18.3.04
keeping it at bay
Well, the rest of the week has turned out to be not so terrible. We've learned how to quell, or perhaps repress, the terribles these past few days. We end the evening playing Legos as Dylan has learned how to snap the pieces together, beginning to understand the concept of "building" something. He's also learning how to "play", making scenarios such as the Lego man knocking on the front door and coming inside for some coffee and donuts or coffee and yogurt. He also made a very funny scene with the Lego bush and Lego dog: "Put de bush der (trying to prop it up on uneven bed). Doggie's peeing on da bush (putting the dog's back side up against the bush), dog's peeing on da bush!" I love toilet humor, really I
do!
15.3.04
the terribles continue
I'm at a loss. I have to stop everything and ask myself "How do I handle this exactly?" This exactly, is the tantrum, the defiance, the rebellion - already - of a two something year old child. I know I complained before, but this is otherworldly. This is something I didn't expect from my usually mellow child (
ha, you say, wait until the pre adolescent years, then the teenage years, then the college years - I know, I know, it can't possibly get easier from here): such howling, such screaming, such insubordination, such behavior usually reserved for places like church, super markets and mall department stores happening right at home on a Sunday night.
The bravado of it all, the audactiy, the horror of being slave to your emotions and being reduced to grunting and cave talk when asking for something that you know you aren't allowed to have and wanting it NOW! All I can do after a while is sit there in a heap and marvel at how long a two year old can cry and scream with resolve and without a sign of giving up. If only we as adults were as aggressive in attaining our goals in the same fashion. I'm pooped and beat
and there's a ringing in my ears.
1.3.04
it's up to you new york, new york
Husband is now an official New Yorker by day, albeit a Jersey boy by night. He's a daily commuter taking a train to work in the city, once an imaginary story I thought I'd like to have been in. Imagine the glamour: Madison Avenue high rise office; polished, sleek marble floors; elevators dinging subtly; hot-dog and knish for lunch on the sidewalk; watching street life and the victims of fashion go by. It's back to city life and I've just become accustomed to the laid back way of life of the West Coast. It'll be another adventure though I dread the thought of street corners that actually have people waiting to cross the street whether or not the sign says "WALK" and trash in every place but the trash cans. I hate the slush in winter, the potholes, the No Left Turns and No Right on Reds, but I do love the shopping, theater, culture, food; choices. It certainly is a world away from this Sin City and most definitely only a stone's throw from the last city I lived in: Manila. Believe you me, just because it's America doesn't mean their cities are better. Think: traffic, trash, and brusque to put it mildly. Also, imgine horror vcui. Welcome to New York.
tales of ratdog and over zealous fans
My friends are dead heads, into bluegrass, and smoke a bowl or two, every now and then. And Las Vegas, despite it all, manages to get a few concerts in, in venues like
The House of Blues, where the hippies and patchouli drenched folk creep out of the woodwork and concrete of Sin City (it aint all clubbin and strip joints, you know) and come to watch things like
String Cheese Incident and
Bob Weir with RatDog. I don't claim to be a big fan of the Dead, I like a few songs, some good live ones, and great instrumental passages. But unlike their devoted following who will follow them to the end, I keep my distance.
Until last Wednesday, when friends pulled me into the midst of swaying tie-dyed shirts, scruffy hair, and sandals, Bob Weir and RatDog played amazing sets that were crystal clear and nothing akin to downloaded bootleg concerts. Crisp, seasoned instrument playing; it was smooth jamming throughout. Some Dead tunes, a great, great rendition of
Black Bird and the fans were falling through the floors and alone in their personal reveries as they mouthed the words to each song, with eyes closed, head shaking, with intensity. On the other side of the room, people were falling all over the floor as the entire venue smelled like a giant mixed breed joint, add to that ridiculously priced alcoholic beverages.
But the music. Smooth. In some instances, there was no single instrument heard, it was a crescendo of all the musicians coming together and playing a great song that will most likely live on beyond Bob Weir and all of RatDog put together as long as fans stay in their trances mouthing all the words to the songs.
