Almost awesome.

As a last minute invitee I went to an outdoor concert in Park City.

I went on a whim.

I went to see the reputed father of rock and roll, of whom it was said, "Of all the early breakthrough rock & roll artists, none is more important to the development of [this] music." The same man responsible for the original version of The Beatles' "Rock and Roll Music". The man who made the duckwalk famous. A man whose name I hadn't heard until that night...

Nevertheless, I was excited to add my voice to the famous refrain of "Go Johnny, go, go." So, I...went.

I went to see Chuck Berry. In concert. For free.

Immediately I could tell that the night was going to be quite a treat. Imagine your grandfather - your 83 year old black grandfather - dressed in a bright red sequined shirt, complete with gold bolo tie and white navy cap, on stage strumming a vintage Gibson guitar. You'll understand then when we quickly tried to find a good spot on the hill why rabid drunk elitists would politely yell, "Down in front!" So we grudgingly laid our blankets down way way in the back...and then decided we'd rather go stand in the designated "standing area" anyway. Take that, disgruntled hippies. And it was fun. Chuck forgot his words from time to time. I did the twist. He did the duckwalk. And then he called for 12 ladies to join him on stage.
...My wing-woman had gone to the bathroom. I was frozen in entertained anticipation, waiting to see if anyone would actually take him up on it when my new found friends broke my false composure with their hearty encouragement. I bolted. I earnestly ran through the crowd, ducking and weaving, Rachel suddenly at my back...and then I hit a wall. Or something that felt like a wall. It was actually a short, stocky woman - the kind that Carhartt clothing is made for - dressed in a large muted orange sweater. I apologized for running into her and then moved to go around her. All I had to do was duck under the rope and I was at the stage. I was almost there. I found her in front of me again...and again. Somehow she was matching me step for step, I'm pretty sure without actually moving. Time was running short and history was on the line so I left propriety amidst the crowd and pushed rudely past her. I ran towards the stage knocking over someone else's drink just out of principle. I got there just in time to be denied by security.

Denied by security. I stood there for awhile in disheartened disbelief staring at what might have been. Then I was ushered away from the small crowd at the front of the stage by some ambitious medic. She poured salt in my wound.

My friend and I walked back to our group. Two dejected wives of Lot. I didn't even get to hear Johnny B. Goode.

In honor of...well, me.

I was once told that optimists blame others for their problems and pessimists blame themselves. Which makes one wonder how optimists ever achieve personal growth and why pessimists don't just shrivel up and die from persistent catatonic despair. I guess the trick is to find a balance between the two. Become a realist. Blame the government.

Ba doom chsh. I'll be here 'til Thursday. Try the veal.

In other news, this is my 100th post!!Who knew it'd come out so thin? Let's celebrate regardless! If I had confetti and fireworks I would make them go off in your living room right now. Since I don't, I'll just use a lot of exclamation marks and hope you have a vivid imagination!!!!! (!!) !

It has been two years to the month since I started burdening mere acquaintances with my publicly secret hopes, dreams, and vindications. Still no denouement. I like to think of this personal periodical as something like an epic novel...though instead of compelling narratives on unjust imprisonment, war (and peace), vengeance, doomed empires, redemption, and the French Revolution...I give you monologues on school, work, family vacations, and embarrassing love conflagrations. I guess I haven't really had any of those...but IF I DID, you can be sure I would write about them.

So in the spirit of achieving something (like unto charity) I hope you'll keep tuning in.

Good night, and good luck.

I mean, thank you and...take...luck.

Oh, shake it...

For the remaining 9 days of my summer break I'm going to be learning how to play this cover by Mat Weddle:



I've always wanted to get back in touch with my ghetto-acoustic roots.

A treatise on allergies and the face of unspeakable horror.

I didn't have allergies until I moved to Utah. I swear. Now I wake up every morning drowning in snot. If it doesn't wake me up in the middle of the night instead. Like it did today.

Or maybe it was the appearance of Freddy Krueger in my dream that woke me up. Tough to say, really. I'm getting the willies just thinking about it, and I've never even seen the movies.

Have you ever thought about dying with dignity in the face of unspeakable horror? Nobly facing death. Proving that one can conquer this most banal fear. I thought that idea was going to get me back to sleep...but here I am. Blathering.

Well, in my dream my death was powerful. Silent and accusing. Granted, my dignified death also involved my killer wrapping my hands up in large slices of turkey meat before he handcuffed them together...and, as you might expect, it's difficult to take your death seriously in such circumstances.

Anyway, I'm not sure I could, when it came to an un-deli-fied death. It turns out I'm something of a coward. Back when I swam in shorts and a t-shirt instead of more feminine swim attire...you know, like a swimsuit...my little brother hopped on a tube and floated far out into Lake Superior. When my mom encouraged me to go after him by telling me I was a good swimmer I think I was probably excited at the idea of such heroism. Because even getting into water that averages 40 degrees constitutes heroism. So I started to wade...and I quickly realized that his life seemed much less valuable than it had from the beach. Goodbye John, I never loved you that much anyway.

So maybe it wasn't that much of an emergency in the first place--we ended up getting a friend to pick him up in his boat--but obviously my first instinct is not that of noble sacrifice.

In the face of unspeakable horror? I think I would just scream a lot...and wander around the house in the dark...in my underwear. Just like the movies.

A/C, I've been missin' you.

Early last summer my air conditioning stopped working.

Early last summer I lost any goodwill I had toward this supposed king of seasons. When people pine after a life of endless summer I'm pretty sure they didn't have this in mind. This is something different. This is inescapable. This is death by heat rash. Improvident living. Just yesterday it was 87 degrees inside my house. IN MY HOUSE! Try to imagine what it's like to blow dry your hair in such conditions. My eminent femininity has suffered for too long. Sleep, that favored friend, weeps for the return of modern convenience. My body has never been hotter.

But today, oh today...things are different. Dry your tears! Put on your clothes! Today this was replaced:

with this:

...and now lethargy is no longer a valid excuse against household chores.