Crunchy ‘Nanas

While I was watching, you did a slow dissolve…

I am told that when I was a baby, I woke up singing. For whatever reason, I’ve lost much of my morning perk since I moved to England. But thanks to an excellent performance by David Gray and his band at the Leas Cliff Hall in Folkestone last night, I woke this morning with Slow Motion humming around my head.

I’ve listened to David Gray for close to nine years now, and yet this was my first chance to see him perform live. For the last couple years, I’ve been in California when he was playing local England shows and in England when he was in California. But last night, I was there and I was not disappointed. It was great to see him in a venue so small. His voice reverberated around me and I could appreciate how much vocal control he really has. I loved hearing all his yips, na-nas and yee-hees so close and I was, at times, completely absorbed by Neill MacColl on the guitar.

Tell me something, tell me something I don’t already know…

The only disappointment of the night was the rudeness from people who seemed to be there only to get wasted, talk, and start show-stopping fights. There are places in the material where you should be able to hear a pin drop, but last night that space was filled with the constant rumble of socializing at the bars. Not very respectful to the people on stage, nor the audience members who came to appreciate the music. The performance felt a bit stiff for a while after David Gray had to summon security during a very intense and jammin’ end to Lately to get the fighting punks out of there. I’m thinking he won’t play there again, which is too bad for us.

Feels like lightning running through my veins… 

Small pellets of ice fell as we drove home last night and snow flurries fell tonight. Perhaps this year, it will be a white Easter. I hope so. It might as well snow and be pretty if it’s going to be this cold.

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Now playing: David Gray - Slow Motion
via FoxyTunes

I hear the chuckles as I try to poke my head through the opening in the garbage bag before I suffocate. I wiggle to get the bag down my body and then look to the mirror on the wall to my right. “What? Perfectly normal” I say, red and white feathers poking out from the boas around my neck.

If anyone asks, she’s American…

It was gray and misty, but it didn’t full on rain during our Sport Relief mile yesterday in London so we were lucky. The run was fun. Not exactly a sprint because of the crowds and little kiddos around, but good to see so many people out and embracing the day. And an excellent opportunity to break out the red and white boas!

Unfortunately, no Mark Ramprakash sightings. Too bad!

The long-running family joke is that I could have been a figure skater if only my mother had bought me the ice skates I needed to properly support my ankles. While we all know that this accusation is a far, far cry from reality as I can’t skate to save my life, it’s my one claim to “neglectful parenting” so I like to mention it once and a while to get a rise out of her. (You know that scene in Blades of Glory where Chazz Michael Michaels is skating from the evil Stranz Van Waldenberg? I would have been toast. Having said that, it doesn’t mean I don’t know where, in all my favorite songs, there’d be a triple axel or a layback spin. Yes, I have a habit of choreographing in my head while I wash dishes.)

In a recent attempt at home office organization, I came across my stash of figure skaters’ autographs. Among the lot: my ticket to the 1992 Worlds practice session in Oakland signed by Nancy Kerrigan and one of my first digital photography projects signed by Aren Nielsen at the 1996 Nationals in San Jose. (I was so enamored by him.) No Elvis Stojko though so there is still work to be done. (She rubs her palms together.) Elvis, where are ya man?

But, what still absolutely takes the cake is in the sealed ziploc baggie I hold in my hand right now. The baggie’s torn where the staple ripped through it, pinning it to my teenage girl’s wall, but the ticket’s still intact. I was walking up the stairs at the ‘tank on October 19, 1993, and lifted my gaze to read the jersey of the woman in front of me. It’s probably fair to say, I was not un-fazed. It’s probably more descriptive to say, in all of my 15 year-old excitement, I freaked out. I grabbed my mom and stuttered, “the jersey, look at what the jersey says! Oh my god!” After a moment of confusion when my mom was reading the jacket of the man in front of her, she caught on and proceeded to join me in the jittery frenzy of being among stars. We quietly argued (at least I think it was quietly, my father may have a different memory of the event) about who would do the talking, but finally my mom won out with “you’re the kid, she’ll give it to you.”

I don’t know whether the Sharks won or lost against the St. Louis Blues that night, but I do know that Kristi Yamaguchi graciously gave her autograph to a geeky, brace-faced fan and totally made her night. (Okay, she looked a little annoyed and uncomfortable, for which I feel a bit bad for now, but really what can you expect if you’re an extremely talented figure skater and you wear a jersey with your name on it to a hockey game in your home area?)

And, now either my mother is holding out on me, or she doesn’t know yet. I can’t hardly believe the latter, but I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me either. If it weren’t 4 in the morning, she’d be getting a phone call. Kristi is going to be on Dancing with the Stars. Mom, you better make sure the VCR’s in working order starting Monday because this is what I want to watch when I come in July. Wait, what am I talking about? You’ll be in England in three weeks.

Oh my god, what are we going to do?!