July 14, 2009
You would think that by the end of a 12-day festival of music, dance, theater and culture celebrating Sam D. Champ’s little canoe trip 400 years ago that this kid wouldn’t have anything left in the tank. Oh, how wrong you would be. While some people might have felt they have been entertained to within an inch of their lives over these last two weeks(my editrix, for one), I feel like I could go on for weeks, months even.
Truthfully, I couldn’t really go on much longer, which is good, since I have run out of underwear and there are fruit flies hovering over my dirty dishes. I blame Jay Craven, the impresario behind the festivities, for my slovenliness of the past two weeks. Of course, all good things must come to an end, including the waterfront festival, which rolled to a stop last night with the final presentation of “Aurelia’s Oratorio,” a dreamlike opus of whimsy and elan that felt like being stuck headfirst in a champagne flute full of effervescence. Or so said the event guidebook. Or so I paraphrased it.
This is what being French looks like.
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July 6, 2009
I imagine Jay Craven is breathing a very heavy sigh of relief today. Last night, the first show of the Queen City Concert Series — Philadelphia’s proud hip-hop purveyors The Roots — went off with nary a hitch. The weather cooperated, the talent put on a great show, and most concert-goers managed to keep it together. No one teetered into the lake and no major brawls erupted. And thank golly for that. I didn’t want to have to use my fearsome karate moves on any jerks who got out of line, and I sure as heck didn’t want to go diving into the lake to pull out some hapless drunk.
But seriously, the whole event was pretty seamless. The venue, with the stage facing the lake, allowed people to celebrate Champlain (the lake, not the dude) in their own way — by dancing badly lakeside while belting out hip-hop lyrics. Well, at least that’s what I was doing.
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July 3, 2009
Disclaimer: For my entire life, I have refused to wait in line to get into a club or bar, no matter how hot the venue. I don’t care if Jesus himself was cutting a rug inside, I ain’t waiting outside. I would rather swallow a jar full of bees than wait in a line outside a club. That’s how much I don’t want to wait.
So last night I waited in line outside of Lift, a club by cRAIG mITCHELL. Without a doubt, this had to be the most anticipated club opening in Burlington since… um, I don’t know what. Let’s just say that Lift is the Bluebird Tavern of clubs- there’s a huge amount of hype surrounding it. Warranted or not, people wanted to get in here.
Let’s back up a bit. Lift, for those of you who aren’t dedicated club kids, is a new venture started by turntablist of some renown, Craig Mitchell, who used to spin the decks in Burlington a few years ago before he became rich and famous and left the Green Mountains. The club is occupying the space left vacant by the former Second Floor, the college ghetto of clubs. People who pay attention to the downtown Burlington scene have been waiting for something to happen to that space. And now something has.
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July 1, 2009
Today, I saw the most extraordinary sight. I wish I had my camera with me so I could have taken a picture. Surely, no one will believe what I’m about to write.
In the middle of the afternoon, as I drove along Main Street in Burlington, I saw someone feeding quarters into a payphone. Yes, a payphone. One of those telephones with a cord that require the user insert quarters in order to make a call. They are often covered in bad graffiti, fossilized chewing gum and dried spit.
This is what the past looks like.
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June 30, 2009
Dear besties,
If there’s one thing I love, it’s a private bathroom. There’s nothing like being able to do your business without seeing someone’s Easy Spirit pumps dangling in the stall next to you (if the person in the stall next to you is the size of a third-grader, wearing cheap high-heels and sitting on the pot, I mean). I’m not a super fan of the public, multi-stall situations. Mall bathrooms are the worst, mostly because they’re the saddest places on earth. Not like I hang out in malls all that often, but you’re picking up what I’m putting down, right?
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June 25, 2009
Dear Besties,
By now, no doubt everyone has heard of today’s duel celebrity deaths. Michael Jackson died of suspected cardiac arrest at 50 years old and Farrah Fawcett succumbed to anal cancer at age 62. You’d have to be living in a cave or the Arctic Circle not to have heard the news. The national media had been reporting for days of Fawcett’s imminent demise, so her death was less of a shock then Jackson’s, but no less sad. What does this have to do with Vermont? Nothing, but it’s likely to be the main topic of conversation at offices and neighborhood baseball fields and weekend barbecues for a good while.
In memoriam.
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June 22, 2009
Dear besties,
Last week, I wrote a blog post for my new employer about a wee hobbit visiting our humble shire. I had gone for my usual three-hour lunch at my favorite Burlington eatery where I discovered that I had only just missed one Elijah Wood who was lunching at my lunch spot. Well, of course I did what any shoeleather journo would do- I got myself laid off and used my severance money to binge on alcohol and hookers. No, actually, I went straight back to my office and like the good little typist I am, wrote up my sixth-hand account of Wood’s visit to our little city.
This is what scandal looks like.
You can read the post here. Don’t worry, it’s not epic. And it’s not meant to be read by sticks in the mud or humorless gray people.
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June 9, 2009
Dear Besties,
If you asked me the question posed in the title of this genius little post, I would answer with a resounding “I’ll take a cafe owner who’s not a total jagoff.” Yes, I would rather have someone who appreciated my business than have a steaming mug of tea or a hot cup of coffee. Well, I would pretty much take anything over a hot cup of coffee. I have enough natural energy- I don’t need any caffeine-enhanced energy. Anyway, I’m getting a little off the topic. What else is new?
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June 7, 2009
Dear besties,
Let’s bypass the whole “I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while” spiel. You and I both know I have more important things to do than write blog posts, like pick my toenail lint while waxing philosophical about geopolitics. And I know you have more important things to do than read what I write, like trim your grandmother’s beard. So I’m going to dispense with all that nonsense about not having posted anything in a while. Instead, I’m going to get right into the story.
I was recently in Philadelphia visiting Pigpen before heading to Pittsburgh to see my family humans. While in Philly, we lodged with Pigpen’s friends in a tony little hamlet on the Mainline called Merion Station. The couple and their house were perfect. They had chard growing in their front yard and a pergola covered in some climbing vine. The lady of the house- we’ll call her Tiny- gave us a tour of their abode when we arrived. There’s nothing I like more than being reminded of the fact that despite my advanced age, I’m only just playing at being a grown-up. See, real grown-ups have houses and mortgages and guest bedrooms and offices and juicers and refrigerators full of food and drink. I have none of these. I have a mangy dog and cheap drywall and stairs that lead to nowhere. But I’ve got my health.
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May 25, 2009
Dear Besties,
I hate running. I always have. Unless there’s a pint of ice cream or a plate of cookies less than 50 feet in front of me, I’m not so much as fast shuffling. I chalk my dislike of running up to the fact that I have flippers for feet and jogging has always been a chore. The only way I was able to participate in college athletics was by taking a lot of banned substances.
But despite my personal hatred of running, or perhaps because of it, I really like the marathon. I think I love the idea those people are suffering so I don’t have to . They’re choosing to put their bodies and their emotions on display for all to see, bloody nipples, outer monologues and all. It’s like live reality television.
If you love me, you will keep reading… forever
