An ed sullivan show moment, and other sloppy seconds
[photo credit: Jonathan Mandell]
I’m somewhat of a fizzler, sometimes. you can see that, I’m sure. Back in France, when K proposed a btp refire, I was quick to agree. Nights, after dinner’d been cleared and the other wwoofers had left the dining caravan, we laid out plans- the new btp would be a dual-dairy of the city, alternate stories embedded with events and destinations.
and then… so quickly it fell to pieces. I know all of you juggle full-time jobs with blogging, and you do it so well, when all I can do is read your blogs, and mewl piteously at my listlessness.
somehow i’ve let this blog, which i tied up so neatly and happily last December, become a ragged, sagging, shabby thing, all gapes and whispers and crickets. so now, to stave off further withering, i’m wrapping it up again. but.
There’s something else I’ve been working on all summer, something I know you all, if you have a few minutes, can maybe help me with. Because my senior colloqium is all about blogs and regional identity- namely, I’m trying to see if where you’re from comes out in how and what you blog. In the interest of a) getting it done, and b) accuracy, I’m keeping a stateside, mid-30s and under perspective.
Whether you’re from here or there or anywhere- does it come out in your blogging voice? is it a conscious thing, or something others have remarked on? So many people have written about the internet’s shrinking effect on the world, but the way i see it, blogging can also be a way to entrench yourself in your homeland. maybe. what do you think? let me know by emailing claire@bostontparties.com
Also, and entirely unrelatedly, I braved the sodden fields and slurried skys of all points west on Friday. i went for the National and for fleet foxes, and for Vampire weekend and the Yeah yeah yeahs, though mother nature had me beat by the latter two. Apart from the whiskey-fueled ramblings of Seasick steve (tennessee soda pop, he called it), the shows were insane, and I suspect layered shimmer rock isn’t all that condusive to massive audiences and downpours.
During the anthemic and throbbing “Mr. november,” Matt Berninger, the lead vocalist for the national, jumped off the stage and waded through the tightpacked swarm of wayfaring hipsters who stretched their hands out and out and some of them he grasped quickly, but when he reached my little sister, he managed to snake his arms around her and sway to the crowd’s swell and the expression on her face reminded me of those pictures of teenage girls at beatles shows- exquisite agony. Eventually, at “i used to be carried in the arms of the cheerleaders,” he let the arms propell him up and back to the stage. My sister’s face stayed where it was through the night. It was the coolest, we agreed. except possibly for meeting and sharing a 6 hour flight to London with bon iver. but that’s a story for a different, future time.
