Sunday, February 3, 2013

Soft and Sweet, How the Notes All Bend Unreachable

This photo has nothing to do with this entry, it's a Munny I made a long time ago for a show at Music Saves. But let's pretend its  metaphor for how my heart feels right now. 

This week I got to see Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel, in a converted church, with a just enough people to look full but nobody's crowded size of crowd. Sarah drove in from Virginia, and the next day we went to breakfast with some of her friends from Oak Island, then drove to the beach. It was cold and windy.  I walked barefoot, Sarah had on winter hiking boots. She said being bundled up all scarves and hoods was the only thing that was keeping the wind down around us. We tried to go up on the pier, but it was closed for the season, and lay in front of us, a sharp concrete stylized expanse of block matte color stretching out in front of us, the cruel iron gate bluntly interrupting the lines.

Let's talk about every time I've fallen in love while listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. Three. That's a lot for one band. The only other comparable one is The Weakerthans. I remember David introducing me to Aeroplane Over the Sea, and then there was driving around with the other two. I think I must have listened to On Avery Island in Wellington, OH, driving through, at least five times I can think of.

The bands we become such die hard fans of seems like such a random weird happening. I guess I should start forgiving people who are really into Sublime. I probably won't, but maybe someday.

I like that at least half of the friends I have, when you put on Aeroplane the album, as soon as he says When you were young, You were the King of Carrot Flowers, they all start singing. And not shy singing. They will sing out loud. And your mom would stick a fork right into daddy's shoulder, and dad would throw the garbage all across the floor, As we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for. And this is the room one afternoon I knew I could love you, and from above you how I sank into your soul, into that secret place where no one dares to go. I can picture at least  6 occasions when I was driving with friends and we sang the entire album together.

I had the pleasant experience of going into a show and knowing some people there. And being recognized in the bathroom by some girl. This town is small enough that happens every once in a while, and it's nice. Between comedy and work, I feel like a lot of people see me but don't meet me.  Everything in the South creeps up on you slowly, there are no *boom* moments (or rather there are just very few of them. Soft and Sweet, How the Notes All Bend Unreachable)

What else did I do this week? Sarah and I went to the beach, and then she had to leave me, but that was a very pleasant morning. Later I went to open mic, and had a set that was fun, like actually fun. The next day I took the bus to work at ten till 7, and it was cold but getting sunny. Work was good, though I griped a lot, because all day the anxiety about the show that night kept building up and up, as I realized I wouldn't have time to go home and I should just take the bus straight downtown. So I did that, and the show was more fun. I left exhausted but full of the kind of lucky feeling deep thoughts that cause you to write weird tweets. Saturday morning Teresa picked me up and we drove around in the sun smoking and talking. We went to breakfast at this small pink creperie on Oleander, down the street from my work. Teresa noticed as soon as we walked in that boys were speaking French. And then the hottest man in the entire known universe took our coffee order. Seriously, just writing that sentence, and thinking of how to describe him to you is causing me to get the shivers and wish I was back home in bed huddled under covers warm and asleep with him. That's a pretty strong visceral reaction. He brought us the coffees to our table twice, and each time it was almost physically impossible to watch him walk back away. We didn't talk about it. We ate our crepes, and then left. I felt terrible I hadn't left a better tip, because we paid when we ordered so I only left the same kind of tip I would leave at a pick up window place. Well, it just means he's going to get overtipped in the future. I bet he makes a ton of tips anyway. Teresa and I left.
         "Think of all the old women who must come in here for him. All the women in general."
          " God, yes, seriously. He must get laid all the time."
          "That's probably all he does. This place is probably just a front for French guys to come over and be gigolos in a rich American beach town."
          Then in my notes, I wrote down that the end of this joke is where I tell this joke on stage and then someone tells him I'm doing, so he comes to see it, and we get married the end.
          Or he'll read the Yelp review I'm gonna write.

Oh god, I just read some of the yelp reviews to see if anyone mentioned him. And they bring up a very good point which is that it's probably a family run business, and that means this guy is probably the owner's son or nephew or something, and I swear this is the perfect premise for a Nicholas Sparks movie, the french cousin and the young American college girl who comes to the beach on vacation, and also this boy is probably 21 or something ridiculous that makes me a terrible person. But he did have a little patch of gray on his temple, so in my heart he's 35 and this is story about the mid life crisis woman who has some coming of age moment at the beach with a man who's had his heart broken too many times.
    Then Teresa took me to work, I worked till close, I came home and watched Terriers with my roommate,  and went to bed. Now I'm back here at work. And then I'm going straight from work to downtown, again, to watch the 1974 Great Gatsby with the gatsby-like builder from my last entry who didn't know what the Gatsby reference was about when he read it, and so if you'd like in on that subsequent conversation, hit me up.

1 comment:

  1. Hey BFF..! I think you are right about people in the South, certainly in Carolina... I felt like I had found a home before I was aware that it was home... I miss it...

    Your French waiter story would make a great Nicky Sparks movie... Wilmington makes me think of either Cadallaca or Camera Obscura...

    Can't promise that I will be around as much as before... I am SURE that you have noticed... my job is taxing, and along with school, I am pushing this old defective body to its limits...

    I do really care about you, Bridget... and you really ARE my very best friend..!

    Love & Rockets!



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