valhalla here I come

I haven't roadtripped to another city to see a band play since I was a lowly undergrad, but tagged along with my other metalhead homie and one of his friends for a trek down to Columbus. It's starting to make sense to me why there's a lot of acts skipping Cleveland, because almost any Columbus venue that books heavier bands seems to be infinitely nicer than Peabody's.

I-71 is a terribly dull stretch of highway, but it was enlivened by the small car driving next to us covered with decals of horses and puppies and an action figure glued to the dent on the rear bumper. I did want to take a picture, but Sam was driving fast and the guy driving looked creepy as heck anyway. After an incident a few years ago with a decidedly more clean-cut posse in which some driver thought we were the Devil's spawn and waved a plastic cross at us all the way down 480 to about Twinsburg, I didn't want to incur the wrath of any crazed soul in the boonies once more.

I am so accustomed to Cleveland venues, which are usually grungy and sometimes in parts of the neighborhood where you hope your car won't get broken into, so it was weird to get off the highway and drive through some industrial by-ways only to find the venue off of a main street next to a Kroger and across from some very upscale-looking apartments.

The interior of the place reminded me of the kind of place that has glammy drag shows but I guess it's a goth club, though it was nice to see that there were couches and places to sit down and chill to get away from the noise, and the room where the bands were playing was nice and big. Soundgarden was being played over the PA between sets which was strange given the acts on the bill but not entirely unwelcome either.

Really enjoyed Junius, because I'm a sucker for angst and shimmery shoegaze guitars with an extra bit of crunch. It's nice to have openers that are actually enjoyable as opposed in fifteen minutes this will be over because it's gone on way too long.



I didn't know the first two songs Alcest played (I think they came from the EP) but I felt damn near euphoric when I heard the opening chords of Ecailles de Lune and Solar Song. Two of the dudes next to me where screaming out "FUCK YEAAHHHH!" at the most transcendentally beautiful moments, which was just weird to me, because this is the sound that washes over oceanically though I possibly don't understand the inner workings of the metal bro psyche so maybe I'm missing something. Their other friend with them who was wearing a Burzum shirt looked both surly at the lack of troo kvltness (as this kind of thing is more Faerie than Satan) and the antics of his friends, though his time to get his inner berzerker on was coming.





As came up in the conversation in the car, I'm not really much of a metalhead. I dip my toes in, but I will probably never swim out into the deep end of the Fjord of Viking Testosteronia anytime soon. Props to Enslaved though, for having actual songs and not taking themselves too seriously, and such, even if I did duck out and chill outside and people-watch.

We went looking for food, found none, drove home, and I slept in the backseat, waking up to see an incredible night sky, white clouds, Orion on his side, so beautiful.

And now it's back to the daily, but I feel alive again.

respite

I haven't been good about posting pictures because I'm a PC person who owns a Mac, but these are from Dike 14 on Saturday, which is an awesome place.







I've been a mess these past few weeks, with everything going on, and the change of seasons, and the feeling of stasis. I went for a good two weeks of eating dinner alone unable to string two words together in conversation, but yesterday was beautiful even if it began feeling utterly overwhelmed and broken. Intangible divinity once again transcended at the moment of my leastness and deepest doubts in ways that are nearly impossible to explain, and it ended up being the first really good day I've had in months.

I meet up with Tangerine for the first time since this summer, and epic plans were altered to instead hang out at the cemetery because it was a beautiful day and it was close by. Lake View is massive and we went down the "nature walk" path and ended up somewhere completely different and somewhat deserted, with my nice camera getting lots of use.



I love this angel so much.



Shadows of leaves on the bronze doors of the tombs.



daddy long legs spiders guarding mildewing silk flowers. This crypt had this weird echo effect which meant we were saying all sorts of absurd things to hear the reverberation.



This one I'd never seen before and was in the middle of the woods.



Japanese maples turning colors, the way these branches bend is beautiful to me.



This was creepy enough from this angle, and then we realized from walking around to the other side that the little boys were naked, which is even creepier. I don't understand. By this time, we'd wandered around a lot and got hungry so we got pizza and gelato and sat at the little cafe tables on Murray Hill conversating until it started to rain and we both needed to get home anyway.

I got home later than I thought I would, and while buying earplugs at the drugstore for the show tonight, got a call from Muk, who was down at Edgewater and wanted to hang out. I didn't want to bother with opening acts for the show, so I joined him on the pier as we watched the waves break on the rocks and talked about everything until the park ranger started coming around and I had live music to go see.



Got to Peabody's about five minutes before Katatonia got onstage, got my much needed catharsis of moody rock and Swedish accents, the only sour note being the drunk blonde metalhead Snooki type who tried to start a pit and kept slamming into me ostensibly because I was about the same size and didn't have anyone with me. I'm too old for the mosh thing and didn't want to get into a chickfight when there's good music to get introspective to so I got out of her way after she grabbed my shirt by the bra straps and started pulling me, and found more chill people on the side (kids with their confused parents) to stand by.

Still, it was a good show, they played a long set and I was able to lose myself in sweet sounds and indulge my inner techie geek by checking out the chords, deciphering tunings and time signatures because I spent my teens reading guitar magazines instead of Seventeen. Most of the crowd except for the girls were chill. Seriously, ladies, you're doing us females who dig the heavy sounds a disfavor.

No pictures, as I had the little point and shoot and forgot to replace the memory card. Thankfully Randal's more organized than me and has the visuals.

carnivalesque

We the Female Peonage concluded yesterday that it would be a most excellent idea to attend the fair in our fair county, as neither of us had seen a demolition derby, admission was a dollar with a canned good, and the bright lights, fabulous people-watching, and aromatic greasy food was to be had.

As the Marquess is a better planner than yours truly, she had a bag of donated items that merited dollar bills from the rest of the masses in line with us and inevitably ran quite the hustle.

We covered quite a bit of ground, feeling bad for the ponies doomed to equestrian Dante-ish fates of walking in circles for hours carrying small children, watched a bemulleted cover band play hits from the 60's, wondered why people collect such random things and display them at the fair, and chortled at the promised exotic delectables that, according to the website, are straunge and unusual dishes not to be found easily in Clevelandia. Maybe it's that I grew up certain ethnic in Parmastan, but judge for yourself, denizens of the rust belt, if these sundry delights are as obscure as birds' nest stews and potions of dragon's tongue.



The livestock were many and while I went down on a frequent basis to the southern part of the state where my relatives have farms, in true city slicker fashion I'm a bit skittish around animals bigger than me or that smell. My parents took me to a pig farm in Indiana when I was probably six years old and I remember smelling like pig just from being there, and it took my mom hours to wash that smell out of my hair. That and being scared of the bulls at my great aunts. Those things were mean, and so were the chickens, understandable since their overlords would eventually eat them. It makes sense.



Insert obligatory Alice in Chains reference here

The county fair makes you remember that yes you are in Ohio and no it's not like your almost-hood in Clevelandia or your concrete-towered place of peonage. The music is country and classic rock, not reggaeton, the t-shirts are emblazoned with Pantera and patriotism, not Tupac, though bad tattoos transcend all age, ethnicity, and culture. The tchotchkes sold are of the American Flag/Stars and Bars/"Native American"/Harley Davidson/Military/etc kind.

I get tired of and a bit creeped out by the hagiography and personality cult of the current president that I see around me but I was equally disconcerted by the number of stands and t-shirts selling bumper stickers about the president being a commie and how much illegals and people on welfare suck, and don't take away my guns. These were not really differences of policy issues, but a cultural againstness that I recognize yet don't quite understand.

I tend to get overanalytical even as I'm entertained, wondering what the the stories of the carnies are, wondering what the freak show girl twirling the snake thinks of the gawkers, wondering what the stories are, what people's lives are like when they're not on stage or trying to get you to throw darts at balloons.



Still, this made me laugh:



Punk rock birds



The obligatory Freemasons



Mechanical cows



Pop culture ephemerals



Lots of the carnie kids had tip jars for their college funds.



Gonna smash it up til there's nothing left...


Is the demolition derby the blue-collar equivalent to the the games played in Roman arenas, with the masses in the stands, the anticipation of chaos, the adrenaline surge of watching collisions, and the quasi-bloodlust exhibited when the tires have blown out and the engine is smoking and the crowd yells "hit him again!"

Pectorally exaggerated Robert Plant



People are strange when you're a stranger.



Rides of Spinny Doom



Pretty lights



But I had a great time, devoured a delicious flurry, savored the atmosphere of the fleeting, and was glad to get out on a weeknight to do something different for a change.

let us go then you and I...

The days are not nearly so sublime as the nights, when the heat dies down and the stars glimmer. An afternoon spent in the shade of trees by the lake scooping up salsa and getting philosophical with those who share the same credo but different perspectives as kids and puppies tumbled in the grass.

I like having these conversations with people who aren't my age, who come at the issue from different angles, who've been around longer or seen different things, because otherwise it becomes an echo chamber of mutual affirmation. I thrive on these kinds of conversations

The neighborhood was quiet, but something's happened because the cops are out, lights flashing, flashlights shining on the house next door, sirens in the distance. I don't know what happened.

One of my friends from my Kent days who also moved back here, came over for general west-siding last night, and we bought pasta and fresh oranges and tomatoes from the West Side Market, spices from the Caribbean market around the corner, and I got a crash course in cooking really well. I picked herbs and zucchini from the garden, sliced vegetables as he concocted homemade meatballs seasoned with mint and coriander, simmered tomato sauce on the stove, concluding that Les Discrets is good tuneage to cook to before heading down to the beach for ice cream and the sunset, sitting on a broken picnic table half buried in the sand.

The park closed, and we wandered over to the Italian festival at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, where Cardboard Benedict was hanging out, little kids were dancing to Michael Jackson, the gambling was in full effect, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the basement watching some old Italian men play accordion and mandolin as a trio of singers worked their way through old pop standards. To see them having so much fun and playing well, warmed our little musician souls to see them suddenly so young and lost in songs they loved.

I feel like I'm in a movie, he says as we walk through the old Italian neighborhood after scoping out the carnival scene in the humid glow of Christmas lights still strung on balconies, big band music emanating from open windows, someone's dance party on a top floor, disco ball and Top 40, stray cats looking for love, ending the night with some mix CD-making and laughing at terrible movies until it got late.

I love the ease of familiarity, because when we were all younger, we had lots of random adventures like this, flying kites in thunderstorms, wandering through downtown late with a crew of people we picked up on the way to hang out at the playground at midnight, driving up to Cleveland or Akron to see bands, and I was wishing that some of our mutual friends were there to share the magic of summer nights like this again, thankful that the sense of wonder isn't gone even when other things are lost.

desperate times call for desperate pleasures

I think I have a musical crush on Kristin Hersh. 25 minutes of amazing is what this is.

2 more minutes and then high culture and excellent adventures of something or other with one of the fellow workers and creative partners. I have to take the sun and beauty where I can get it.

the great road trip of 2011

rust belt adventures so far:

traffic jams on I-90
excursions through Erie
driving down state routes through Chautaqua admiring vineyards and the blue of the mountains
a walk along the Niagara River as the sun set and birds swirled around us
driving through a new city at night
picking yellow and red daisies in the darkness and hanging out among the massive abandoned grain elevators and rusty bridges that made me feel so at home.
wandering through downtown through halls and cathedrals and cemeteries
a picnic of pasta salad, figs, cinnamoned almonds, grapes and peaches, sharing a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag while watching Shakespeare under stars.

This is the first city I feel like I could actually live in if I ever had to vacate Cleveland. Pictures and more lush details to come.

kitschtacular.

The sun was so bright Saturday, with my stack of CDs and traveling companions, one who was kind enough to provide me with a cup of coffee for the road, driving to the other side of the heart of it all, escaping the haze and smog enveloping the skyline for the greenery of the lands to the west and the clearness of Ashtabula blue sky.

The reason for such ventures was to help out a friend of mine from my Kent days who's getting married to someone truly wonderful. The venue for the reception is a Western-themed steakhouse on which we inflicted Martha Stewart tissue paper puffs of pink and peach. "You're going to love this place. It's kitsch heaven," she tells me and it is, replete with reliquaries of John Wayne bullets, movie posters of films I've never seen, and sculptures of cowboys and Indians.



We channelled Georgia O'Keeffe and stuck white tissue paper flowers in the eyes of the steer's skull over the dining room and tried to make it look girly and wedding-ish. "I think this is awesome, the guests will probably think it's weird..." I'm not really good at this whole party-planning decorations thing so after tying string to big paper puffs, I ended up at the table with her mom's boyfriend and her brother talking urban planning and other territory I'm a little more adept in.



While out in the exotic lands to the west, we took goofy tourist pictures underneath the World's Largest Rocking Chair next to a feed store, and soaked in the miles of green space and open sky.



After the festivities, we drove up to Geneva-on-the-Lake to indulge in even more uber-kitsch. I can't believe I've never been here before, because it's unlike any place I've ever been. It was once the premier getaway for the likes of Henry Ford and the Rockefellers, and my grandparents honeymooned here post WWII. It's hard for me to imagine it as a place that was once genteel. I also can't imagine renting a summer cottage here ever. At least Put-in-Bay has a quiet half of the island. Still, it was a great way to kill an afternoon.







Hot sun, an endless parade of bikers in Harley gear, women with big poofy bleached coiffures, pale teens with green hair and miscellaneous piercings working at the arcades, all manner of greasy food, countless headshops selling tie-dyed t-shirts, blacklight posters, and hippie dresses, and souvenir shops hawking fake wanted posters, hemp necklaces with the stars and bars, and even more biker couture. If you ever wanted a pin that read "I'm a Trucker's Girlfriend," this is the place to get it.



I did, however, score some nice earrings at Gypsy Rose's Mamas and Papas. Every storefront was blaring either country or classic rock, and from one end of the 'Crooked Mile' to the other, I heard Bad Company, Foreigner, Def Leppard, Poison, and Whitesnake.







It seems that back in the day, there were actual good shows to be seen at the Cove, not just cover bands called Bon Journey or whatever incarnation of Skid Row or Mushroomhead that's still touring.



Incidentally, this mural on the side is getting destroyed to make way for new renovations, but I'm glad I shot it before it vanishes.



This totally does not look like Jimi Hendrix.



We did not discover what the Exciting Fascination was.



On the way back, we drove through the vineyards of wine country, though we were all dehydrated and sleepy and didn't feel like being around more partying boomers so we drove back to Clevelandia and I've realized I really don't like driving when it's sunny out, though Kyuss is fantastic driving in the burning sun music.



Came back to feed the kitties, hang out at my apartment with the new neighbors before Muk came over, woke up with sun poisoning and missed church, took my sister to the Hessler Fair, and slacked around with my dad in the basement Sunday night listening to the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. I opened my windows and let the cool night breezes in. Summer is looking hot and beautiful already.

rare vacationing

I left the beloved hometown on Sunday afternoon, driving to Akron-Canton to take the Airtran and be amused at the massive amount of Rush fans populating the terminal and the Ohioana for sale mostly having to do with tractors and Amish people, whose cookbook included recipes for "Jimmy Carter Pudding." There was also a piece of artwork on display in the lobby with this title:



I'm always jittery about flying, though fascinated by being on top of clouds, looking over the Atlantic Ocean and the waves breaking on a seashore a few miles below, knowing that people fly every day but wondering if my last moments of this life will consist of reading "Midnight's Children" and plunging into the salty brine of Davy Jones' Locker.

I have no TSA horror stories, being an unassuming fair-complexioned Caucasian female, and somehow avoided the naked scan though my traveling companion was subjected to it. It does creep me out to see men in blue shirts walking around with big guns in the airport like they're overcompensating a whole lot and hope there's somebody to shoot but anyone who knows me knows I've got a somewhat irrational dislike of men with guns.



Public transit was super easy and we got from the airport to the station easily though we were squished in among a sea of Celtics fans and one guy said I should be taking pictures of "The Gahden" instead of the graffiti on the building across the way.



We started walking in search of food and ended up in the Beacon Hill neighborhood with its gorgeous apartment buildings and narrow streets that are nothing like what I see around where I'm from.





We walked back to watch the sun set over the bridge and the lights of the city come on and caught the train to Acton where we went the wrong direction down Main Street in total darkness past lots of old homes and woods that should scare me since I'm in a small New England town of the kind where nearly all horror fiction seems to take place and bad things happen to clueless young women, but it was such a beautiful night and I was euphoric to be out of the airplane and figuring my way out through unfamiliar surroundings.

We never did meet the lady whose house we stayed in, but the keys were taped to the door and we woke up early to find coffee and bagels before heading out to meet my traveling companion's aunt at the marathon. The Green Line was packed with people and we ended up in some swanky suburb with huge houses where people had grills and space heaters going in the front yard and their kids jumped around in those inflatable play palaces. Every single dog we saw was purebred.

It was like 4th of July or something. People were friendly to us out of towners and invited us to hang out on porches and such, but we ended up walking from Mile 20 to Mile 17 past people in lawn chairs, Japanese girls waving banners, hippies banging drums, Ethiopians waving flags, bros getting drunk, vendors selling fried dough and hot dogs because nothing says spectator sport like watching people do athletic things while you get fat, as the first runners came down the street.





My friend wanted to go to the finish line and watch everyone come in but it was just too many people for me so we split up and I used my transit pass to explore, hitting up bookstores, wandering through old cemeteries, going to the People's Republic of Cambridge to dig through bins at record stores, take pictures of graffiti in alleys, wander around while eating takeout Indian food and people-watching.







From there, I went to Harvard Square to explore some more, take pictures of old buildings, cutting through the campus and its surroundings, down side streets and alleys, observing a world so different from my own. Thanks to some National Merit recognition and a very good ACT score, Harvard actually sent me an application when I was in high school but decided that I really wouldn't fit in there, opting for the less illustrious option of the state school known to most as a place that Neil Young wrote a song about.

I didn't mind looking completely out of place, scruffy in an old Rites of Spring t-shirt and black hoodie, because I'm a stranger here, a tourist in a world that feels like a living J. Crew catalog with the collegiate/preppy/old money atmosphere complete with shops for all your lacrosse/squash needs, walking past a seemingly endless procession of Bright Young Things and people in suits. There was also a man playing a hurdy-gurdy on the corner. That was awesome, but I forgot to take a picture of him.



I go into culture shock every time I'm surrounded by all white people, which is ironic since I grew up in Parma but I must not have been in other parts of the city or on the wrong train lines because everyone around me seemed to be affluent and Caucasian, the only exception being Chinatown and the surrounding area. While I venture into sundry sketchy neighborhoods on a regular basis in Thieveland, I figured I wouldn't test my luck alone in a big strange city.

By this time, the sun began to set, and I went back to North Station to wait for the next train, watched the Celtics and the Bruins on a small TV in the waiting area, and made my way back to the house.

We did the Freedom Trail the next morning with a suitably snarky tour guide who gave us a hard time about our losing sports team and traded historical re-enactment anecdotes with my fellow traveler who does Underground Railroad and Voyageurs experiences for inner-city schoolkids. I think I spent most of my sputnik turista time here hanging out in cemeteries and taking pictures of gravestones replete with skulls and creepy angels.









It was rainy and cold so we split up again, because days like this are perfect for museums and I wanted to see the MFA and the Gardner, which was the most amazing place I've ever been. I felt like I was somewhere in Europe when I walked inside the Venetian-style palazzo into a world of tiled walls, a lush courtyard, dark rooms full of candelabra and tapestries, and three floors of art from marble sarcophagi to parts of altarpieces, paintings of angels, works by Degas, Raphael, and Botticelli.



Photography being verboten, I took a few pictures sans flash when out of view of the security, but thankfully there are better views courtesy of the Internet. I wish this place was next door to me because I'd be there all the time.





From there, I went around the corner to the absolutely huge Museum of Fine Arts where I got to see the Chihuly exhibit,











feel small next to chunks of Egyptian temples



and get up close to mummies, Japanese prints, paintings by El Greco and Monet.





Our last day, we slept in, went hiking in the woods down the street,



ended up at the science museum with the dinosaur out front, and killed time downtown where I was amused by stoners making a statement about weed legalization in front of the Civil Rights Monument, took pictures of the gigantic Masonic lodge, was amused bypigeons in front of cherry blossom trees,
bought cheap and gorgeous art books (there were so many amazing bookstores),



and ended up in Chinatown before catching the train back to the airport where she bought various Sanrio products as I took pictures of buildings with pagoda facades and ate purple and green biscuits that were theoretically flavored with taro and green tea.







They offered to re-route me to Atlanta and give me round trip tickets, but I was tired and ready to go home so I declined, felt jittery as we went through turbulence after hearing all about "horizontal tornadoes" flipping airplanes on CNN, but I got home safely and buzzed on bad coffee as the man next to me talked about his wife and drank lots of Jack Daniels.

Drove home up I-77 listening to the entirety of "Welcome to Sky Valley," to my now-much-smaller-looking city, finding comfort in the familiarity of empty streets, all-night diners, and my couch. I felt so refreshed even in being exhausted, so glad to be gone from Ohio for a few days, yet so happy to be home.