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A Night With The Head and the Heart

I recently had the pleasure of attending the second-best concert I've ever been to.  

 

I wish I could say I've been a fan of The Head and The Heart for years, because then I wouldn't have been missing out all this time. Sadly, that's not the case. It wasn't until a couple months ago that I heard them for the first time. A very dear friend of mine was in the area for a brief visit. Upon having the "I'll miss you so much," conversation dear friends have before parting ways for an indefinite amount of time, she told me about a song I simply had to hear.

 

"It's about friends leaving," she said.

 

Later that week, she posted a live video of The Head and The Heart performing a song called Rivers and Roads. Not live as in on-stage-surrounded-by-screaming-fans live, but live as in acoustic-performance-under-a-bridge-surrounded-by-nature-and-thing-else live.

 

 

 

 

Be still my beating heart.

 

The first listen gave me chills. The second brought tears to my eyes. I lost myself in their music and immediately dubbed them a new favorite. Days later, I was checking out upcoming concerts in the area and practically fell off my chair when I saw The Head and The Heart was scheduled to perform at the House of Blues in Cleveland. Not only was it scheduled for a day I could actually attend, but tickets were only $20 a person. Um, sold!

Then came the challenge of finding someone to accompany me to the concert. Unfortunately, since all my friends were either busy or uninterested, that person ended up being my boyfriend. I know, I know, that sounds terrible. I love him, I promise. It's just that we have completely different tastes in music. Folksy Americana is not his style. I wanted to take someone who would appreciate the experience as much as I would. I knew he wouldn't, but I also knew taking him was better than going alone.

 

Once we arrived, we were able to find a decent spot on the floor, which is standing room only. Unfortunately, our view was obstructed by the largest group of tall people I've ever seen in my life. I can only assume they were part of some club or association - Tall Persons of Cleveland Unite, or The Vertically Unchallenged Association of America, perhaps. Each one of the eight or so people in the group measured six feet or over. I felt I was being punished for the time I called Lady Gaga's platforms "ridiculously stupid." Believe me, at that moment, I wished I had Gaga's footwear! Fortunately, despite their height, I was still able to (mostly) see the stage by craning my neck at an awkward angle.

 

The opening band wasn't exactly my cup of tea. They were talented, but I didn't quite "get" their music. It didn't help that while they performed, someone in the audience was either so drugged, so intoxicated, or so out of his mind that he urinated right next to us on the floor of the House of Blues in Cleveland.

 

Yes. That actually happened.

 

Following the awkward and anger-inducing public urination (I'll spare you the details), I was more than ready for the headlining band to take the stage. I can hardly express how amazing it was when they finally did. Their music is described as "pulsing effervescently—both explosively danceable and intuitively intelligent. With Americana roots and strong vocal harmonics that swell like a river, this band finds its anchor in solid songwriting that has even the jaded humming along by the second listen." Well said, Heather Browne. Well said.

 

The minute The Head and the Heart came out, the energy in the room shifted. It was as if, rather than be the experience, they wanted to be a part of it. This is rare. Many performers come out and make it feel like they're doing you a favor. Sure, most of them are, but it kind of sucks when you feel like they're only there because they have to be. That was so not the case with The Head and the Heart, for which I was grateful. They seeemed so happy to be there. Perhaps that, along with their extraordinary talent for vocals, lyrics, and instruments, is what made us (the audience) receive them so well.

 

As they played, the audience came alive. We danced, we clapped, we stomped along to the beat of the music. It was like nothing I've ever experienced and I loved every moment. It felt like coming home.

 

My favorite part of the concert was when they played Rivers and Roads, and no, it's not just because it's my most loved song of theirs. The lyrics are incredibly meaningful to me. Upon listening to the voices surrounding me as we all sang along, I could tell I wasn't the only one personally touched by the song. It was truly a moment I will never forget.

 

If you've never heard their music, I strongly recommend it. And if you love it enough to go see them in concert, well, you can ride with me, because you know I'll be going next time they come around!

The Whistler

You may not know this about me, but I cannot whistle.

In the same way some people cannot roll their tongues – which, by the way, seems ridiculous – I cannot whistle.

When I was little, I was frustrated by my incapability to whistle. I had it in my head that it was something one could learn to do, like drawing a heart or adding two plus two. And I had certainly learned how to do those things, so learn to whistle I would!

I absolutely hated eating the crust on bread. Looking back, I think it was more superficial than anything; I just didn’t like the way it looked. At some point, my grandma started telling me eating the crust on my bread would help me learn to whistle. Taking her grandmotherly wisdom to heart, I earnestly devoured every bite of bread, crust and all, despite the fact that I was a cut-the-crust-off-my-sandwiches-please kind of girl. But, no matter how much crust I consumed, I still could not whistle! (Maybe this is why I have a carb-complex today.) It took me longer than it probably should have (aka well into my teens) to realize that I was the victim of a grandmotherly ruse.

Now that you know how much I wanted to whistle, you may be surprised to learn that whistling annoys me.

Allow me to clarify.

I don’t hate all whistling. If it’s done to catch someone’s attention or used as a Marco-Polo approach to finding someone in the grocery store, that’s fine. It's also acceptable if you are singing Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

 

However, when someone whistles for long periods of time in otherwise silent spaces, it drives me crazy. I want to scream, "WHY ARE YOU WHISTLING?" What, do these people feel the need to provide a soundtrack to my awesome and otherwise silent movie? Are they trying to spread cheer? I just don't understand. The worst part is, I would feel terribly rude saying, "Will you please stop whistling?"

 

I suppose there's nothing I can do except offer them a sleeve of saltine crackers and hope they accept. You know, to dry up the mouth.

On Time is Late

We've all heard some variation of the phrase, "If your early, you're on time; if you're on time, you're late." My choir director used to say, "Five minutes early is on time, on time is late." Then, there's the "Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable" variety. But no matter how you say it, the message is clear: show up early.

 

Punctuality is important to me. I hate being late, which makes me a hypocrite as I always seem to be - late, that is, not hypocritical. No matter what precautions I take to avoid being late, I find the odds of getting somewhere on time decrease as the likelihood of arriving behind schedule skyrockets.

 

Previously unwilling to accept my label as Chronically Late, I tried every tip and trick in the book. I've done the whole wake-up-fifteen-minutes-earlier-than-you-need-to thing and let me tell you, it does not work. Without fail, I find other things that need doing or take that much longer to pick out an outfit or do my hair. I've also tried setting the clock anywhere from five to ten minutes fast in an attempt to trick myself into thinking I was running late and therefore speeding up the getting-ready process. Yeah, that didn't work either because I kept seeing the real time on my phone or other communal clocks around the apartment.

 

Distractions and delays seem to find me no matter what I do. For example, I had plans with friends a few weeks ago. I was instructed to arrive at noon and told, "Don't be late!" (She knew I needed reminded.) That Saturday, my internal alarm clock woke me up early with hours to spare. I planned to leave at 11:15, which would give me about 45 minutes to get there even though it was only 20 minutes away. I got off to a slightly late start because I had to transfer my coffee into a travel mug. Okay, no biggie - I still had 40 minutes. I put my destination address into the GPS and was on my way. Upon exiting my apartment complex, I realized I had forgotten ponytail holders and had to turn around to retrieve them since they were vital to the day's activities. After that, I was a little later, but my ETA was still set well before noon. As I navigated myself onto the highway, I noticed the annoying light on my dashboard telling me I was running low on gas. Not just low, but dangerously low. Like, panic-inducing, on-the-red-line low. I knew I had to fill up, so I exited the highway to the gas station I knew was right off the exit. Except that I realized I had gotten off one exit early and there were no gas stations in sight. My GPS recalculated my route and I began to panic. How far would it take me until I saw a gas station!? WHY AM I SO GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED? I continued to drive, following my GPS's guidance that would lead me back on the right highway. I overestimated my distance to the entrance ramp and accidently got on another wrong highway. (Only I posess the ability to misnavigate while using a GPS.) I was a wreck, thinking a) I was going to run out of gas, and b) I was going to be late! I was terrified. Finally, my brain kicked into survival mode and I punched in fuel as a point of interest on the GPS. It wasn't long before I arrived at a gas station. What a relief! I put in my credit card and selected my fuel, then squeezed the handle on the pump. Nothing happened. Puzzled, I reselected my fuel and tried again.

 

Nothing.

 

I was about to throw down. I furiously cancelled the transaction and started over. Swipe credit card, check. Select credit option, check. Select fuel, check. Flip handle...oh, crap. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT'S what was holding me up? I flipped the stupid handle and began fueling. I didn't fill up all the way - ten bucks and I was outta there!

 

I finally entered my friend's neighborhood, which, inconveniently, is made up of narrow and winding streets. I crawled through them at a snail's pace, praying no one else would end up behind me and gesture angrily as a result of my slowness. I finally arrived a hot, sweaty mess, just two minutes late. I got out of the car, ready to offer excuses and apologies. But once I found out we were waiting on two others, who were also running late, I really didn't think it necessary.

 

 

Until I learn to be on time (read: be early), I guess I'll just have to accept a life of screaming, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

 

 





 

You Only Live Once

Do you remember the scene in the movie A Christmas Story when Flick is dared to stick his tongue to the icy pole? Of course you do. But in case you need a refresher, it goes like this:

Flick: Are you kidding? Stick my tongue to that stupid pole? That's dumb!
Schwartz: That's 'cause you know it'll stick!
Flick: You're full of it!
Schwartz: Oh yeah?
Flick: Yeah!
Schwartz: Well I double-DOG-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
Schwartz: I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

The triple-dog-dare. How could anyone refuse? They couldn't. And for me, the phrase "You only live once" is the adult equivalent of the triple-dog-dare. There are times I don't necessarily want to do things because I'm too tired, too grumpy, too [insert adjective here]. But when the person requesting my company, attendence, or time says, "You only live once," well, game over. Those words are the kryptonite to my Superman. I will undoubtedly pause, reflect, and say, "You're right. Let's do it."

And most of the time, I'm happy I did.

The Happiest 5k on the Planet

I run for lots of reasons. I run because it's great exercise. I run to relieve stress. I run for charity. I run to test my limits. And most recently, I ran for color.

On June 16, the Color Run came to NE Ohio. I woke up happier than a kid on Christmas morning. I had been anticipating the run for months. They don't call it the happiest 5k for nothin'!

Color - or rather, uncolor - coordinated in white shirts as instructed, we arrived on scene with plenty of time to prep for our colorsome adventure. First, we carefully applied each other's Color Run tattoos. My running partner branded the inside of his arm while I opted for bolder placement on my cheek. Our then-white Color Run sweatbands were placed around our heads. We got our "before" photos taken by fellow color enthusiasts in the parking lot, then followed the slow and steady swarm of color(less?) runners toward the start line.

Patience was hard to come by as the start time neared. Because there were so many particpants, runners took off in waves of about 1,000. We were in the third wave. We looked behind us and saw a sea of people with two things in common:

1. They all wore white.
2. They all craved color.

As we stood waiting on one side of the road, unsuspecting travelers drove by on the other. Some waved and some honked, but they all stared. I don't blame them; I'm sure we were quite the spectacle! People of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, united by their willingness to give up their Saturday morning in order to get blitzed in "elf made" magical color dust.

After the third round of Miley Cyrus's Party in the U.S.A. (yes, the third), our time came. Our wave counted down and we were off and running, eager to lose ourselves in color madness. We headed downhill, rounded a corner, and saw it.

We didn't need the yellow flags that lined the street to know we had made it to our first color zone. Yellow color clouds exploded in the air, marking the territory for the color warriors that charged toward it. We sprang forward and ran through the sunshine colored gauntlet, welcoming color with more enthusiasm than a young bachelor welcoming a home cooked meal.

We continued our quest for color and approached the green color zone all too quickly. (We later established that the green zone was not adequately distanced a full kilometer away from the yellow, but that's okay.) Next came blue, which is when I quite literally began to taste the rainbow - ugh. The only rainbows I want to taste are made of Skittles in the bag and marshmallows in boxes of Lucky Charms. The color may be elf made, but I can pretty much guarantee that it's not a Keebler recipe!

  

Shortly after what they called the "pink" color zone (wich was really orange), we crossed the finish line. We participated in the Color Bombing of Richmond Heights 2012, joined what I would call the most unsuccessful conga line ever, and took "after" photos of each other and the street, which looked like a color crime scene. We made our way to the car, cleaned ourselves off to the best of our abilities with paper towels and water, and drove home to shower. I lathered, rinsed, and repeated. After getting out of the shower, I got back in because, after careful observation, I realized I looked like a victim of iodine (orange), abuse (blue), and jaundice (yellow). After scrubbing off my tan but not my color, I gave up. I'm lucky I'm not blonde, like my fellow Color Runner, who had purple spots on his head for at least the next 24 hours.

Now that it's over, all I have left are the memories and a very stained (and savored) once-white shirt. Color me bad glad, because I can't wait to go again next year! 

Karma's a B****

I'm not sure how many people in the slave serving industry are Hindus or Buddhists, but I do know most of them believe in karma. The idea that you get what you give has gotten me through countless nights as a slave server. But I never knew for sure that the universe punished rude patrons for treating their waiters and waitresses poorly...

...until last weekend.

I went out to dinner, where I was seated next to a table of three. From my understanding, they were displeased with the taste and/or quality of their food and decided to take it out on their server. (This is not okay.) Their server was doing all the right things, despite the rude remarks his table was making - both to his face and behind his back that left me literally shaking my head in disgust.

Cut to us leaving the restaurant, shortly after the implolite table next to us had left. As we drove out of the parking lot, what did we see? To my delight, there were the people from the table, gathered around the open hood of their car and looking distraught. I'm just guessing, but I believe they were experiencing car trouble, aka a cosmic kick in the butt for mistreating their waiter. 

Karma = 1 point.