I am making preparations for your upcoming visit.

I will take down all my hanging planters and stash them in the corner by the back steps.

I will pull up my shepherd’s hooks and put them in the shed.  The lawn chairs will be in the shed, too.

I will move my big resin rabbit planter and my finch feeder into the shed.

I will secure my trash cans.

I will make sure the punchbuggy has a full tank of gas.

I have an ample supply of people food and cat food and cat litter.

I have flashlights and a transistor radio and extra batteries.

I have candles (jar candles — safer).

I have plenty of unread books and a deck of cards.

I always have plenty of practice drills for school and am willing to practice with my steno writer in manual mode and without being connected to my laptop.

My cell phone will be fully charged.

I have five gallons of water and will fill up the sinks if I think I need more.  (Sorry, no bathtub.)

Now I have a few favors to ask of you.  Well, more than a few.

Please drift out to sea.

If not, please drastically weaken as you make landfall.

If not, please be kind.  (See below.)

Please be kind to my house.

Please be kind to my roof, especially the half that has not yet been replaced, the half that leaked a little in the utility room (and almost in my new bathroom!) during last year’s floods.

Please be kind to my windows, particularly the picture window and the two large bow windows, as they will not be boarded up.

Please be kind to my mighty oak trees (especially the crooked one) and my lovely, sturdy red maple.

Please be kind to my big lilac.  I love the lilacs, you know.

Please be kind to my stockade fences, both the good and not-so-good sections, and to the wooden plank fence that runs along the street.

Please be kind to my front porch.

Please be kind to the smaller things, too, such as my mailbox post and my iron sunflower birdbath.  I promise to lay the birdbath on its side.

Please be kind to my shed.  The crooked oak is right behind it, and I am concerned about what could happen should you uproot it.

Please be kind to my car which has no garage in which to seek shelter.

Please do not produce any tornadoes.  Enough is enough already.  Also, I do not have a basement to escape to if there is a tornado.

Please do not leave me without electricity for a week.  I remember Gloria doing that to my current municipality in ’85.  I was still in Massachusetts then, where we had our electricity restored in three days.  (And I remember sitting in the kitchen with Mom listening to “Dallas” on the radio that Friday night.)

Of course, please be kind to all the animals, those that are being cared for by people as well as those who are on their own.

Please extend these courtesies to everyone, not just to me.

Thank you for considering my request.

KarmaCat

=^..^=

History:  I have seen A Perfect Circle once before, about ten years ago, when they were opening for Nine Inch Nails and supporting their first album, Mer de Noms.

Now, let’s get this out of the way.  This is all IMO.  It’s music, and music is art.  These are my opinions.

So, Boston fucking rush hour traffic.  Seriously, these concerts at venues located right in the city need to be on weekends.  It took us a little over 2 hours to get up there; just 70 minutes to get home.

When we first got there after walking three blocks in 95 degree heat, and I was all sweaty and drippy and cursing Boston traffic and $10 drafts and $13 for parking, and why can’t nature be air conditioned, we got to our seats and – cupholders!  Behind the arms of the chairs in front of us, not in the arms of our own chairs.  This was genius, and I was pleased.

Damn straight, I’m not going to spill any of my $10 draft.
(Polish: OPI’s Yoga-Ta Get This Blue. Dark sapphire blue, not black.)           

Yeah, I’m the one who prefers outdoor concerts.  But 95 degrees and humid?  I hate to think how hot it was those middle sections.  Praise allah for our outer aisle seats.  We caught the occasional breeze, and it wasn’t so steambath-y after all.  After the sun set, even the under layer of hair at the nape of my neck had completely dried.

Good seats.
(pre-show; no photos allowed, not even on phones, once the concert started)

The three teenage Japanese metal chicks who opened?  Okay, maybe they weren’t teenagers after all, but I swear none were over 23.  And, yes, they were from Japan.  Also, I decided they were more hardcore, not metal.  The singer was a tad too screechy to understand, but they were sincere in their music.  In fact, they were well received, probably because everyone was like, “Awww, those little Japanese girls in the pink and black really can rock out.  How cute.”

Learning that this is the eMOTIVe tour, I thought it would be one of those album concerts some bands are doing these days.  I wasn’t thrilled, because eMOTIVe is mostly (peace themed) covers and mostly self-indulgence on APC’s part.  But aren’t most, if not all, cover albums self-indulgent?  Anyway, last week I found out this tour is 60% eMOTIVE, 40% Mer de Noms and Thirteenth Step.  Yay.

About covers.

I don’t think a cover song has to be better than the original to be good.  That rarely happens.  I simply have to enjoy it, like The Cure’s cover of “Purple Haze.”  A cover song that leaves you yearning to hear the original, though, is a miss.

Good eMOTIVe cover:  “Imagine”
Bad eMOTIVe covers:  “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love, And Understanding,” “People Are People.”  Maybe it’s because I’m too fond of Elvis Costello’s 1979 cover and Depeche Mode’s original, but I’ve always liked “Imagine,” too, so go figure.  (Oooh, I do so like the late ‘70s albums from Elvis Costello and the Attractions.)

My favorites on eMOTIVe happen to be “Passive” and “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums,” the only two non-covers.  Please take the hint, Billy and Maynard.

I don’t even know if APC’s catalog is on iTunes, but I do recommend “Passive” for your listening pleasure.  Also, on Counting Bodies, I have to say, those yelp-y screams sure do sound like Trent Reznor, circa Pretty Hate Machine.

The band was surprisingly tight, considering that although each has worked with some of the others, they have not played as a fivesome prior to this tour, and it’s been years since any APC tour.  Maynard’s voice, whether a primal scream or a soothing whisper, still sounds like a lullaby to me.  Lastly, the acoustics at the amphitheater were fantastic.  That’s one of the reasons I prefer open air concerts.  (The other is … open air.  I don’t like to be enclosed with a large crowd; panic sometimes sets in.)

Hearing much of eMOTIVe live gave me a better appreciation for some of APC’s covers.  Except for “Peace, Love, and Understanding” and “People Are People.”  I still don’t care for those covers.  But my love for this band has been reaffirmed, and I’ve been listening to them exclusively in the days since, some sure signs of a good concert.

CR classmate Sara was completely impressed and blown away.  She hadn’t been to a concert in years, any concert, and her knowledge of APC was limited to their singles.  I’m pretty sure she will be (1) acquiring some CDs and (2) going to more concerts in the future.  Yay for Sara.

As for Maynard…

Maynard was wearing dark glasses and his Thirteenth Step wig (the one with the crazy pigtails, if that helps).  Wearing that wig and a long-sleeved shirt under the stage lights, he must have been absolutely sweltering.

As usual, Maynard did not engage in much chatter.  “Good evening,” after the third or fourth song.  And much later:  We’re not like your average egomaniac band who leaves the stage and does some ass grabbing while we listen to you cheer for more.  We’re going to save you the time.  We’re staying right here, and we’re going to do three more songs.  Not that we’re not egomaniacs, too.  (paraphrased)

“Peace out, bitches.”

In addition to Maynard James Keenan and Billy Howerdel, James Iha returned on guitar and keyboards.  Matt McJunkins (from Puscifer) took over bass.  Of course, I would have loved seeing Jeordie White again, but Matt did a fine job.  The only member of the lineup I was surprised to see was the drummer – can’t remember his name, also from Puscifer, I think.  Or Ashes Divide.  Both?  I don’t recall reading that Josh Freese was not returning as drummer.

Delights:
“Weak and Powerless” – the heavy, extra punched out ending.
“Orestes” – the powerful section near the finish.
Counting Bodies – this is a remix/part 2 of Thirteenth Step’s “Pet.”  The intro was met with the audience pounding on chairs (the rhythm of the war drums, I suppose).  Hearing it live made me appreciate it so much more.  Alternating between trancelike and invigoratingly aggressive (or aggressively invigorating?).  Yum.

GO TO SLEEP
GO TO SLEEP
GO TO SLEEP

This would have been a good song to peak to, you know, if I had been under the influence of anything more than a $10 draft (a/k/a “dinner”).  (Oh, and someone in our vicinity kept firing up some weed all night that totally smelled like skunk.  At first, I thought it was an actual skunk.  Honest.  I cannot imagine how nasty it must have been to smoke that stuff.)

Disappointment:  “3 Libras.” Oh my god, this song was reworked to the point of being almost unrecognizable and it did not work for me.  Not at all.  It’s the song that got me into APC, and it is so beautiful in its original version that I was really let down by the complete remixing of it.  I actually yawned at one point during the song.

Giggles:  The growly guy behind us, roaring deeply, “Yeeeaaaah, Maynard!”

Set list (as provided by some other site that provides that sort of stuff):

Annihilation (Crucifix cover)
Imagine (John Lennon cover)
Weak and Powerless
The Hollow
What’s Going On (Marvin Gaye cover)
People Are People (Depeche Mode cover)
The Outsider
Peace, Love, and Understanding (Nick Lowe cover)
When the Levee Breaks (Memphis Minnie & Kansas Joe McCoy cover)
The Noose
3 Libras
Gravity
Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie (Black Flag cover)
Orestes
Passive
Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums
Fiddle and the Drum (Joni Mitchell cover)
By and Down (new material)

Thank you, Billy Howerdel, for bowing down to the audience and giving thanks at the close of the show.

When I got home, Sam greeted me with his customary series of meows, and I was all “Don’t fret, precious; I’m here.”  For real.  I am nuts.

Peace out, bitches.

=^..^=

At Target, I found an open register with just one customer in line.  The cashier told the customer her total was $209.03.  The customer handed the cashier eleven 20-dollar bills and said she had the three cents.  As the customer fished around for the pennies, the cashier counted the bills.  Slowly.  With great confusion.  She did this two more times.  Yup.  The cashier couldn’t count money.  She could not easily count off 20, 40, 60, 80 ….  Finally, she entered an amount in the register and miraculously gave the customer the correct change.

I was appalled, to say the least.  I was tempted to inform the manager about their currency-challenged cashier, but I figured if they want to hire idiots, it’s their loss.  Besides, I’m sure they wouldn’t care.

The thing I don’t get is, with unemployment rates so high, how are people like this getting hired?  Were there no better applicants?  Scary.

=^..^=

I will miss her writing, her art, and of course her wit.

She was a multi-talented woman who wrote from her heart, no matter what the subject.  She wrote seemingly unafraid of what others might think.  I envy that.  Too often, I censor myself, for fear of offending others.  I seldom post my deepest feelings, perhaps afraid to admit to them, even to myself.  Wittykitty wrote about it all — the good, the bad, the scary — and always with the ability to find humor and poke fun.

I can’t believe there will be no more stories about her mom, her art classes, her dating life, her mundane yet amusing daily adventures.  No more photos of her latest artwork. 

I had always imagined that someday we’d meet in person.  I’d go to New York, and we would meet up in the city for a day of museums and sight-seeing.  And much laughter.  But that can never happen now.

I read her online condolence book and was glad to learn that Sienna (Guardcat) is being cared for by an aunt.

Her light has been extinguished much too soon, and it’s just so damn unfair.  This little bloggy community won’t be the same without her.

Peace, Barb.

-K

First and foremost, I am not flooded. SO GRATEFUL. Many have flooded streets, flooded yards, flooded basements. Some have been evacuated. I cannot imagine that hell.

I had the good judgment to take the bus to work today. Otherwise, driving home would have been a nightmare, if not impossible, in my punchbuggy.

Upon boarding the bus shortly after 4:30, the only other passenger, a woman who gets off at the same stop as I do, informed me that we would be taking a slightly different route to our destination. The exit we usually take was closed due to flooding. I wasn’t surprised. Following all the rain a couple of weeks ago, we were able to take the exit, but close to the ramp was several feet of water. Today, a much, much greater area was under deeper water.

As the traffic slowed, we were struck by the depth of the water throughout the treed area off the highway. This was the case for several miles. Water, deep water, where we had never seen water before. Duh, I guess that’s what a flood is.

We passed our closed exit, craning to see the flooding at the bottom of the curving ramp, and took a subsequent exit. It wasn’t much better. Traffic was backed up for quite some distance. Eventually, we came to see that most of the exit was flooded out, as was the on-ramp running in the opposite direction. Both lanes on each side were closed, and vehicles has to use the breakdown lanes, not that they were free of water. Fortunately, the bus got through without problem. I was cringing, though, watching the cars plowing through. I don’t know that my car would have fared well. A Miata was stalled out in the water, and I was surprised that traffic was being allowed to pass through at all. Seriously, this exit should have been closed, too.

We made it to our stop with no problems. The parking lot is somewhat elevated, so I wasn’t concerned about my car. I saw no more flooding on the drive home, no more of that scary stuff I saw off the highway. I turned on the radio, and sure enough, the exit we had just taken was now closed. Did I mention how glad I am that I took the bus in today?

(I’m guessing the bus was so empty on the way home because others left work early to check on their basements. Also, I think some schools had early dismissals.)

With all the traffic and flooding and re-routing, it took more than twice as long to get home. Yeah, screw the gym today. The neighborhood looked okay, just big street puddles, no flooded yards. Deep sigh of relief. Even my front walk, which dips a little and sometimes floods, was good to go. (I’ve been meaning to do something about that walkway for a couple of years now. I just need to lift the stones, fill in with some topsoil, sand, gravel, and replace the stones — ledge rock, courtesy of Mom’s former home.)

On the car radio, I had heard some mention of not using water. At home, I turned on the television to get the scoop. Um, no dishwashers, no showers, no washing machines (sure, I had planned to do the laundry tonight that I didn’t do over the weekend), no unnecessary flushing of toilets (OF COURSE, I have my period). Possible sewage overflow problems. Great. Oh, hey, reverse 911 doesn’t mean much when you have just a cell phone. (Still, no regrets on that decision. Pay for another phone and get all the telemarketers? No, thanks.)

Then I noticed a puddle on the floor of the utility room. This was a frequent occurrence when I had P.J. She didn’t appreciate having to share the litterbox and would sometimes go NEXT to it. This puddle, however, was not yellow.

Drip, drip.

Oh, fuck.

Drip, drip, from the ceiling, above the shelves next to the washing machine. Clearly, hoping the section of the roof that I did not have reshingled last summer would hold out for another year was a joke. You see, the section I had done last summer following the pre-4th of July leak was the addition at the rear of the house. One layer of crumbling shingles, no liner paper or whatever that stuff is. Not the same as the rest of the roof, which, it turns out, has THREE layers of shingles. That be illegal. One or two layers of shingles is okay, but three layers is a no-no. Also, this means more money, as I will have to pay someone (Construction Ray?) extra for the additional time to have ALL THOSE SHINGLES removed and carted away. Ugh.

I checked the ceilings in the rest of the house. All looked well except for in one room, where a prominent crack, more prominent than I recall, running the length of the room, showed signs of dampness. The bathroom. MY NEW BATHROOM. With the new 48″ vanity and new slate floor that I just spent thousands on.

A nuisance, for sure, but nothing like the flooded homes I saw on the news.

I cleared the shelves in the utility room, wiped up the water, and set dishpans on the top shelf. Drip, drip. Not much else to do at this point but pray it doesn’t get any worse. I’ve checked the ceilings a million times and will probably check them a million more before leaving for work tomorrow.

On the bright side, the utility room may be the best room for a leak, if there has to be one. Not the kitchen, not the carpeted living/dining room, not the spare bedroom/personal landfill. I just hope, hope, hope it doesn’t leak anywhere else, and especially not in the bathroom, please. I don’t think I could handle any more bathroom dilemmas, really.

I don’t have a basement, so no worries there. True, if I had a basement instead of a crawl space I would have known about the leaky pipe that caused all the bathroom floor damage, but at least I don’t have to deal with pumping out a flooded basement.

Eventually, I got to feeding Sam his special vet food. He was so good, not getting under foot and constantly meowing, as he usually does from the minute I get home. He must have sensed I had more pressing business to tend to. He’s very intuitive like that. Yeah. Also, WATER. That he would have to walk through to get to the litterbox.

I got settled in (though I have yet to do any of the hours of homework I had intended to do) and noticed I had a voicemail. Mom, I assumed, but it was the sweet bluesleepy, being a good friend and good neighbor. Sorry I didn’t call you back, dear. I was busy neurotically checking my ceilings a million times.

I know that roof leaks can travel, meaning the leaking ceiling is not necessarily directly below the roof leak. For what it’s worth, the portion of the attic where I have Christmas stuff and other items stored is not over the utility room. I’ll check the attic on Saturday. Maybe Thursday. Nothing I can’t live without up there. I just hope my Barbies (and their house, camper, airplane) are okay. My collection of Hallmark ornaments (more than I’d care to admit to) are safely stored in the house, not in the attic with the other Christmas stuff.

Right now:

I’m not sure how long I’ll be restricted on water usage. If more than a few days, I will be washing out some socks and undies in the sink. My punishment for not doing laundry over the weekend like a good girl.

The highway is now closed along the area where we saw all the nearby deep water on the bus ride home.

Since getting home (around 6:00), the drippy ceiling in the utility room is wetter and the wet area is larger, but it seems to have stopped spreading in the last hour. The dripping stopped for a little while, but has resumed, albeit no worse than before. The bathroom ceiling looks no worse than when I got home (yay!). I want to think the worst is over. Except for having to pay for the new roof, that is.

Inconvenienced? Yes. But considering what others are dealing with, I feel quite fortunate.

=^..^=

After school, I went to the supermarket to pick up a few things, like, ten things.  I went to the express self-check lane (as usual, for speediness and the opportunity to bag my own groceries (read: properly bag)).

After swiping my credit card (as usual, for those JoAnn points), I realized I had intended to do debit, because I needed some cash back.  So I went to press the Cancel Transaction button.

And then, the Little Bitch in line behind me (who was holding two items),
REACHES AROUND MY CARRIAGE,

SNATCHES THE ELECTRONIC PEN,

SCRAWLS ACROSS THE ELECTRONIC TABLET,

MOVES MY CARRIAGE, REACHES OVER,

AND PRESSES SIGNATURE COMPLETE on the screen.

For real.

And then I realized she was wearing a store uniform.  She was a supermarket employee, in a mega-hurry, not wanting to wait for li’l ol’ me.

Oh, yeah, I gave it to her.  Loudly.

KarmaCat:  Why did you that?  I was cancelling the transaction.

Little Bitch:  It already went through.

KC:  No, it didn’t.  I was pressing the Cancel Transaction button.  I wanted to use a different payment method.  Why would you do that?

LB:  It’s okay.  I work here.

KC:  No, it’s not okay.

At this point, the cashier who oversees the self-check lanes appeared and asked if I needed any help.

LB:  I was just helping her.

(And that wuss cashier quickly disappeared, even though he had to have seen that I was infuriated.)

KC:  HELPING me?!  You signed MY charge that I was trying to cancel.  How dare you!

LB:  I was helping.  I do that all the time.

KC:  You sign customers’ charges?

LB:  All the time.

KC:  I doubt that.  You were just in a big rush.

LB:  I was helping.

KC:  By signing MY charge that I was trying to cancel?!  How does that help me?!

LB:  *mouth open*

KC:  (louder) How does that help me?

LB:  *mouth still open*

KC:  HOW does that help me?  TELL me.

LB:  *still gaping*

KC:  I’m reporting this to the manager.

And then the Little Bitch, looking scared shitless, scurried off to the next register.

Now, I don’t hit people, but if I were the people-hitting kind of person, I would have smacked that Little Bitch clear back to the stockroom.

I went to the service desk and asked to speak with the manager.  A few minutes later, some smarmy kid appeared, acting all important and phony professional and adult-like, ’cause he has a job where he has to wear a tie (probably a clip-on).  I relayed the incident to him, about how the person in line behind me signed the electronic tablet.  He looked duly alarmed.  And then I whammied him with, “It was one of your employees.”

Gotcha.

He was quick to act in “the customer’s always right” mode, which was good, because when that doesn’t happen, when management defends its incompetent employees, I get even angrier.  He asked who she was (Little Bitch still had her name tag on), said he would speak to her about it, and offered me a $25 gift card for my inconvenience.

I really wasn’t looking for or even expecting the gift card, which I expressed to the manager, but he insisted that he make up for my inconvenience.  I truly just wanted him to be aware of Little Bitch’s actions.  But, cool for me, because I had only spent around $17.

At which time, Little Bitch appeared (no longer in uniform, so her shift was  completed).

LB:  I told her I was sorry.

KC:  No, you never said you were sorry.  You repeatedly defended yourself.

The manager kid dismissed Little Bitch and said he would speak to her tomorrow.  Which turned out to be a LIE, because as he continued to apologize to me, he mentioned that this was not his regular store.  He said I could contact him tomorrow if necessary and then corrected himself, saying he wouldn’t be there (not his regular store) and gave me the regular manager’s name.

At that point, I thanked him for his help, because basically he did what he was supposed to do.  Yes, I knew Little Bitch wouldn’t get her talking to the following day.  No, I wasn’t letting it slide.

You see, one of my current classmates works at that very supermarket, where she is in charge of the cashiers.*  I win.

(I just have to remember to stop at the ATM tomorrow to get some cash.)

=^..^=

* And I just know, from what Jen has said about her job, that she most definitely will talk to Little Bitch.  Also, Jen likes me.

So, out of complete boredom, and since I haven’t posted lately, and since it’s Friday…

1.  If you had a jar of peanut butter, what would you do with it?

IF?  IF I had a jar of peanut butter?  Does that imply that there could be a time when I DON’T have a jar of peanut butter?  Hah!  There is always peanut butter, at home and in my desk at work.  That’s emergency protein, you know.  That’s breakfast (all melty on an English muffin) or lunch when I have no time but to grab a couple of slices of bread.  For the record, it is Jif (I guess I’m a choosy mutha), and it is smooth.  Usually, it is Simply Jif, the reduced sugar variation.  It is regular Jif if there is a big sale and Simply Jif is not included in the big sale (bastards).

Oh, what would I do with it?  Well, last night I made chocolate-dipped pretzels.  I love, love, love my Wilton chocolate melter.  Dual heat settings (Melt and Warm).  Highly recommended.  I did some of the pretzels dipped in milk chocolate (my usual) and some dipped in a combination of two parts semisweet chocolate and one part peanut butter.  This idea came about after making some bars at Christmas.  The top layer was that melted chocolate and pb combo, and it was the best part of the bars, I think.  Also, they cut much easier than bars I have made that are topped with just melted chocolate.  No chocolate layer breakage, thanks to the peanut butter, I’m assuming.

2.  If you were to be cremated, where would you want your ashes to go and why?

Whoa.  That’s quite a change of pace.  How did we get from peanut butter to cremation?

Well, upon my death, it is my wish and desire that my body be cremated.  (Too much time working with attorneys in the Estate Planning Dept.?)  I do want to be cremated, and I don’t foresee anyone going against my wishes, as my mother and brother intend to be cremated, too.  My stepfather was cremated (his wish), and Mom purchased two small (cremation-sized) plots at the small cemetery where her parents are buried.  I do not wish to be buried, though.  It’s an impractical waste of real estate, I think.  Also, I don’t like the thought of being buried underground, whether I be dead, alive, or burned to a crisp.  (Oh, by the way, that scene in Kill Bill:  Vol. 2 where Uma Thurman fights, claws, and scratches her way out of the buried coffin and hauls her bloodied, dirt-covered self into the diner, gingerly sits at the counter, and asks for a glass of water?  Awesome.)

So where do my ashes go?  I see no need for my ashes to be kept in an urn on someone’s mantel or toilet tank or whatever.  My first thought is the ocean, Hawaii.  That might be cool to set up that as my “final expenses.”  Instead of a costly casket and burial plot, direct whomever to use my final expense funds to take a trip to Hawaii, my ashes in tow.  Go out to sea, celebrate my memory, have some yummy tropical cocktails, and set me free in the waters surrounding the loveliest place I have ever visited.  If the means aren’t there, then at least take me to Florida or the Grand Canyon, somewhere warm.  No Beavertail or Cape Cod, where Tina’s and Olivia’s mothers’ ashes were cast.  Of course, that was fine for them.  They had wonderful family vacation memories of their favorite local beaches, and it was completely appropriate for them.  But not for me.  The winters are much too chilly, and I prefer to think of myself in a warm and sunny eternity.

Oh, and flowers.  Duh.  Send some flowers off with my ashes, please.  White roses, maybe some pink ones, too.  If the Hawaii thing works out, feel free to include plumeria.  You know I like to have my flowers.

3.  If you could invent a flavor of jelly beans, what would it be?

Coffee ice cream, but not too sugary, please.  I like a strong coffee ice cream.

4.  What would your perfect paradise be like?

It would be like Hawaii but without the humidity.  Okay, not exactly.  I’m just having fond memories of Hawaii now.  But I do envision beautiful blue waters, just the right temperature to stroll right in.  There are lots of colorful flowers and lush, green plants everywhere.  There is no road rage or crazy drivers, no abused animals or unwanted pets.  All my favorite and necessary stores are nearby, yet my home is in a quiet area.  (I almost have that now.)  Trailer park trash types and entitled assholes do not exist.  There is frequent rain to sustain the plant life, yet showers are always brief and often, but not always, occur at night, for I desire the occasional daytime walk in the rain.  There is no Fox News.  There is some sort of magical snow that does not require freezing cold temperatures so that I might enjoy skiing, sledding, and building a snowman.  All foods are healthy and contain daily recommended amounts of vitamins, minerals, fiber, and all that good stuff without containing any excess fat, sodium, cholesterol, or calories.  A slice of cheesecake is just as healthy as a tossed salad dressed with a squeeze of fresh lemon.  Ditto for beverages.

And, of course, no crime and no war.

5.  If you could fly, where would you go?

Well, I’d fly to that paradise, of course.

On the way, though, I’d go to all the places I can only dream of seeing:  so many countries throughout Europe, a brief but scenic visit to Antarctica, a jaunt to Africa to see the big cats, on to Tokyo then Beijing, and some less frequented places, like Iceland (um, I guess that’s part of Europe, isn’t it?), just for the heck of it.

* * *

MLK weekend plans:

Tonight:  School (first night of Medical Terminology class), followed by a stop at the bowling alley.  As a result of the new class, I am forced to quit the league for the second half of the season.  Tonight, however, is the Holiday Potluck (post-holidays due to Christmas and New Year’s Eve falling on Friday).  The alley isn’t far at all from school, and class is only until 7:30 (as opposed to 8:30 for our regular Monday/Wednesday classes), so I’ll pop in for some free din-din.  And, yes, of course, I am bringing something:  the chocolate-dipped pretzels I made last night.  I’m not a total freeloader.

Saturday:  Errands, tidying, homework.  I’d like to go shopping for something to wear to bowlers Vince and Dana’s annual dinner party next Saturday.  I know it’s practically impossible to find seasonal attire now that everything is so picked over, but I’ll just check out one or two stores.  Not expecting success, I’ve already picked out two options from my closet, so I won’t make myself late trying to find something to wear that day (been there, done that, sorry).  Options:  (1) pale pink Land’s End cardigan trimmed with seed beads at neckline and placket (with brown pants); or (2) black and gray angora zebra patterned, 3/4 sleeve sweater (with gray or possibly black pants).

I should go the extra mile and decide on jewelry, too, following last year’s nonsense.  Not having just the right earrings, in my opinion, to go with my black and aqua kurta-style blouse, I raided my stash of beads and jewelry making supplies and made myself a pair of earrings.  At the last minute.  As I was getting ready to go to the party.  Stupid girl.  On the plus side, the earrings were perfect with the blouse, they go with lots of other stuff and I’ve worn them many times since, and miraculously I was not one bit late for the party.  Go, me.  Still, I should plan ahead.

Sunday:  Kelly’s Game Night Party.  Board games!  Fun!  We’re starting at 4:00, earlier than usual, to accommodate those who don’t get the Monday holiday.  I made the Buffalo Chex Mix last night, and it is all sealed (no picking!), ready to go.

Monday:  Possible visit to Mom’s but not likely.  I know, bad daughter.  I really want to get totally caught up on homework, though, and, if I’m extra lucky, start bringing my stuff back into the bathroom closet and vanity.  Yes, my bathroom may be finished by then.  Just three short months.  *heavy sarcasm*  OMG.  And then I’ll have to find time do all the painting — light sage green upper, light gray wainscoting, darker gray trim.  I’m thinking sage green and some smoky plum for the hand towels and decor.  Already loving the nickel hardware.  So long to all the wood and brass!  Before and after photos to follow, whenever the painting is done.

Okay, then.  That certainly killed a big chunk of time, didn’t it?

Happy long weekend!

=^..^=

So, one of the asshole attorneys has been making some snide comments about my being too serious.

Too serious to work at a law firm?

This cheeses me to no end for several reasons.

First, the most obvious:  It’s a law firm.  Not the same as working on a cruise ship.  Different demeanor.

Now, for what it’s worth, this particular attorney is notorious for making cutting remarks about anyone and everyone.  So he must be perfect, right?  I’m sure he thinks he is.

My interaction with said asshole, Donald, has been minimal, although it has increased of late.  Lucky me.

I admit it.  I am serious at work.  I do my job well, and generally the attorneys regard me as someone who can get the job done most efficiently.  Of course, there’s just no pleasing some people, and a qualified, knowledgeable, capable employee just isn’t enough for them.

We’ve had our share of inane asses here, and, in my opinion, they are too often forgiven for their incompetence.  I guess a jovial (read:  clownishly unprofessional) attitude compensates for poor work.  Sorry, folks, I was not brought up that way.  You have a job to do, you do it, and you do it right.

It further ticks me off that certain asshole attorneys think that what they see in the office is the whole of me.  Ha.  They are so self-centered that it would never occur to them that maybe, just maybe, I am a different person outside of the office.  Duh.  Like I live my life in full-on work mode.

MY JOB IS WHAT I DO, NOT WHO I AM.

But then, why should an attorney ever consider that?  They are so the opposite of that creed.

Today’s snide comments remind me of a similar situation, years ago, when I was a young adult living at home.  Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch and said she didn’t understand how I could even have any friends.

Ouch.

I explained it to her.

You see, at that time in my life, home was not a happy place.  My father was up to some secret shady shit (SSS) which, in time, would nearly ruin the family.  It had gotten to the point where I was through with dear ol’ dad, but I had my plan in place and had to stick it out.

The Plan:  I lived at home while attending college.  I graduated with a 4.0 in less than four years while holding a part-time job as a bank teller.  (I had the good fortune of snagging that job at a local bank half a mile from home while still in high school).  Upon graduation, I switched to full-time at the bank and looked for my first paralegal job.

(That bank was awesome.  They let me work full-time through summer and Christmas breaks and always accommodated my school schedule, letting me work as many or as few hours as I needed at any time.  Of course, they paid me peanuts, so why wouldn’t they oblige me?)

By September, I had paid off my car loan and landed a job.  My plan was on track, and the next step was to move the hell out.  I did so one month later.

But back to when Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch.

I couldn’t believe that she thought what she saw at home was the whole of me.  Sound familiar?

Because of Dad and his SSS, the tension at home was unbearable.  I could feel it the minute I walked in the door, even if Dad wasn’t there.  That kind of tension.  Unhealthy tension.  So, yeah, I probably was a sour-faced bitch AT HOME, just waiting to hear what the latest SSS was and trying in vain to make some sense of it, figure out what the hell was going on.

My friends?  Thank God I had them.  Hanging out with them was my only outlet and the only thing that kept me sane during that time.

I tried to explain this to my mother, in gentle terms, and I think she understood.  She said something along the lines of, “I guess I didn’t think of it that way, because I don’t manage to get out of this house very often myself.”

Sad.  Mom was a victim of that generation of women who stopped working during their first pregnancy, only to find they were practically unemployable once the children had grown.  Seeing her caught in that unfortunate trap only fueled my ambition to get through school and be able to support myself.  No way was I going to be trapped by Dad’s (or anyone’s) SSS, ever.

Fast forward a couple of decades.  Work is not a happy place for me.  I don’t hate all lawyers or all law firms, but I do despise this one.  This firm does not represent individuals.  It represents corporations, large corporations – the evil that is Corporate America.

So not me.

I do my work well, because it is my work to do.  It ends there.  I have no interest in the work, the corporations that are our clients, or the outcome.  Corporate America BLOWS.  Every partner here makes over $1 million a year and works only a few hours a day, at best.  Sure, they’re in the office all day, but doing actual work?  Two or three hours a day.  Any staffer here puts in more hours of real work.

But I have my plan in place, and I have to stick it out.

The Plan:  Get through school while continuing to work and be able to pay my bills and then start my new career.

And then some asshole of the universe attorney basically calls me a sour-faced bitch.

My hatred of my job is unhealthy, I know.  Just sensing BFB Bob’s presence when I come in automatically puts me in a foul mood.  I feel that switch inside me turn off and on, 9 to 5, Monday through Friday.  That same switch I felt turn on when I walked in the door at home so many years ago.

How’s that for some parallels?

The difference, however, is that I wanted Mom to understand why she was seeing someone who was less than happy.  I cared what she thought.  More importantly, she did understand.  She understood that I was, for the time being, trapped in an unhealthy environment.  (In fact, I remember sitting on my bed in my first apartment just a few weeks after moving in and actually feeling that the weight of all the tension had been lifted from me.  It was a glorious feeling.)

As for some arrogant millionaire Corporate America attorney, I don’t give a damn whether he understands that “work me” is not the whole me, or even the true me.  But how dare you subject me to Corporate America bullshit day after day and then assume I have the same attitude outside the office as I do in the office.  What a jackass.  Trade my indentured servitude for a mil a year for part-time work, and I’m sure I’d have more to smile about in the office, too, you egotistical, piece of shit douchebag.

You’ll just have to excuse me for merely doing my job well while not being all Yippee Skippy about it at the same time.  You are not worth my sunshine, and your nasty comments most certainly will not elicit a smile from me.

Rot in Hell.  There is no Happiness in Slavery for me.

I got away from the tension of home, and I’ll get away from the tension of this job, too; and once again I will experience that glorious feeling of having the weight lifted.

End of rambling rant.

=^..^=

So, my third Tool concert.  The first was in 2006, and the second was 2007, the as yet unposted third installment of the Tool Trilogy of posts.  I suck.  That post was almost entirely written the night of the concert.  Just needs some tweaking.  Blame school.  And the fact that I suck.

This time, instead of the somewhat nearby Mansfield, Massachusetts, we had to go to Manchester, Cow Hampshire, to an ENCLOSED venue.  I so prefer open air concerts — the sound quality, the ambiance, the less claustrophobic, industrialized, processed feeling.  Exception:  clubs.  Can’t beat that kind of intimacy.

Anyway, I left shortly after 2:00, tanked up, picked up Neil, crossed a couple of state borders, and made it to downtown Manchester in just under two hours.  Yes, we made generous allowances for getting lost and finding parking, neither of which was an issue, fortunately.

Neil, by the way, has been friends with my brother since high school, so that’s how long I’ve known him.  Not my boyfriend.  Tim backed out of this concert, understandably, because of his tinnitus.

I drove because Neil has a tendency to overindulge with the alcohol.  To his benefit, I forgot to bring a bottle opener, and he of course had one.

We found a parking lot just across from the arena for $10, a real bargain compared with Providence’s “event parking” rates.  We later learned that there was street parking to be had for a dollar, but decided we were just as well off in the lot instead of having to navigate unfamiliar streets, while watching for jaywalking pedestrians, in search of an available $1 spot.  And Neil paid for the parking.

Suzanne had tipped me off that there were several restaurants in the immediate vicinity, but we figured they’d be packed with concertgoers, so we picnicked in the punchbuggy.  I made a Caesar salad and chicken quesadillas on corn tortillas.  (After making them with corn tortillas for gluten-free Jenny for our 3^rd of July pre-fireworks picnic, I can honestly say I’ll never go back to using flour tortillas.  Corn is tastier.)  Neil, who sometimes works at his family’s diner, usually in the role of baker, was good (or evil?) enough to bring the pumpkin roll with cream cheese filling that I love.  Mmmm.

I drank a beer and a tall Jim Beam and Diet Coke.  I didn’t count Neil’s beers.  Still early, we decided to stroll over to the arena, where many were already congregated.  The many, I correctly assumed, were the General Admission floor ticketholders.  I don’t do GA Floor.  That be scary.  I thought that, given the GA arrangement, the doors might open earlier rather than later, and my bladder did not have room for another drink.

I was wrong.  Clearly, the arena managers do not remember the 1979 Who concert in Cincinnati.  The whole, entire mother was GA, and that poorly managed fiasco resulted in 11 dead from stampedes.  Fortunately, there would be no stampedes here in Manchester.

Not needing to get in line, we sat on the grassy curb.  Some people-watching notes:  What’s up with everyone wearing their Tool t-shirts to the concert?  Like, EVERYONE.  It was crazy.  I would never do that.  You’re AT the concert.  You like the band.  We get it.  Geez, so cult-like.

The first time I saw Tool (in Massachusetts), I wore all black and felt like somewhat of a Nine Inch Nails outcast.  That crowd was more jeans and whatever shirt was on top in the hamper.  Ditto for the second time, where I went jeans and black jersey.  Manchester, however, was more of a slightly outdated, goth-ish grunge look.  Lots of black.  Me?  I wore cropped jeans and a pink peasant top.  And the flowered skimmers mentioned in the Tool Trilogy, Part I.  I didn’t totally blend in with the passé redneck youth, but I don’t think I stood out either, so good.

In style yet age-appropriate, not a soccer mom, comfortable in her own skin and attire.  And it showed cleavage.  Hip, mature lady-rocker who isn’t ridiculously trying to look 20?  Maybe?  Whatever.  I felt fine with what I was wearing, even if it was too pretty for Tool.  I just can’t help the pretty.

Anyhow, while sitting on the grass, I struck up a conversation with a couple of guys who sat adjacent to us.  Ah, so much more confident I am with the young dudes now that I’m older.  Pity.

Unfortunately, Tyler and Josh had no idea when the doors would be opened either.

And I had to pee in the worst way.

I started looking around for trees and such.  No luck.  On the walk from the lot, I noticed that all the restaurants had signs posted that restrooms were for patrons only.  Makes sense, I know, but I had to pee, man!  Damn that beer.

So, Tyler was a cutie and a sweetie and more talkative than his friend.  (Eventually, Josh and Neil got into some band talk or something.)  Tyler had really long, thick, gorgeous brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.  Beautiful hair.  I wish I had that hair.  Coupled with his sweet face and gentle manner, oh my.  And he probably wasn’t even 30.  Sigh.  So lovely.

The four of us eventually got into one of the non-GA lines.  My bladder, my bladder.  Open the doors, dammit!

The show was supposed to start at 7:30 (which it didn’t, of course), and those jackasses didn’t open the doors until sometime around 6:45.  Typical for Tool, the female frisk lines were MUCH shorter than the guys’ lines, so I told Neil I would meet him at our seats.  I couldn’t stand inside the entrance waiting around for him.  I had to get to the nearest ladies’ room tout de suite.  Did I mention I HAD TO PEE?  So I had to say farewell to my sweet Tyler, too.

(In fact, as I was being frisked, I asked the security woman where the nearest restrooms were.  Classy.)

Our seats were awesome.  Section 119, damn close to the stage and with a great view!  I had a clear view of the entire stage for the duration of the concert.  Unfreakinbelievable!  No NBA types in front of me obstructing my view — a possible first!  We watched that growing throng on the floor, all packed in tight at the front barricade.  No, thank you.  I was much happier from a good, safe distance.

The Funniest Thing that Happened:
The opening act was Tweak Bird.  I’ve never heard of them.  Their gear was set up at the front of the stage, with Tool’s gear in back, covered up.  The lights dimmed, and one guy got on stage.  He made a couple of bird noises and did some weird bird poses.  Then, he squatted down and appeared to be inspecting the wires or connections or something.  I couldn’t tell, exactly.  Nesting?  Then he stood for a minute before sitting at the drums.  Taking his time.  He started to mumble something in a pathetic, whiny voice.  Think Gordon Gano of the Violent Femmes.

“So, um, the other day, I was like, um…”

And then a voice bellowed from the floor.

“PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC!!!”

Hahaha.  There was a round of laughter, but I think I was the only one in the arena still laughing five minutes later.  That just got me.

The bellower barely had the last word out when Tweak Bird started.  Clearly, they were chosen for the gig based on their focus on drumming.  The guitarist occasionally made interesting use of feedback as an additional instrument.  The third guy played flute and alto sax (meh) and saxophone (godawful).  The lyrics were minimal, which was a good thing, as there was no vocal talent.

Between bands, I had a lapse in judgment and waited in a very long, slow-moving line to purchase a $6 beer.  The line was close to our section, though, so if I saw the lights dim, I was prepared to skip the beer and dart to my seat.

Finally, beer in hand, I took just a couple of steps, and guess who I ran into?

Tyler.  Sweet Tyler with the gorgeous, now un-ponytailed hair.  Yumm-ay.  We chatted for a while before heading back to our respective seats.  Actually, he did much of the talking.  I did much gazing.  Ah, too bad we weren’t seated in the same section.

I do admit that Tyler and I likely were so at ease with each other because of the mutually non-threatening circumstances.  Zero intimidation.  I suspect a kind, gentle guy like that, at that young age, would be more ill at ease with a female closer to his own age.

The wait for Tool was long.  About an hour.  WTF?

During this time (and feeling a slight beer buzz, perhaps), I mentioned to Neil about seeing Tyler on the concourse and my regret that we weren’t sitting near each other.

K:  If we were in the same section, I would totally get drunk and be making out with him by the end of the show.

N:  You wouldn’t do that.

K:  I’d like to.

N:  (shakes head) What about that nose piercing?  Wouldn’t that get in the way?

K:  Yeah, I was wondering about that.  Hopefully, it’s short enough that I wouldn’t get shredded or anything.

Tyler had some sort of weird nose piercing, like a bullring, but instead of being an open circle, there was a straight spike protruding down from each nostril.  I suspect it was a vain attempt to make that sweet face look more badass.  Fail.

At last, at 9:45 or so, about an hour after Tweak Bird finished, Tool took the stage.

Not my photos and not from the Manchester show.  Contrary to Nine Inch Nails and their “relaxed camera policy,” Tool is very strict about No Cameras.  I’m just tossing up some online photos to illustrate the light show that accompanied a couple of songs.

Setlist:
Jambi
Stinkfist
Forty-Six and 2
Schism
Lost Keys
Rosetta Stoned
Flood
Aenema
Lateralus
Vicarious

Basically the same setlist as the last two times, but without “Wings for Marie” (Part 1) and “10,000 Days” (Wings Part 2).  I missed hearing “Pushit” this time, but it was good to have “Aenema” back.  Can’t have everything, right?

After “Jambi,” Maynard informed us that he had just arrived by car from New Jersey and that his back hurt.  (Apparently, his flight had been cancelled.)  Also, after “Jambi,” Moody Maynard didn’t seem as into it as I have previously seen.  He was there, he did his job, and that’s it, nothing more.  Whatever.  It would be far too hypocritical of me to criticize someone for just going through the motions of one’s job.  Also, coming off some recent back pain myself, I can understand his reluctance to move around much.

For the most part, the music was awesome.  Of course, I knew that really loud guitars in enclosed spaces would not be to die for.  That kind of sound needs some open space.  There were a few brief muddy parts, and Maynard’s vocals were drowned out a couple of times (by Maynard’s own choosing, possibly).  Overall, though, it was aural ecstasy.  I got my trippy groove on and let the music permeate my pores.  Or something like that.

Um, yeah, that was pretty much what happened.

Lasers, baby.  Usually not my thing, but pretty cool when accompanied by live Tool.

As last time, “Schism” had the speeded up bridge, “Rosetta Stoned” featured the laser show, there was the Third Eye lighting (I don’t think it’s supposed to be the Third Eye, but that’s how I regard it), and “Lateralus” included the drum-off with Danny Carey and Tweak Bird’s drummer.  The drum-off was merely okay, not at all jaw-dropping like the drum-off with Big Business’ drummer back in 2007.  Maynard definitely altered the lyrics at the beginning of “Rosetta Stoned.”  Absolutely his right to do so.  I just wish I knew what those altered lyrics were.

The Lateralus drum-off.  You have to laugh at Tweak Bird’s little Fisher Price drum kit dwarfed by Danny Carey’s impressive array.  And in case you didn’t know, Danny is seriously working those drums at age 48.  That is some extra impressive shit.

As mentioned, Maynard was less than energetic, but the rest of the band did not disappoint.  Adam Jones has never been very animated on stage (ironic, huh?), so it would be foolish to expect otherwise.  He played well, and really, isn’t that what’s important?  Justin Chancellor was having a good ol’ time and rocking out, as usual.  (Of course, at 37, he’s the young buck of the group.)  And Danny simply amazed, as always.

My favorites of the night were “Jambi,” “Stinkfist,” “Flood,” and “Aenema.”  An hour and 45 minutes later, it was over.  The ride home took just over two hours, due to the initial jam leaving Manchester, which really wasn’t all that bad.

So, out of three Tool concerts, I’d have to put this one in third place.  Any remorse?  Despite the drive, the venue, the hour wait between sets, and Maynard’s seeming lack of enthusiasm, NO.  I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

After all, it’s Tool, for fucking out loud.

=^..^=