March 2006

It’s always good to see a hometown band make it all big in the scene. Well, except when that means you can’t get in to see them. This happened a couple of months back when OK Go played the Metro here on London. Who knew that they had so many (and such hot) groupies? Really? Oh. It’s just me, then.

Shortly after that gig (I did get in for the end, including the encore which consisted of a weird choreographed number on the drum riser while their latest single was played on CD), I was pointed at this video (see the previous parenthesis), and I gotta tell you: when you’re having a bad day, it’ll keep you going.

And tonight, while digging up a link for download of the aforementioned video for a friend, I discovered that Damian was arrested in Orlando. Apparently, he was arrested for being slightly too popular. Well, that’ll teach you.

Teach you to RAWK, one hopes.

See you on the 30th, boys…

A group of people sick to death of the rollercoaster of fundamentalist manifestos have formed to refocus themselves (and whoever wants to join them). The Manifesto Group seeks to ‘reclaim the questioning and creative spirit of the Enlightenment, particularly the idea that human beings can make their own history.’ Bravo, I say.

It’s hard sometimes to remember that choosing your philosophy isn’t a multiple-choice thing, even though that’s obviously true. We’re all surrounded by (mass media) voices all the time, but doesn’t it seem like all the voices are saying more or less the same things? They fall into a few camps, but there’s not nearly as much variation as one might hope. Even on this here magickal interweb, most of the prevalent philosophies can be loosely classified in the same terms: liberal, conservative, fundamentalist, and crazy talk. Of course that doesn’t mean that each of us can’t have our own way of reading the world, and of course that way can be as optimistic and active or passive and pragmatic as we like. But it’s good to be reminded. And it’s even better to see people taking the initiative to bring others along with them.

So, again: bravo.

I’m sorry, but when this headline surfaced in my Google Reader, I had to double and then triple-check to make sure it wasn’t 3 years old. Or 5 years old. Or 11 years old. Honestly, have they ever released an OS on time?

When things get stressful, it’s good to have lovely warm fuzzy creatures who love you unconditionally to curl up with and hide from the world. And I’m not talking about boys – I don’t like them all that fuzzy. I’m talking about lovely little kittens.

I’ve recently adopted two gorgeous 6 month old tabby-and-white cats. No, I haven’t given them names yet – I’m waiting until they’re brave enough to spend less time under the bed and I see their personalities. This is beginning to happen now, (scant) evidence of which can be found on Flickr.

Tuesday the 14th
They arrived around 8:30 in the evening. They came together in a carrier: one huddled in the corner, the other hidden under the cat bed put there to make them comfortable. We opened the door to the carrier and still they sat inside it, not sure whether to come out, not knowing where they were or what was next. When they did come out they dashed immediately for cover underneath the kitchen cabinets, where they stayed until I went to bed. I didn’t see them again, except as pairs of ears and eyes in the dark, for days.

Wednesday and Thursday
Their first few nights in the flat, they made an unholy racket. Every morning I got up and expected to see nothing but wreckage when I came out of the bedroom. Amazingly, though, their messes are confined to small corners, and they’ve not broken anything at all. Yet.

Friday
I woke to the sound of purring coming from under the bed. This made me grin like a fool even through my hangover – they’d settled in, they were happy. But still, I was the unknown quantity – yes, I supply food and clean litter, but was I just another temporary mama? They hadn’t quite worked it out yet.

Sunday night
They finally worked themselves up to playing with me. Still with a toy (fuzzy fabric on a stick) but they’ll pounce closer and closer. Now, when they come through the lounge while I’m on the sofa, they stop and watch me for a bit instead of dashing past, low to the ground, trying to be invisible. They’re still skittish when I get up and walk around, but they’ll stay and watch at least as often as they run for cover.

Tuesday the 21st
And then there was last night. I got home and, as usual, lifted the bedskirt to greet the girls. I talked to them for a minute or so and one started to purr. Then she came over and sniffed at my fingers. And then she came back and rubbed her face against my hand. Breakthrough! She still wouldn’t let me stroke her for very long, and she wasn’t keen on coming out from under the bed, but I’m being allowed to make physical contact. It’s only a matter of time before the three of us are curled up on the sofa watching old episodes of Buffy on DVD. Which will do me the world of good.

I do love Phineas.

One of the best things about music is how when it’s good you can lose yourself in it completely. But what’s equally good if not better is when the opposite happens. Not that you find yourself, per se, because that would be pretentious nonsense – but rather when you hear it and parts of you that you’d forgotten could be moved stir and shift and stretch and grow and you’re welling up with it and it’s beautiful. And that sounds like pretentious nonsense too, but I can’t help it.

I went to see Death Cab For Cutie at the Astoria last night and it was that kind of night. Ben and the gang make beautiful, clever music, but I had forgotten the power it packs when they play it live. Lush and layered guitars give way to intricate jazz-inspired rhythms and then spiral back up into a joy that makes your heart hurt. You find yourself grinning like an idiot and your eyes are full of tears and you’re so inside the moment that when it’s over you realize you’d lost all sense of time.

See, I’ve been trying to write about the show off and on since I got home last night and all I keep coming up with is this rubbish. So I’ll just say it was beautiful and fantastic and you should have been there and I’ll leave it at that. Hie thee to the gig the next time they’re in your town. You won’t regret it.

And to the band (on the very very off chance you’re reading this): thanks, guys. You made my whole week.

*Mr. Vonnegut has been known to say, “the only proof of the existence of God is music.”