now he screenprints american tshirts through the night
Petey came back to town this week, and Joy and I made it to the second show tonight, after she got really sick on Tuesday, but found some people to trade nights with us. I didn't even realize he'd added a second show, but he must have later after the first one sold out, lucky for us. Smartly, I decided not to drink so damn much this time, and managed to not be in the bathroom when he played the ONE song I needed to hear. I know all my indie rocker friends poo-poo poor old Pete, but I love him dearly. His albums are 80% of my India adventure soundtrack, and I listened to Long Way Down about a million times during those long car rides (he introduced the song as "my favorite love song," to which I exclaimed "me too!"). He's the perfect cynical romantic, which I can fully get behind. The funniest part of the evening was waiting in between acts, a boy in front of us turned around and joined our conversation when we started talking about the smoking ban, and how it was our first time at 930 since it was enacted. He asked us where we went to school, and Joy and I looked at each other and laughed, which turned into some awkwardly terrible guessing game at how old we were, as we kept saying, "no, older. no, older." Then his friend, who later seemed to be having some kind of terrible seizure during the show, butted in and said, "old like my aunt?" Yes, sweetheart, old like your aunt. Twenty minutes later, however, I managed to convince the first boy not to go to law school, so, my good deed is done for the day.
You might raise an eyebrow when I tell you I flew all the way to California to go to an anti-war march, but I did. Well, okay, not really, but my mom helps run the Veterans for Peace chapter at home and they coordinated with some other organizations to hold a protest on March 17, so my mother volunteered me and my grandmother to man the table, to sell buttons and collection donations, while she went on the march. It was kind of awkward, because people would come up to the table and say incredibly sincere things like, "Thank you so much for doing this" (as in, Vets having the balls to protest the war). I'm like, my mom made me do it. But there I am, sitting at the Vets table, so my grandma and I would uncomfortably say, "Oh sure, you know, you're welcome." My mom's really getting into this VfP stuff, in fact she just won them a huge grant by giving this presentation for them, so, well done Mom!
My damn roommate's cat just broke a photo that was on my desk. Grr. Must tell self, at least it doesn't eat people, at least it doesn't eat people.
I met with Rachel today to discuss her fashion column, and advised her, among many other things, that one secret to longevity in writing for high traffic sites like DCist is to adopt a sort of "Fuck You, I'll Write What I Want" attitude, because your writing tends to come out more naturally and confident, when you rid yourself of the fear of what commenters will say. She laughed and said, "oh yeah, I know, I posted a picture of this pregnant woman today and said to myself, 'fuck you guys! I know you assholes are going to come out of the woodwork for this photo, but I'm posting it anyway!" Then I come home and click a link through my sitemeter referral log: Rachel, ha, you totally called that.
My job has gotten weird. Really. But I'm going to save that for a post of its own. Short story: I think I might have been invisible for the last 14 months. Was I? Be honest.
By the way, if you're wondering how my grandpa is doing, since that's the reason why I went home, he's doing just fine. Isn't he great? He's rocking the Irish green there, with my mother. He did ask me three times in the span of five minutes, while showing him my pictures of India on Flickr, how I got the pictures from the "film" onto the computer, but the slow onset of his Alzheimer's has been, thankfully, very slow, so a little patience goes a long way. But my poor grandmother, I think it drives her a little crazy.