Music is a funny thing. Some days it feels like you've listened to every freakin' song you'll ever like. You're over it. "I'll just listen to the traffic!" you say, in irritation, thinking of that stupid habit you have of listening to your favorite songs over and over again until you know all the words and then listening to them more as you find live versions until you really can't listen to it again because your roommates/coworkers/friends/neighbors might kill you. No. They really might.
Other days, music finds you! New bands, new singers, old singers singing new songs, new singers singing old songs, or even old singers singing the same old songs but for some reason, on that day, those old tunes tickle your ear hairs a new way. This new tickle pleases you. And you spend all day, when you should be working, following the magical musical trails that You Tube provides you with, finding songs like this: (sorry the videos are so big, i couldn't figure out how to fix it...anyone?)
Or this:
And this one:
this!
this!
and sometimes it's more about the actual video than the song:
Whatever happens in the air on days like this, I want it to happen all the time. I feel bloated with melodies, giddy on the new, weird, beautifully sad, and hilariously funny.
Thanks universe. This was lovely.
28.9.09
27.9.09
i feel like...
sometimes San Francisco just does it to fuck with me. I descended into the Bart tunnel feeling grateful and relieved that I lived through the day, and was greeted by my favorite punk-rock Johnny Cash sound-a-like rockin' out on his acoustic. I enter the tunnel and get on the train, which is when the calls begin. My roommate's number pops up on my phone, and I ignore it since I'm in tunnel. Then he calls again. And again. And again. The strangeness begins.
I exit the tunnel and begin my four block trot home. While I spent the first block contemplating if I should buy an enourmous bag of Sun Chips or maybe a tub of ice cream to cuddle with my angry hungover tummy (i decided not to, thank you very much. there is a remnant of will power left in this mopey body.), the strangness ensued on the second block. I come upon a young man and his very young little son staring straight up into the sky. Staring. Not looking, not gazing, staring. Straight up. So I stopped and asked them, "What are you guys staring at?" Unfortunately, these two didn't speak very much English and so their explanation was a little...muddled. Here is what I heard, "There are stars, up there, you see? 30 stars. It's the ozone!" Oh ya, did I mention it was 5:30pm? That the sun was shining? That the sky was blue, and presumably NOT falling...
I looked, I stared, I peered, but all I saw was bright blue sky. So I kept walking, but now I'm walking down the street trying to ignore the irrational side of my brain that is now convinced that the ozone has broken open and any minute all hell is going to break loose.
But then I saw a teenage boy execute his first successful parallel parking job! Which was adorable. And uplifting.
But then a mexican man waiting on the corner started following me and calling me all sorts of "sitas" that I didn't know. Which was creepy.
But then I crossed the street and saw a young woman playing with a kitten that was in a yard on the street. Which was adorable. And uplifting.
And this entire time, my phone keeps ringing and ringing while my roommate's phone continues to accidentally call me, over and over and over.
What a weird twenty minutes...
I exit the tunnel and begin my four block trot home. While I spent the first block contemplating if I should buy an enourmous bag of Sun Chips or maybe a tub of ice cream to cuddle with my angry hungover tummy (i decided not to, thank you very much. there is a remnant of will power left in this mopey body.), the strangness ensued on the second block. I come upon a young man and his very young little son staring straight up into the sky. Staring. Not looking, not gazing, staring. Straight up. So I stopped and asked them, "What are you guys staring at?" Unfortunately, these two didn't speak very much English and so their explanation was a little...muddled. Here is what I heard, "There are stars, up there, you see? 30 stars. It's the ozone!" Oh ya, did I mention it was 5:30pm? That the sun was shining? That the sky was blue, and presumably NOT falling...
I looked, I stared, I peered, but all I saw was bright blue sky. So I kept walking, but now I'm walking down the street trying to ignore the irrational side of my brain that is now convinced that the ozone has broken open and any minute all hell is going to break loose.
But then I saw a teenage boy execute his first successful parallel parking job! Which was adorable. And uplifting.
But then a mexican man waiting on the corner started following me and calling me all sorts of "sitas" that I didn't know. Which was creepy.
But then I crossed the street and saw a young woman playing with a kitten that was in a yard on the street. Which was adorable. And uplifting.
And this entire time, my phone keeps ringing and ringing while my roommate's phone continues to accidentally call me, over and over and over.
What a weird twenty minutes...
a tribute
To all the single ladies,
My Friday nights have become a complete joke. Thanks to my genius decision to train for the Nike Women's Half Marathon on October 18th (which *gasp* is in *choke* less than a *hyperventilation* month...), I don't leave my house on Friday nights for fear of ruining any chance I may have of not sleeping through the cruelly early Saturday morning runs. While this strategy is not 100% successful...it is actually about 25% successful...ugh...I still refuse to go out on Fridays. This often results in a wardrobe change into pajamas around 7pm, crappy TV show watching beginning around 7:30pm, and the ever present, but for some reason much stronger on Fridays, desire for a burrito around 8pm. Last night, however, was a very special burrito trip.
Papalote is a little Mexican food restaurant about 4 blocks from my humble abode. Touted as having the "Best burrito in San Francisco", this place is usually overrun with your typical adorable San Fran duo out on a fun and quirky adventure. With their left pant legs rolled up, their enormous purses/messenger bags, and their fierce love for tall cans of PBR, they are the textbook definition of the couples you love to hate. You know they've got big plans: a rooftop concert complete with circus acts, maybe an underground showing of once banned communist propaganda films set to soundtracks from bands you've never heard of (but feel pressured to pretend that you have), or perhaps a simple open mic in bar (that you've never heard of) with vintage velvet paintings and $2 Hamms. All it takes is a simple shake of their head to clear their eyes of their side swept bangs to remind you that all you are doing tonight it absolutely nothing. With nobody.
Last night had its share of these inked up pairs, but there was also present a new demographic, oft underrepresented in San Francisco. I'm speaking of the cute, single young woman who wants nothing more on a Friday night than to wear her grubby sweatpants, watch her crummy stories, and gnaw on her gummy burrito.
Yes, you read this right. I am not the only one.
Last night, there were four of us. Standing in relative solidarity in the way of all those perky couples, waiting for our orders, thinking only of our sofas, I like to think we all recognized in each other a bit of ourselves. That our simple presence, the knowledge that we were all there for the same purpose, were going home to the same fates, gave us that rare but priceless feeling of 'I'm not alone in this world.'
So this is for you, you three beautiful women at Papalote, ordering take out on a Friday night, in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I hope that while you shuffled the two-five blocks to your Victorian converted flats, looking over your shoulder every couple of minutes to be sure no one was lurking behind you, that you felt stronger, smarter and prettier, knowing that there were other women like you. That we worked all week, that we struggle to better ourselves everyday, and that in the context of all the pressures we're under everyday, that we freakin' deserve a burrito at the end of it all. I hope you lifted your head a little higher, took a deep breath, and felt, at least a little better, as you settled into your sofa and prepared your DVR to display to you the next ridiculous but tear-jerking plot twists of Grey's Anatomy. I know I did, and I thank you for it.
My Friday nights have become a complete joke. Thanks to my genius decision to train for the Nike Women's Half Marathon on October 18th (which *gasp* is in *choke* less than a *hyperventilation* month...), I don't leave my house on Friday nights for fear of ruining any chance I may have of not sleeping through the cruelly early Saturday morning runs. While this strategy is not 100% successful...it is actually about 25% successful...ugh...I still refuse to go out on Fridays. This often results in a wardrobe change into pajamas around 7pm, crappy TV show watching beginning around 7:30pm, and the ever present, but for some reason much stronger on Fridays, desire for a burrito around 8pm. Last night, however, was a very special burrito trip.
Papalote is a little Mexican food restaurant about 4 blocks from my humble abode. Touted as having the "Best burrito in San Francisco", this place is usually overrun with your typical adorable San Fran duo out on a fun and quirky adventure. With their left pant legs rolled up, their enormous purses/messenger bags, and their fierce love for tall cans of PBR, they are the textbook definition of the couples you love to hate. You know they've got big plans: a rooftop concert complete with circus acts, maybe an underground showing of once banned communist propaganda films set to soundtracks from bands you've never heard of (but feel pressured to pretend that you have), or perhaps a simple open mic in bar (that you've never heard of) with vintage velvet paintings and $2 Hamms. All it takes is a simple shake of their head to clear their eyes of their side swept bangs to remind you that all you are doing tonight it absolutely nothing. With nobody.
Last night had its share of these inked up pairs, but there was also present a new demographic, oft underrepresented in San Francisco. I'm speaking of the cute, single young woman who wants nothing more on a Friday night than to wear her grubby sweatpants, watch her crummy stories, and gnaw on her gummy burrito.
Yes, you read this right. I am not the only one.
Last night, there were four of us. Standing in relative solidarity in the way of all those perky couples, waiting for our orders, thinking only of our sofas, I like to think we all recognized in each other a bit of ourselves. That our simple presence, the knowledge that we were all there for the same purpose, were going home to the same fates, gave us that rare but priceless feeling of 'I'm not alone in this world.'
So this is for you, you three beautiful women at Papalote, ordering take out on a Friday night, in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I hope that while you shuffled the two-five blocks to your Victorian converted flats, looking over your shoulder every couple of minutes to be sure no one was lurking behind you, that you felt stronger, smarter and prettier, knowing that there were other women like you. That we worked all week, that we struggle to better ourselves everyday, and that in the context of all the pressures we're under everyday, that we freakin' deserve a burrito at the end of it all. I hope you lifted your head a little higher, took a deep breath, and felt, at least a little better, as you settled into your sofa and prepared your DVR to display to you the next ridiculous but tear-jerking plot twists of Grey's Anatomy. I know I did, and I thank you for it.
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