Tunage. Shows. Youth. Memories.

Cap'n Noise posted recently on concert attendance for a band from his past. Have not had the same reaction to seeing live music from youthful influences or enthusiasms. For me, these events incur positive nostalgia.

CarolinaMom and I saw Johnny Mathis at Chastain Amphitheater a couple o'years back here in Atlanta. Wow. That man's voice is still buttah: late in "Misty" when he sings "On my own" an octave higher than the rest of the melody gave me goose bumps. I cried a bit with "The Twelfth of Never," as it's one of my Mom's favorites. We sat next to two women my Mom's age, and the 3 of them waxed on about their teenage crushes, other popular music at the time, etc.

I've seen James Taylor many, many times. His music framed my childhood, and I shoved countless quarters into the jukebox at Anna's Pizzeria in Hampton to play "Handyman".

But these music tastes were my parents' and became mine by osmosis. The ones I sought out myself as Noise did, in 'tween and teen years, and seen recently? Many still bring it. But they weren't as frantic or punk or alternative as Noise's B52s. My sister and I saw Peter Frampton, and I heard no tales from her about feelin' old 'n'stuff, or that Frampton was any less intense as a balding older white dood. He still showed the way (just watch Almost Famous - he and Nancy Wilson wrote the original music, and the movie brings that time's feel back in spades.)

Crowded House last fall at The Tabernacle was one of my top 5 concerts, ever, and their musical chops had only improved with time. More subtlety and complexity. Neil Finn's age couldn't have shown more, what with his son opening the show and all. But it didn't have me finding Neil an old fart, nor did it make me feel similarly old-farted with being closer to Neil's age than his son's.

How much NEW live music do you witness, Cap'n? Vampire Weekend at Variety Playhouse in June drew a multi-generational audience vividly engaged to each of the 75 minutes played. Why only 75? Well, they've only the one album, dontcha know. Fans from age 10 to age 60 in the demographic spread, with density in the college-age. Plenty of boozing and dancing in the crowd. I was transported to 1983 and Coyote having me listen to the Violent Femmes.

Feist at Masquerade this Spring blew me away. No Kate or Cindy or alt punk feel, but I felt no age distance between myself and the teenage urchins I chaperoned. Neither did my concert consort, Kimplicated. The sound harkened be effortelessly back to Boone introducing me to "new" chick music during college: The Cocteau Twins, The Sundays, The Innocence Mission, Sarah McLachlan.

Sheena baptized me with The Legendary Shack Shakers in Tallahassee in 2005, and Cap'n, they done did bring zany. And let's not forget my aforementioned serendipitous newish crush.

Speaking of Kimplicated, another of my top 5 concerts is seeing 311 with her at Lakewood Amphitheater. They brung it hard, but my fondness for the event was witnessing Kimplicated's unmitigated joy and thrash dancing so hard that her specs went flying a few rows in front of us (rescued with a mad dash forward). The dancing was contagious. I bounced up and down and happily remembered the ghosts of shows past: A Flock of Seagulls, R.E.M., Oingo Boingo, The Cure, U2.

And then there's Eddie From Ohio. My passion for their music fully integrates my parent's osmossissing, my teenage discoveries, and my adult acoustic penchants. In their harmonies I'm back on a long trip in the station wagon, the 8-track player booming Peter Paul & Mary, The Kingston Trio, John Denver, and my folks and us urchins singing 5 part harmony. In their joy for entertaining I'm transported to meeting Robbie Schaefer in high school at a variety show audition, and seeing his band Knightly Jest whip teenagers into frenzied (albeit mostly sober) dancing to The Stray Cats and The Who. In their wit I'm hanging out with Robbie in college at JMU, meeting Michael Clem, and am in the thick of late night banter and Jellyfish Blues Band gigs. In their soulfulness and Julie's passionate voice, I'm back in Mr. Boren's choir at Cocoa Beach High School, singing 8 part a capella harmony with my brother and Otter and Coyote. And then I'm in The Swede's kitchen after an EFO gig at Variety Playhouse, drinking beers with the band and reading our names on the back of a high school regional chorus competition album: me, Robbie, Julie, Chad of Knightly Jest, and Robbie's peep Vern.

Mayhap it's my frequency of live music worship, but Cap'n my Cap'n, I'm not taken where you go. I lose myself in appreciation of the sound, the shared enjoyment, and a bevvie or two. The experience connects me philotically to youthful show going joy. It's a communion. It's part mind-, part heartf*ck. It's social object enthusiasm enjoyed best when shared, not solo'd, and always connects me with my peep music influencers.

Getting old does not *completely* suck, Cap'n Noise. It may *mostly* suck. But it does not *completely* suck.

One More Gold for Team USA

Michael Phelps hogged the gold medal glory for media attention. Don't get me wrong. This former tyke swimmer is all pro-Phelpsian and just about peed her PANTS when Jason Lezak pulled out the stops in the last leg of the 4X100 free relay in the ultimate assist in Phelp's quest for 8 gold medals.

/rant mode ON
The effing asshats at NBC won't post the footage of the race for our viewing pleasure, and has chased down any vidsters who posted it. Argh! But I digress. As is my wont to do.
/rant mode OFF

In case you missed it, Team USA won a gold medal in basketball yesterday, coached by Mike Krzyzewski. I may be a Carolina Tarheel basketball fan, but there's no dissing Krzyzewski's coaching. He rocks.

Nike's superlative ad fetting the team to the tune of Marvin Gaye's rendering of the national anthem: fantastic, and an unsuck listen.



And now, back to regular sleep cycles.

Bacchanalia, revisited

Sheena is returning soon to the kudzu. Many Atlanta institutions are preparing to roll out the red - er, animal print carpet - in her honor. One such establishment - Bacchanalia - was the scene of Cheek's F*ck Forty milestone, celebrated with Kimplicated. Sadly, I didn't do justice back in January to describe the foodgasm that is Bacchanalia. So Sheena, here's a hint of what you're in for. I can't BELIEVE you and the Georgia Peach are going to go without me while I head to setup for the gig that night. B*tch!

I missed capturing the first course, but the amuse bouche served afterwards was a lovely celery soup:

Scallops were my main. Only the third time I've had them since the food revolution of 2006, and these were the best ever. A hint of garlic, and a yummy light cream sauce.

A light salad with yummy stinky cheese was next. Sorry Sheena - it's been too many months for me to remember which kind.

Speaking of cheese, Sheena's like to really dig the storefront of the restaurant, better known as Star Provisions. Absolutely scrumptious finds of cheese, oils, wines, and more, as well as various cooking and kitchen accoutrement.

A warm cider and small cookie served as the taste after the salad, with no hint of the decadence to come:

Dessert was a three course affair. The ladies dining next to us ordered everything on the dessert menu about the time that our mains were served, so Kimplicated and I got the tour and diner feedback as to best selections. My poison was a warm apple-y cake with caramel and ice cream, while Kimplicated's was flourless chocolate goodness.

Next came a dessert course surprise - Bacchanalia's own birthday cake. Absolutely the best I have ever had, with a perfect proportion of icing to cake. It kicked the previous desserts' asses.

But wait! There's more! The final presentation involved tasty sweet bits, all of which were taken home as stuffed silliness was upon us. Delight the next day upon opening the box for breakfast to discover extra bits added by the staff.

Driving home meant light imbibing, so we didn't opt for wine pairings with each course. Our server steered us towards ordering a glass with the main and then the cheese/salad courses, splitting between the two of us each time. We shared a moscato d'Asti with dessert.

Enjoy, Sheena. I can't wait to read your review!

Soothed and Balmed

When was the last time you slept to the sound of the ocean? An unsuck listen and a favorite thing.

You know you're a BSG fan when . . .

You look at the cheese tortellini you've made for dinner and realize they are shaped like a Cylon raider.

Social Objects

Hugh MacLeod's post on Social Objects is fantastic. It perfectly describes how human beings start conversations and getting to know, based on things (objects) we mutually cathect.

And speaking of Social Objects, it's no secret that one of my favorites is Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game. In the Ender series, OSC posits that we're connected to other people and things in this universe by way of philotic twines: invisible yet tangible connections based on the mutual love we share for each other or for - dare I say it? - social objects. (Read more at Wikipedia under the heading "Philotic Web".)

Rachel Bellow's comment on Hugh's post really spoke to me:

". . . Social objects are the particular manifestation of shared meaning, right? So that suggests there's a drive underlying all these manifestations....that the social object is not, in itself, the drive. The need for meaning...specifically shared meaning...is a deep human impulse that will, invariably, manifest in some form or another. If not this social object, another. Social networks like Facebook are simply evidence of that quest. Aren't they simply forums where the quest for shared meaning can coalesce and result in manifestation (social objects)?

People tend to be conscious of the social object more than they are of the underlying impulse that led them to it. The search for meaning--a purpose that radiates beyond the limited confines of the self--lies at the center of all human interaction. It seems to me that identifying the nature of that impulse, what sort of meaning is in play at any given time, is really important....and helps us create brilliant social objects to express it, specifically. I imagine that what attracts you to Saul Bellow is the way he expresses his own constant, agonizing quest for meaning...a way of expressing that angst that is similar to your own, that allows you to join him, rather than simply watch with admiration. And so the woman who likes Bellow too must want to soak in that particular bath of meaning as well...which is what attracts you to her. It's the underlying taste for that particular form of meaning that being an SB fan indicates, and to which you respond. Henderson the Rain King isn't the point. Neither is Saul Bellow.

What is the point is that you and this woman share a taste for that particular worldview. That shared taste promises more social object creation between you two in the future. What I'm saying is that I think it's worth understanding at all times what form of meaning a social object is indicating....so that future social objects can can be created in its wake."

Summed up, as C.S. Lewis would put it: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You, too? Thought I was the only one."

Rock on, Hugh. Rock on, OSC. And rock on, Rachel. I grok yer concepts muchly.

P.S.: whitenoise? Your FAQ about why you're here and what mark you'll leave? For me, I think it centers around this social object thang. To find meaning and those who share it with you. What's more, to create a social object that resonates meaning with others.

From Hugh MacLeod's gapingvoid.com

Thanksgiving

From Tony Carillo's F Minus.

Things for which I am thankful, in random order:

1. Hostess Ho Hos. Was SOL after moving from NoVa to the land of no Ho Hos in Cocoa Beach as an urchin. So glad their distribution is more pervasive now!

2. Harmony. Especially minor harmony. Listening to the Indigo Girls and Jonatha Brooke bring back high school choir memories of "Great God Almighty".

3. SuperTarget and the many, many gifts it has given me. The baked brie with pear in phylo being the best.

4. Close peeps. Coyote, Otter & family, Boone & family, PJamaMama, Kimplicated, Pid, and Sheena have all had their praises sung previously. But there are others - you know who you are.

5. Potato chips. Charles' Chips. Utz. Archer Farms Sea Salt & Black Pepper.

6. A wee urchin's request to "do it again!" when they discover something they like.

7. Great fiction.

8. My rows to hoe. They're mine. They may occasionally suck, but others can be way, way worse.

9. Thong underwear. No more lines!

10. That I never had to wear the *original* thong underwear - belts for sanitary napkins. Ouch! Ew!

11. Good humor. Odd humor. Geek humor. Just not intolerant humor.

12. That I'm living in a digital world, and I'm a very digital girl.

13. Dairy Queen Dipped Cones.

14. That my Dad & stepMom unintentionally performed a diet intervention last summer and opened my taste buds up to many wonders.

15. Many great teachers who did not suck: Ms. Bertoci. Jill Rock. Milton Borens. Joyce Dillingham. Dr. David Kirby.

16. Wood burning fires on cold days.

17. Memory.

18. Family. They're mine. They may occasionally vex, but others can be way, way worse.

19. That I've never been touched in anger by a man. Or a woman, for that matter.

20. Forgiveness.

21. Walks on the beach, alone and with company.

22. Bacon.

23. The creatures, past and current, who've comforted and loved me: Peanuts. Sambo. Snoo Too. Boo. Sugar. Dinky. Pooter. Koko. Oscar. Stuey. The human ones too - you know who you are.

24. Becoming more and more comfortable with who I am. And who I ain't.

25. Science fiction.

26. Tubs of icing that do NOT have to be purchased with accompanying cake mix, thank you very much!

27. The odd. The geeky. The dorks. The doofuses. I am one. I am them.

28. That my second toe is longer than my big toe. It's mine. It may occasionally thwart a shoe purchase, but others can be way, way worse. Or freakishly strong. You know who you are.

29. That I can learn from mistakes.

30. That successes don't (usually) make me an a**hole.

31. The opportunities to see beyond my back yard into other parts of the world. Looking forward to more.

32. My grandfather's chocolate chip cookies. Best package received, EVER! (Alas, the last was freshmen year.)

33. That my grandfather never knew how much I didn't like his fruit cake cookies.

34. Those unusual sorts that actually like to cuddle when they nap/sleep.

35. French fries. Steak. Shoestring. Crinkle cut. Hashbrowns (they count). With salt only - have never acquired the taste for catsup, even with the food revolution. I live a relatively condiment free life. But dipping a french fry into a shake - goodness!

36. The Swede, and that he's still the kindest person I know.

37. That I live where I can experience all four seasons. Only one climate? Schmimate.

38. My stoopidly curly hair. It's mine. It may suck, often vex, and frequently thwart, but others can be way, way worse.

39. The clever. The cheeky. The witty. The smarta**es.

40. DVR and the remote control - on demand, baby.

41. Fantastic conversations that employ heart, wit, authenticity, and words with more than three syllables.

42. That I'm learning, albeit slowly, to hold on to what's important, and let the rest go.

Mark Tonra's James

Is Chicago

October has been a month of endless Cheek travel. This week found me in Chicago, and while my sinuses tried to thwart city enjoyment, the early part of my visit couldn't be dimmed.

Stayed at the Hyatt on Wacker, where my room's view was:


Managed to talk work peeps into experiencing one of Cheek's favorite things: a stroll down Michigan Avenue for a drink at the top o' the 'cock - the Hancock Tower, that is. The trip up the elevator to the 96th floor's Signature Lounge seriously wounded Cheek's ears - the left one hasn't cleared since the descent into Atlanta on the way back from Vegas 2 weeks ago. Ouch.


A clear night afforded a fantastic view for the 'cock virgins in the group and distracted from ear pain. Yummy pupus shared and wine quaffed. A quick stop in the loo on the way out was pre-empted by the chicks and dude exiting. Apparently the men's doesn't have the floor to ceiling windows, and he HAD to see what all the fuss was about. His companions peed with the door open so as not to miss the view of the Navy pier:


The mosey back found us stopping at the Intercontinental's Eno, a wine / cheese / chocolate foodgasm. A dark chocolate knosh and a Malbec slosh was the thing. Returning to the hotel room, I spied what I'd seen aloft from the Hancock tower - the Wrigley building lit up for Breast Cancer Awareness month (so was the Hancock and the Sears Tower):


Sorry, Soul Coughing, but eez DEFINITELY Chicago.

Soul Coughing's Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago

Getting Pruny

One of my favorite things to do when visiting FloridaDad and SWEJudy is bubblelicious lollygagging in the TajMahTub. FloridaDad carefully selected a bathing venue that would accommodate his 6'4" frame, and it handily fits my 34" legspan.

Filling the tub drains every drop in their hot water heater. I've enough bubble source for one more offering before heading home tomorrow. Summer's heat be damned, I don't pass up the TajMahTub!

Hello, Goodbye: Target is Sexy, Baby

Today's What Is Sexy bit (W.I.S.B.s):
Target is sexy.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Target whore. Specifically, a Super Target whore. I'd say ho, but that's too soft. Even slut doesn't seem visceral enough. Target is one of my favoritist thangs.

If I had only one store to shop at, forever, it would be SuperTarget. I can clothe myself. I can accoutre my home. They sell cat litter. And the Archer Farms pu pus - ah. Don't get me started.

Target is running a series of ads using a VERY sexy chick covering The Beatles: here's one. Sophia Shorai - her cover is as yet unavailable in a single format. Shame. She's fabulous, and is an unsuck listen.

My Girl

Koko came for a visit last week. I’ve been in deliberate denial about how much I’ve missed her. The boys – Oscar and Stuey – are great cuddlemuffins, and I love them dearly. But Koko is exceptional. One of those rare creatures that “gets” you, weaves herself around your heart, sleeps on you and protests when you have the brazen audacity to move ‘n’ stuff. Oscar may spoon me, but sleeping with Koko is sweeter.

But sleeping with Koko is always on her terms. She’ll be peacefully slumbering, half on me and half on the pillow I hug, and Stuey will come to join the pile. She’ll start cleaning him. He’ll start cleaning her back. He looks at her wrong. Or breathes wrong. Or whatever. Then shit. Piss. The fight is ON! I know – women can be so fickle. I’ll wake in the wee small hours to feline smack down. Koko’s wet hisses join in chorus with Stuey’s loud calls that sound like he’s on fire.

She’s back at home with the Swede, but it was awful swell to have her sojourn with me for a spell.