evening gown. The little girls all looked high school aged, and while I was waiting in line for the bathroom, a young boy walked by and said, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” I was absolutely stunned. Matt said, “Honey, you’ve still got it!”

I felt a mixture of flattery and fear.

Doing My Part For Victory

I’ve learned over the years that I’m a sports team jinx, especially during playoffs. It's because of my upbringing, and my fair-weathered-fanaticism. Peyton Manning’s losing streak was no accident – it was due to my watching. Matt and I went to our local pub last night and watched the first half of the AFC Championship game. Shut up, I know: 21 to 6 at the half, because of me. I told Matt that all we needed to do was high-tail it out of there, go home and lock me in a closet.

So we went home and locked me in the bedroom where I suffered through yet another bad Netflix choice – Memoirs of a Geisha. Complete rotter. I’d turn down the volume from time to time, listening for Matt’s cheers or yelling. With about 6 minutes to go I tiptoed into the living room. The game was tied. Matt said, “We’ll see how this play goes before I determine if you can stay or not.”

Massive sack; back to the Geishas.

I finally heard Matt screaming, “We won…we actually won!” I ran to the living room to watch the last 10 seconds of glory – it was fantastic!

After the win, Matt was outside smoking his victory smoke and one of the neighbors, also outside, held out a huge firework and asked Matt to light it. I said, “Um, um…that’s the kind that you’re supposed to put down on the ground.” He was a large African American guy. I continued, "Hee hee... I think..."

With my logical advice, he threw it. It began shooting extremely loud blasts of flames and sparks all over the courtyard, hitting people’s windows and doors, and undoubtedly waking the neighborhood. Matt and I stood there, our mouths agape saying Matt’s favorite phrase: Oh My God. Laughing our asses off, we went inside, turned out the lights and watched the angry neighbors peering from their windows. Classic.

I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I get football now, and I rather like it. My first thought this morning was “We’re going to the Super Bowl,” which is crazy talk coming from me. Even my sister, less of a sports fan than I, called me from Florida saying, “I really don’t care, but it is so exciting!”

Our dad watched somewhere in the neighborhood of zero football games when we were growing up. He would fill us with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson then present a lecture on Harper Lee, Martin Luther, or maybe Constantine – any literature or history he could get his hands on.

It’s a wonder I come up with anything at the water cooler.

Stolen

I’m a sentimental little thing. Two years ago today I was sitting amidst a group of attorneys at a bar (I’m also a creature of habit), pretty much bored out of my mind. Yeeeawn. It was the going-away party for the guy I was dating, who was moving to the Big Apple. He was like a giant cupcake iced with caffeine and bourbon: yummy, but bad for me.

Matt had been invited to the party too, and walked in late (also a creature of habit). My heart jumped the first moment I laid eyes on him. He and my “boyfriend” were co-workers. Oops. For the first half hour I was too afraid to make eye contact with him, and for the last hour we couldn’t take our eyes off of each other. He slipped me his business card on his way out.

I e-mailed him the following Monday morning and he wrote back: “I’m glad you wrote!” We met for lunch soon after that (Valentine’s Day, to be exact), and within months he stole me away completely. Swwwwwipe! Through the many peaks and few valleys, and even when I've wanted to kill him, it’s been amazing.

We were out last night and a bartender recognized me from my column – always a little fun for the ego. Matt gets a kick out of this phenomenon (the whole 4 times it’s happened), and I love telling people, “This is Love Interest!” Their reaction is usually "Oh."

Immortalized between the pages of INtake – what more could a man want? Ok, a lot more, and maybe I became a bit unidimensional in my subject matter. Worth it! I’m too a romantic little thing…

When people ask how we met, we usually reply with, "Oh, at a work function..."

Bookish

My book club is divided into two groups: the girly-girls who choose clever chick lit (sugary dating stories, mostly), and those of us who enjoy a darker, biting read. Lit noir, how I love thee.

United, we all just read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and, collectively, loved it. It’s more of a chick book than not, a memoir whose character is so strong, calm, blithe and alarmingly unaffected that she creeps into your consciousness like a true friend. Her childhood makes Running with Scissors read like nothing more than an insipid story on a cereal box.

She begins her tale cooking hotdogs over a stove, aged three, and her dress catches fire. From there the book is difficult to put down. Her parents let her and her 3 siblings raise themselves, basically, offering only cool shrugs for guidance.

She’s now a journalist and contributor for MSNBC and, at least in book club, she’s our hero. Her childhood was nothing but struggle and strife, and she never once complains. There is no “constant sorrow,” only lessons learned and picked-up boot straps.

Currently I’m reading Herzog by Saul Bellow, a Canuck (I swear I didn’t know!) and master of winding redemption. Herzog is self-tortured, Nabokovian, deep and dark…just the way I like my read (but not the way I like my men – okay, maybe just a little).

I love book suggestions so please feel free to e-mail me yours. Keep it dark, will ya? My friend Anne (talk about a struggling life: a cool pad in Fiona Apple’s backyard, daily walks in Venice, yoga and a new boyfriend, “Dexter,” a true Showtime original; poor Anne) and I have traded books since high school, and if I had a nickel…

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

No More Contacts!

I had Lasik surgery performed on Friday, and today I have 20/20 vision in one eye, and 20/15 in the other. Matt took off work Friday afternoon and went with me. I was a brave soul about the procedure and only grimaced once when I sensed them cutting my first cornea. Matt watched the procedure and told me later that the instrument looked like a meat slicer. The laser gas smelled like burning flesh, and I was afraid they’d laser out all the blue. Other than that it was just great.

There was a woman waiting to go after me, who completely panicked about the surgery (I actually moved up into her spot in line due to her screams and frantic shivering, the poor thing). Matt watched via a TV screen, which they provided in the lounge/waiting area. Bad idea. A few times during the surgery, he said, “Oh, God – eeeee – ooh! ouch!” When I came out of the operating room he grabbed my hand and whispered, “I don’t think that lady is going through with it because I freaked her out so much.”

The entire process took less than 10 minutes. Matt’s been religiously putting drops in my eyes, and the first night he even washed my face for me (amusing, because he didn’t trust that I wouldn’t accidentally swipe my eye).

Last night we drank a fantastic bottle of Bollinger since we stayed clear of the champagne on New Year’s Eve, and toasted my new eyes.

Waking Up In Reno

We had a wonderful trip to Tahoe, but if I never visit Reno, Nevada again it will be too soon. Casinos, in general, are not my thing: too noisy, and too full of depressing (depressed?) people. It’s true, I’d never stepped foot inside a casino before this trip, but I already knew, like knowing I wouldn’t like Hamburger Helper without having tried it. I witnessed several down-on-their-luck folks spending their Christmas bonuses or last dimes on Earth, and it made me shudder. I’m sure I’d like Vegas a bit more than Reno (a bit), but when I have vacation time, Europe, San Fran or NYC appears on my radar…not Vegas. The American Airlines Magazine said that Vegas is the #1 vacation spot in America: also terrifying, and another good reason not to go there. I think a lot of buffets serve Hamburger Helper.

I’m too practical for gambling because, deep down, I hate parting with money. I’m an investor—gambling with common sense. I did have fun with Matt, though, and losing $25, my limit. Matt played blackjack several times; it was fun watching him, but I experienced sympathy pains when he lost even $10. I played video poker and slots: an “I Dream of Jeanie” version as a joke, which kept saying, “Yes, master…yes, yes!” I was horrified, and decided to surrender my last $2.50 and walk away.

After smoking, gambling is about the only thing Matt and I don’t have in common; still, I’m “game” for anything. I told him that our next vacation will be of the Jill variety, getting drunk in Sonoma or traipsing through the warrens of Barcelona. I think I heard Matt say, “Yes, master…yes!”

We were in Reno for a day and a half, which, even Matt said felt like six weeks. His brother and dad picked us up and we headed to our rented villa in Tahoe, where the power was out due to a snow storm. We celebrated family Christmas beside the tranquility of candlelight.

We all went to bed the first night shivering in our long underwear, but the house regained power in the middle of the night. Matt and I awoke melting, realizing we had the room quite literally as hot as hell. We slept every night with the window open…and our view? Heavenly.

No, really. We skied Heavenly Mountain, which was exhilarating and so incredibly beautiful. We stood at the top and took tons of photos of the lake/mountain juxtaposition (I carried my digital while skiing and managed not to smash it). Matt is a far better skier than I (I don’t do “black,” only “blue”), but I kept up with him and we laughed and soared. His young nephew had a meltdown on the mountain unfriendly to riders because of cat tracks, but Matt tucked him in between his skis and steadied him down our last stretch of terrain. My heart pitter-patted.

Snowboarders drive me crazy, his nephew notwithstanding. Riders do not yield to traffic because they have NO control. I will never board.

We ice skated one day in town, and here I finally got to use my moves. Matt was actually very good for a beginner, so we’re going to start skating at the Indiana State Fair Grounds (he said he would but, come to think of it, he was a little drunk).

Evenings, his dad made hot buttered rum (hot buttered YUM), and we’d all play poker (I like poker), or go into town and do the casino thing again (ding ding ding ding ding ding ad nauseam). We’d end the days by piling into the hot tub set on a wooded hill, and stare out over the mountains and lake. I sneaked away to read only twice. His parents spoiled us—I mean, really. I had only been to Tahoe in the summertime, but it’s a sight for dismal Indiana winters.

Matt and I left the bunch on New Year’s Eve, "heading back to Indy" because we wanted a little alone time to call our own. Little did we know we’d be spending that quality time at the Reno Airport Best Western.

Our flight to Chicago was delayed almost 3 hours, so what do you think we did? (My dad guessed this in about 2 seconds) We went to a bar. The bloody marys were going down so deliciously as we kept our eye on the arrival/departure screen which, I guess, was stuck on “Delayed,” because we missed our freakin’ flight!

Matt and I were both utterly stunned when we walked to gate C-10 and found no one there. There were no more flights out, and the ticket agents felt so horribly that they comped us a “suite” *coughcough* and $20 (Matt let me order anything off the menu) for dinner at the Best Western. He and I stood hugging, kissing, and trying not to cry in the middle of the airport. Matt’s eyes gazed off into the distance for a minute. I snapped my fingers saying, “Honey…honey…come back.” Eventually, he said, “Sorry, I went to my happy place.”

What we thought was going to be the worst night of our lives—more Reno, for God’s sake—turned out to be one fantastic and romantic evening. We had no luggage. We ate in the gross hotel restaurant (we asked to be seated in the “way back,” and we were, next to a table full of the next day’s supply of butter, jellies and coffee mugs). “Surf & Turf” was sirloin and thawed shrimp. We drank in the smoky lounge with the locals. We played video poker. We couldn’t help but to keep smiling. It was the best New Year’s I’ve ever had.

At 11:57 Indiana time, we returned to the room and watched Anderson Cooper countdown on CNN. At midnight, Matt said, “I fell under a lucky star.” Pitter-pat all over again.

We caught a standby flight at 6:15a.m., and I’ve never been so happy to be back in Indianapolis.

Last night, while sitting on the couch, we both kept asking, “What’s that sound?” The pine needles were falling off the Christmas tree in droves. I quickly removed the ornaments before they too fell to the floor, and we sneaked the tree outside to the dumpster. There were 64 needles left.

Old Man Winter has yet to tap on our window with a vengeance, but I fear he’s drawing near.

Snappy Holidays

Oh, devoted blog readers, friends and countrymen, have a great holiday wherever you may roam. My honey and I will soon be on the slopes of Tahoe, racing to the finish line (I'd put your money on me because I don't smoke).

I would not put your money on me at the blackjack table, however.

Hope all is merry and bright!

First Edition

For those of you undecided on stocking stuffers (my presents have all been wrapped for weeks), you can always buy the history of Bose McKinney & Evans. It's available in both hard cover and paperback online, and let me tell you, it's enthralling, because I wrote it, and it's about a law firm. I spent two years interviewing attorneys (attorneys and I, we have this thing) and...here it is. Learn about Unigov, The Duke Connection, school consolidations: it's all in here. While supplies last, it's the perfect gift for the holidays!

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Limpy

I’m having one of those “I need a vacation” days, full of consistent chaos. For starters, I’m walking around on a swollen big toe, and it’s Monday.

Thankfully, I’ll soon be embarking on a vacation, toe and all. Matt and I are going skiing next week with his family; ironically, as I gathered ski pants and mittens from high places around the apartment last night, I somehow managed to break a blood vessel in my big (now huge) toe. Yeah, that’s exactly one week before I’ll be riding the mountains. Egad.

I’m wearing my running shoes today (not with a skirt and pantyhose, like so many fashionably-challenged women do), and as I limped outside to start my vehicle this morning, I discovered that I’d left the dome light on and my battery was dead.

Matt said, “To the rescue!” but we couldn’t find his jumper cables (probably packed with my long underwear), so I called my old friends at AAA. Matt felt badly leaving me to fend for myself, but I’m a big girl, and a master at problem solving. Still, it’s nice being worried about, even if your mantra retains an “independent streak.”

My friend Darryn says, “You’re independent to a fault,” but is there such a thing? I have no desire to ever be tied to a railroad track waiting for someone to rescue me, and if my nail breaks it stays broken until it grows back.

I was raised to be independent and I very much like alone time. I grew up swimming until my hair turned green; taking all kinds of dance/gymnastic lessons; reading for hours on my bed; writing in journals; riding horses; taking long walks in the woods where I would 1). Hunt for mushrooms, or 2). Stare at trees; drowning Barbie in her pool (kidding, I never held her under that long); and I started making my own doctor's appointments circa 7th grade.

And what do I have to show for it? Apparently, a puffy, purple toe.

Happy Monday.

Horton Hears The Who

Gord e-mailed me today telling me that the Hip will be in Indy at the beginning of March…opening for the Who. Humbly, he asked if I’d like to be on the guest list. These guys are always first class, treating me as the VIP, and I cannot say enough great things about their friendship, their nurturing, their intellect.

I’d rather sit in a corner and drool on myself than watch television (although, I must say, we’ve become rather fond of occasional Everybody Loves Raymond repeats), and I’m constantly drawn to challenging brains. Feed me, make me work for it, make my heart flutter and ponder, alight with knowledge.

Even Matt, who reads (mostly contracts and business briefs, but reads he does) all day, comes home and browses my bookshelves for a lofty gem. I push Chabon; Steinbeck; Foer; Eugenides; Bellow. I too love nurturing, feeding the soul. Life is too short for sitcoms.

I’ve lately been wandering along the musical paths of My Morning Jacket (my brother’s friend, Carl, is a native-Indy boy and lead guitarist) and Ray Lamontagne, my head and heart tangled in analogy and foreboding of joy and despair.

Thank God I’m not a business person!

I visited my ninety-one-year-old grandmother recently, who had a pile of books sitting by her side. “I’ll read these this week—the library delivers as many as I can consume.”

Behold the power of genes.

I feel creative late at night when I’m just about to fall asleep. I nudge Matt and say, “They’re back – the thoughts are coming rapidly.” He says, “Get up! Write! Write them all down!”

I usually smile and fall asleep.

I’ve kept a journal since the 7th grade, and I’ve kept a notepad next to my bed for many moons. The coiling weave of thoughts - it hovers. I plait the sentences and the grammar falls into place.

And can you tell that I’m currently drinking Pinot Noir? It doesn’t hurt, either.

The Christmas spirit has hit. We’ve already watched the Grinch, Charlie Brown Christmas, and Matt watched Miracle on 34th Street with me the other night…for the first time ever. I witnessed a festive little tear in his eye when Natalie Wood discovered her new house.

Actually, Matt said, unimpressed, “That’s how it ends?”

Men.

We decorated our tree then lay partially beneath it (a Brooks’ tradition), quietly staring at the lights and listening to Vince Guaraldi.

No eggnog, yuck.

All this cheer is ostensible to realizing we no longer live close to much of anything, that our place is cold most of the time, and that we’re still in Indiana…for now.

Last night, around 9:30, I said, “I either want to take a bath or go to bed – they’re the only warm choices.”

He poured my water.

Wine Bar

Somewhere amid three bottles of wine and countless beers...part of the Brooks bunch & Matt. We listened to 45 bluegrass songs and were about to take it outside with our hard-edged waitress. My sister-in-law and I were dubbed the "Can Girls" as we swayed and flirted deeply into the wallets of disarmed men, helping collect monies for the band.

Did I have a hangover the next morning? You bet!

Thanksgiving

It has been said that I’m a neat freak; couple that with a shard of OCD (I select one green bean at a time at the grocery), and you have me mopping the kitchen floor around 11pm, like I was last night.

Matt and I are in our new place, and although it’s a mite more snug, we love it. There are dark, hardwood floors (a Swiffer…I get to use a Swiffer!), crown molding, and any quirk one would expect to find in a place built in 1914. Each night we unpack boxes, and we’re slowly making our way to finding the box that holds the remote control (Matt’s OCD begins here – he’s a man, after all).

Sure, there was a gas leak that Matt and his mom detected, but it’s charming, I think.

The best part about moving is the joy of purging. I think we’re now on the Salvation Army’s Christmas card list. It’s a time to ask oneself: Do I really need my album collection anymore? (mostly hand-me-downs from my sister, but there are some good oldschool Fleetwood Mac recordings in there).

Between computers, scanners, TVs, printers, iPods, Mp3 players, speakers, wires, cords and my very-expensive-and-I-can’t-wait-to-get-rid-of-it stereo, there is little room left for the couch.

The first night there I made macaroni and cheese; it was all I could find in the wreckage. I felt very “Barefoot in the Park” when I said, “Come and get your hot meal!”

Last night we ate in the dining room, and this weekend we’re shopping for a Christmas tree…the Charlie Brown kind that we can squeeze into a corner.

I’m blessed; on that note, Happy Thanksgiving!

Ding Dong: The Witch Is Dead

The house is FINALLY *selling* and we're heading downtown. We will miss the trees...but not the long commutes! So long, Geist.

Call me for our new whereabouts. :)

Voter Appreciation 101

Buh-bye crazy people of the world! Let us begin with Rumsfeld...

Massage Therapy

I ran yesterday for the first time in 3 weeks…ah, it felt so good. Matt treated me to a massage on Friday at a day spa, and it made all the frou frou difference. I consider “pampering myself” a run in the woods instead of the neighborhood, but my back’s been killing me, and I know he’s just trying to get me healthy so I can help lift boxes. I’m on to him.

The atmosphere of a massage makes me giggle. The rooms are dimly lit with soft George Winston-esque music playing and scented candles burning. Hold a crystal if you want, but I think it's silly. It’s a tranquil, romantic setting…and then the chubby girl enters the room.

My massage therapist was very kind and soft spoken, like a good massage therapist should be. She whispered everything. With great acuity, I took pleasure in throwing her off by answering in a normal tone, and asking her lots of questions.

I was congested because I caught Matt’s cold (clearly, he owed me this massage), and the room was freezing. She’d put hot, wet towels on me, which was great at first, but while she was busy rubbing my neck and getting gooey oil in my hair (it’d been a perfect hair day until then), they’d cool and I’d be left shivering.

I told that her my lower back needed special attention, but these people are systematic and must go in order: head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, so I took it in stride. I was half-naked, after all, so who was I to complain? After a while, however, I thought, “Stop fiddling with my ears and rub my damned back!” She rubbed a stone around on my stomach, the final straw, and finally she told me that I could turn over.

Lying on my back wasn’t problematic because I was still breathing through both nostrils, but when she had me turn on my stomach and plant my face in the head cubby, my body became tense with the fear that my nose would run. I couldn’t relax. Oh, gentle irony, you’re never lost on me.

The more I lay there, the more the pressure built in my sinuses, until finally I had to breathe with my mouth open, thus creating more tension from the angst of possibly drooling. This really sucked.

My back is better, though, and I have the sweet caress of a girl I never knew to thank for it (and Matt, of course). For a small price (actually, these appointments are quite expensive), Matt got his running partner and heavy lifter back.

My Sister Is Published!

First-day jitters
Southwest Florida Parent & Child Magazine
By Angie Brooks

I KNEW IT WAS TIME for my daughter to go to preschool when she emphatically said to me, "Mom, when I go to school, you can’t come. I am going by myself!" WOW. That got my attention and felt like a hard prelude to the teenage years of parental rejection, although she was barely 3.

I realized I had been dragging my feet. We had been "interviewing" schools for more than a year, comparing ABCs and 123s, but none ever seemed to be good enough for Mommy. Each time we would check out a school together, she would excitedly think this is it — and I would have to drag her away, as Eva protested, "NO! I want to go to school!" After collecting pamphlets from every preschool in all the local counties (and some other states and countries), I looked at the mound of information clutter on my dining room table and made one last call. Yea! They offered diversity, a bilingual program, gardening, art, yoga, music, cooking … (I wanted to go, too).

I finally signed the dotted line, got her a physical, and two days later, we drove up to the new preschool, back pack and lunch box in tow. We were greeted at the door, "Buenos Dias." She was shown her own cubby, and then she led me into the classroom. I showed her where the bathroom was and gave her a quick refresher on manners and hygiene (yes, overprotective mom). Her eyes were everywhere, she was absorbing the environment, touching the puzzles, and this new exotic foreign land. She said, "The teacher wants us to go outside in two minutes." Eva pecked me and eagerly headed to join the other kids in line. No drama.

I suddenly realized I was the only parent left in the room and I headed for the door. I looked her teacher in the eye and said, "I am the one who is afraid to go." She patted my arm reassuringly and responded, "It’s normal." I walked out the door, giant tears running down my face, walked to my car, got in and cried a tsunami. Somehow, I managed to drive home, and felt the empty car seat staring at me. There I was greeted by an unremembered heavy silence. I drank my coffee alone, no noise, no questions to be answered, no needs to fill. I walked in the yard; my shadow was not following me. It was the longest day of my life, waiting and watching the clock.

When I picked her up she came bouncing around the corner, beaming, and gave me a big knowing hug as she rattled on about her fun day at preschool.

On the way home, I glanced back at the car seat where my preschooler sat singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" to herself in Spanish. I smiled. We had survived the first day.

— Angie Brooks is an artist living in Southwest Florida.

Happy Halloween

A Year In Time

Last year on this day I arrived home from Europe. I’d been in Ireland and Scotland for 10 days, and had had enough of my ugly American travel partners. When our plane left Edinburgh, I already knew I’d be flying home two days early…alone.

Traveling together can ruin a friendship, and I’d been miserable since we left Indiana. I’d sneak to computers late at night and email Matt and my family. My favorite memory of the entire trip was sitting at an antique desk on the third story of an old mansion in Cork, Ireland. The wind blew the curtains next to me as the rain pounded the shutter roof. I sat and wrote to Matt; he replied in 30 seconds.

I am smitten with Europe, but at that moment I knew there could be something better than architecture, cobblestone streets and tea with milk.

On our plane to Amsterdam, the last leg of the trip, I sat in the middle seat; my travel partner listened to music blaring from his iPod. I whispered to the stranger sitting next to me on the other side: I need help getting away from this person.

I was trying to be discreet, but I freaked the guy out and he loudly asked, “WHAT?” I shushed him and said, “This person I’m with is crazy; we’re in a huge fight and I’m leaving for the States the minute I get to Amsterdam; can you just make sure he doesn’t, you know, kill me?”

I felt like I was escaping from an abductor. The stranger quickly became my ally and mentioned that he had four other friends on the flight and that they’d all keep an eye on me.

When we landed, I explained to my co-traveler that not everyone was meant for seeing the world together and that I was leaving...on a jet plane.

He screamed at me in the middle of the airport, but my eyes were on my new Dutch friends, who were lurking near us and gesturing in an “are you ok?” way. I nodded. I was fearless and I wanted out.

My now ex-friend and I parted ways, after he refused to give me any information regarding our flight home. Credit card in hand, I walked to a help desk and explained that I had no ticket, no idea of when my flight left, but that I needed to get the hell out of Amsterdam immediately.

The attendant told me this was the worst travel debacle he’d ever seen, and so took pity on me; thank God for e-tickets or it would have cost me $3,000. He booked me a first class flight for the following morning, so I stayed alone in Amsterdam for one night. I drank a couple of glasses of wine and emailed Matt: I’m free! I’m coming home!

The flight home was one of the best experiences of my life. I’d flown first class before…but alone?! Never. The crew did everything except give me a sponge bath, which I’m sure I could have requested.

When I took my seat I was offered champagne. I said, “Keep it coming – I really deserve it,” and they did. I ate one of each of everything and drank a few glasses of wine too (longer flight returning to the States, darn that air stream). I slept a lot too: the seats reclined completely! I may be the first person in history who departed a flight refreshed and satiated…and 5 pounds heavier.

Matt picked me up at the airport; I haven’t left him alone since.

Aunt Roadie

I had my first banjo lesson this weekend given by…my dad. I played “Go Tell Aunt Roadie” and learned to “pinch” and “roll.” I love it! I went looking to buy my own banjo…but ended up buying new dining room chairs instead. So, I’m a sucker for home furnishings. The banjo will be my Christmas present to myself.

Matt and I went to see a bluegrass band Saturday night; the banjo player let me sit in his seat and hold his “sweet bluegrass edition.” I begged him not to make me embarrass myself by playing Aunt Roadie in front of the audience. I tipped him $10 and he let me off the hook.

We went to see the Hotel Café tour at the Music Mill Sunday night. Matt went to the Colts game first (snooze) so I went to the venue early to hang with my L.A. friends Tim Jones, Jim Bianco & Brad Gordon (current owner of my childhood clarinet). The tour is going strong and features many L.A. bands, such as Cary Brothers (Garden State soundtrack, and it’s not “The Cary Brothers.” His name is Cary), the Weepies (I renamed them Simon & Girlfunkel), Josh Radin, Matt Costa, etc. Everyone was very cool and gave me the VIP treatment of FREE BEER. The show was superb, ending with Bianco’s “Goodness Gracious,” which made all the girls swoon.

Matt and I were both hung over all day Monday. I’m happy, although the sleeveless Indiana nights have well passed.

I'm Just Waitin' On A Date

Matt and I met at Ambrosia last night for dinner. I sat at the bar waiting for him as he’d gotten lost driving from his new office in Plainfield. The Plainfield drive is the best motivation for returning to California, and I’m all for it.

I once had a few dates with a guy from Plainfield, and when I told my sister, who was living in L.A. or New York or Florence, Italy at the time, she said, “Jill: Plain…field? Get out of that relationship immediately!”

I would never be so shallow as to break up with someone because of where they live, but when he had me over for dinner and served green bean casserole layered with creamy off-brand mushroom soup, I knew we needed to go our separate ways.

While sitting at the bar last night, a guy approached me with a big smile and asked, “Julie?” I chuckled and answered, “Close, but no.” Embarrassed, he apologized and returned to his table. Julie arrived a few minutes later and I eavesdropped on their blind date. When I heard her talking about her Easy Bake Oven, I felt kind of sorry for him.

Matt called several times apologizing for being late. I told him to stay on the phone and read me the names of the streets as he passed them: Guion Road; Georgetown Road; Lafayette Road. Politely, I said, “Honey, you need to turn the car around; you’re heading west; I am to the east.” People who aren’t from Indy have a difficult time with the fact that Kessler runs in all directions.

Matt’s loud, impatient moan filled the line, followed by a couple of expletives. I told him I was fine enjoying my wine and listening to the train wreck date, and to take his time. It took him an hour to find me.

We went to the Vogue after dinner to see Broken Social Scene. They have a Feist substitute now since her solo career took off, but they were still good (and Canucks!). I keep introducing him to good music and he keeps asking for more.

The average age at the Vogue last night? I’d say about 22. Life is good.

Laffy Taffy

I pulled my lower back over two weeks ago and I’m abiding inertia with a great degree of obstinacy. I have two large, painful knots on my back, which I call my buttons. Each night I ask Matt if he’ll push them. I’ve become the poster child for Aleve.

I found a pond near the house and Matt and I ran there all summer, but I pushed myself past one too many whistling illegal fishermen and I’m now paying the price. I’ve cut out weekday drinking and snacking (except for that delicious cherry Laffy Taffy Matt bought over the weekend, damn him) because I refuse to watch the summer 4 turn into a winter 6. I’m fattening Matt up by cooking a lot (bless thee, Cooking Network) but we both need to get in shape for skiing.

He just emailed me this: I’m eating donuts…I give up.

Thank God for high metabolism.

Last weekend we ate at Santorini’s in Fountain Square. I kind of left out the part about how I once got violently ill after eating there, but that was two boyfriends ago, so I figured it was safe now. We had a great bottle of Greek wine called—wait, I still have the cork in my purse—Domaine Harlaftis. No food poisoning.

We went to Deano’s Vinos afterward and I ordered a French varietal while simultaneously saying, “Watch, they won’t have it,” which they didn’t. We settled for a bottle of Cline old vine zin and Deano, the owner, came rushing over to our table to exclaim his unwavering adoration for my selection.

We buy the same bottle for $15 at Trader Joe’s all the time; he, of course, charged us $30. If you’re going to own a place with “Vino” on the sign, I suggest you take some wine lessons. (They do have a very cool table top made from the tops of foil wine labels, featured here. The only great one is Chalk Hill.)

We were on the cusp of considering ever returning there again, when suddenly the band nailed our cut-throat decision into the coffin: a trio was playing Karma Chameleon in the next room…on mandolin. I suggested we run for our lives.

We high-tailed it to Radio Radio where I proceeded to get more intoxicated, and then I drove home. This is where the Laffy Taffy came into play and, I have to say, it saved me.

But no more snacks until I can run again. I can’t speak for Matt.

Eva got her ears pierced and she's practically running her first grade class. I miss when she fit on my lap.

It’s official: I’m adding the banjo to my musical instrument repertoire. I no longer own a piano; I gave my clarinet to a musician in Los Angeles (he’s recorded with it twice already); so it’s time for something new. Plus, I need a winter project. I asked my dad if I could borrow his banjo and he said, all in the same breath, that of course I could and to get my own damned banjo, instead. He’s excited that I’m taking it up and said I’ll really stand out now at parties.

Matt and I went to see Tim O’Reagan from the Jayhawks open for Mojave 3 Friday night, and it was there that I made my decision. He can’t wait to make fun of me practicing, like I do when he sings in the shower.

Ah, music and writing: I love combining the two. I’m going to post some archived concert reviews from my bygone days of partying like (often with) and writing about rock stars.

Nuvo Newsweekly
Cake/Beulah Preview
Murat
November 6, 2001

The sardonic consciousness and irreverent spin on modern day banality is a theme best conveyed by the band Cake: presumably why they chose not to name the band Meat and Potatoes. Their practically patented raw and reputable irony, and the keen ability to shoot it straight (while straight-faced), led this unique act to their fourth album, Comfort Eagle. As the late 1990s airwaves were clogged with “alternative” bands, the term lost its niche, and the scene deeply needed an alternative to the alternative. Many bands tried. Cake’s 1995 debut, Motorcade of Generosity (originally released on cassette) began the course for what would later become deep-seated, funky, hill-jack rock, offering audiences a reprieve from many commiserating, bonny-lad whiners. Since the humorously smarmy single “The Distance,” off of the 1996 second release and first platinum album, Fashion Nugget, Cake has been contributing wry, intelligent songs with a prolific fervor of “post-alternative” expression. A deadpan, sleepy version of the Gloria Gaynor disco wonder, “I Will Survive,” and pert “Frank Sinatra,” also on Fashion Nugget, sealed their fate as hep, goofy funk lords, with a flair for the bentrovato. The success of this album launched their third album, Prolonging the Magic, into its platinum best with the songs “Satan Is My Motor,” “Never There,” and “Sheep Go To Heaven.” Frontman and principle wordsmith, John McCrea, sings with a voice that may not have been chosen for choir or school plays, but since his incipient, he’s managed to outsmart the lot, delving richly into clever, offhanded witticisms and boon-like yuks. He’s backed by his band, slinky trumpet player Vince di Fiore, bassist Gabe Nelson, guitarist Xan McCurdy, and new drummer, Pete McNeal, son of Claude McNeal—Indy’s American Cabaret Theater director.

Amid Pete’s airport security checkpoints from LAX to Chicago, I was able to speak with him about his new position with Cake, who he says has been “very gracious and supportive of me professionally and personally. They weren’t certain of the fan base in Indy, but knowing that I have family there is one of the reasons we’ll be playing an Indy show.” McNeal, who played with the band Sumack, was a long-time fan of Cake himself. When former drummer Todd Roper left the band, Pete’s name came with a high recommendation from Michael Urband of Smash Mouth. This led to phone interviews, and auditions, which Pete says, “were taxing, and no walk in the park. I had to learn eighteen new songs by the time it was all over, but Cake knew who they were looking for, and thankfully, it was me.” I asked him about being the son of the cabaret master, to which he replied, “Yeah, it all began with a Keystone Cop routine my dad put me in when I was six, and living in Connecticut. I was accidentally thrown off the stage.” Pete professed, “Cake is a hard working band. This is definitely the most exciting and rewarding time of my life.”

Cake will play the Murat November 6, doling out plenty of eighth-note songs from Comfort Eagle, where they recently jumped from Capricorn Records, to the musical magnate -- we’re here to sell alotta records -- Columbia Records. Lyrics crafted from the title track, “Comfort Eagle” lend prophecy to the band’s potential with Columbia: “We are building a religion. We are building it bigger. We are widening the corridors and adding more lanes.” With heralding reviews running amok, the likelihood of their continued success seems a path well cut. The band will perform their latest single, “Love you Madly” on Letterman November 12, and they just completed a new music video for said single--a follow up to their last video for “Short Skirt/Long Jacket.” In the video, passersby were stopped and asked to listen to the song on headphones; the video is an honest account of their reactions. Pete says this next video “will be a cooking contest.” Could it be? Would they dare make…cake?

The San Francisco band Beulah will open for Cake; a good choice for such a transition. Creative and beautifully pop, this layered-alt-rock band brings to mind background music in a That Girl sitcom; a refreshing sound of carefree happiness and serenity, though listen closely to the lyrics—they’re strangely dark: always a fun combination.

Hip Hip

I’m having one hell of a great week. Gord Sinclair, my good friend and bassist for the Tragically Hip, asked if I’d write a fan’s view biography for their upcoming (11th!) album, which of course I did. He sent it off to their management company and to Gord Downie, lead singer and chief decision maker and, dreams coming true, Gord D. emailed me a thank you. EMAILED ME. I just got word that they want to use it in an upcoming press release! I don’t care so much about that; I just keep rereading his email. I love this business.

Tragically Hip Bio – World Container

With the release of their eleventh album, the Tragically Hip continues to suffuse music with a mastery of creative ingenuity and a limitless foray of passion. The Kingston quintet has delivered their unbridled formula of silvery alchemy for over twenty-years. Fusing with acclaimed producer Bob Rock (Metallica) in his studio in Maui, the band entrusted Rock’s ingenious wizardry to command the presence of the album; the result is a surrendering to equal-parts intrinsic, artistic depths.

Rock’s vision and skill, coupled with his own rich belief in the Hip’s sound, commitment and loyalty to one another, helped arrange and amass an unremitting expanse of new, creative styles. Rock, hard-driving and focused, inspired the band to unleash new methods and styles, leaving no sonic or lyrical performance unturned.

The Tragically Hip is a band that endures. Gord Downie’s prose, mixed with the band’s rhythmic movement, wraps around you like a tight vine. Their latest release, World Container, mixes the deeply haunting, quintessential style for which the Hip is revered with a few energetic power-pop explosions, such as “In View” and “Yer Not The Ocean,” throughout. Downie’s embellished “whews” and “ohs” in the buoyant “The Kids Don’t Get It” are his trademark punctuation. The poet laureate of the rock “arena,” Downie maintains an unwavering alliance to world issues. Actively involved in environmental endeavors, including a seat on the board of RFK Jr’s Waterkeeper organization, Downie’s connection to his beliefs permeates throughout the dissertation of his lyrics. This is best reflected in Downie's blusey pleas in “World Container,” a world view of concern and hope.

The friendship and bond—brothers, really—between band members Gord Downie, Rob Baker (lead guitar), Paul Langois (rhythm guitar), Gord Sinclair (bass) and Johnny Fay (drums) is a universal truth of introspection, allegiance and global awareness. Musically, they have good song writing down to an artform. These are guys who “get it,” and no one understands this better than their fans. Hip fans form a race, not a culture. There is a tangible bond connecting the Hip to their fans, the legions of discerning followers who formed the grassroots movement that jumps and throttles passionately around the world hunting and collecting others. As the crowds mosey inside a venue to see the band, the collective chant “Hip Hip Hooray” wields its heralding allegiant theme.

I’d wager that the Hip were voted “Most Likely to Perform the Best Live Show” in high school, a prediction they have long since accomplished. Standing, swaying or jumping before the band, you’re completely immersed in the music as it penetrates your every thought and breath. No band builds a better song, and the songs on World Container come with the same promise of an intensely live performance: a Hip standard with any album. Listening, fans swear to know exactly what Downie is trying to convey with his words; the beauty is that sometimes you don’t fully (certainly never completely) understand what the hell he’s talking about. But like any allusive poem, Gord’s lyrics resonate differently to each listener, but the magnetism is always the same.

Collectively, Hip fans await the purchase of each new album and there's no end in sight. The band keeps collaborating, keeps writing compelling songs, and for seasoned players in a wayward industry, they keep getting better. The Hip continue creating great music and leaving it behind for the listeners; and we, the devout fanatics, are the benefactors who are enjoying our inheritance.

Beautiful, young Eva proving once again that Brooks girls love living in their bikinis.

I’ve taken my place at my post: the kitchen table. It’s become my favorite place to write. I occupy alone time in this space and, with the blinds raised, sit and feast upon the woods outside for inspiration. A million thoughts come to mind and my fingers try to catch them in their butterfly net.

I’m keeping a sleeping bag on the porch in which to wrap myself during Matt’s necessary smoke breaks. I bought a pumpkin and a month’s worth of firewood today, preparing to watch every last leaf fall. The Reese’s peanut butter cups aren’t far away, either. There is still life beauty standing before me, the words of Wordsworth pushing me toward the frame. I’m happy for these gifts.

The First Fall Days

The leaves changed overnight: fall has arrived and winter is fast approaching. That familiar chill is in the air. Matt got up earlier than me today, a rarity, and my cold toes felt the shock of his absence. I tiptoed downstairs to set the heat at 70 and start the coffee, then ran back to bed in a scurry.

Yesterday I took him to Eagle Creek for his first time and we hiked through the woods for a couple of hours. I grew up hiking at Eagle Creek, but it’s not the park of my childhood; everything changes, no? Trying to find private solace, it was difficult for us to escape the preponderance of Mexican trumpets blaring from someone’s car…in the woods. I love ethnicity, just keep your music down.

The weather was perfect for crushing leaves beneath our shoes, holding hands and exchanging glances and smiles. My heart hummed all the octaves.

Matt was in rare form both Friday and Saturday night. Saturday, around midnight, he took me up into the attic in his garage where we sat Indian-style (do I have to say Native American Indian-style?) and drank wine. Upon climbing back down he decided to golf…in the garage…with the doors shut and his car inside. Have another glass of wine, smartypants.

His golf stance could use a little improvement: he looked like an old man trying to heed his backside to a child’s lawn chair. He hit the ball a few times and it disappeared. He finally opened the garage door and said, “Honey, get the eggs.” We took turns blasting eggs in the yard, and Matt (after carving many divots) shot a tomato and a can of diet Coke toward the neighbors we don’t like much.

Later, right before he fell asleep, he announced that he had Coke all over his feet. But those sticky toes were sure nice in cold weather.

It's Friday I'm in love; however, I cannot get my birthday iPod speakers to work! Another glass of wine oughtta help...