And now, John Mayer.
I think I drove K nuts by saying, "I love this man" once every five seconds, but gosh-darnit, I just couldn't help it. He just hits all my buttons, all the ones that matter, and nobody in my experience has ever done that before. I feel like we're living these weird parallel lives sometimes. I've asked myself "Why Georgia?" I can't tell you how many times...I've wanted to call it "Love Soon" before, regardless of the risk...I know how it is to hold onto something just to have something to hold. And right now, the track that's singing to me (other than "Come Back to Bed" which just makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up it's so eerily close to things I've said) is "Home Life," which is so much where I am right now, I don't even know how to begin to explain. During the show, he did a snippet of "Man with a Suitcase," and I've been there, I've been on the road non-stop, I've been looking for that home life, that one place where it clicks and it matters and it's all right, and you're home.
So, yeah, it was a good show.
He opened with "Neon," singing about the Peachtree Street nightlife I remember from my wilder moments in the ATL. He closed with "83," taking me back to a time in my life when I was too young to feel restless or lonely and my parents were still together and I was just starting school and the world wasn't as dark as it is now.
Our nosebleed seats didn't afford me a good view of the "guitarist face" I love so, but I got the idea well enough. (I love the contortions that good guitarists put their faces through while playing. They're crazy.) Also, the cameramen were spot-on when it came to focussing on his hands whil he played, which was nice. He's got great hands. Damn, damn, damn, the things I'd like to do with those hands!!
But I digress.
There was a slight hiccup in my total enjoyment of the show: the fact that K and I were a bastion of IQ points in a sea of blond, midriff-baring, trendy-piercing, fangirl-dragged-her-boyfriend-along, Britney-Spears lookalikes.
I exaggerate, but only slightly. It was hell. I seriously doubt that the majority of these bimbettes-in-training really listen to the songs they're going apeshit over (any surprise that "Your Body Is a Wonderland?" got the biggest crowd response? I think not.) (sidebar: you know Johnny-boy has to be spitting every day over the fact that *that* song - a good song, but certainly not his best, deepest, most complex musically or lyrically - won him a damned Grammy). During "Why Georgia?" he threw in a cuss word (as he always does live) and the entire arena erupted in screams like these twits had never heard anyone say "shit" before.
Needless to say, I was probably the oldest person present that didn't come with my kid. Thank goodness K was with me, so I felt obligated not to commit a felony and throttle a moron in the name of Darwinism....wouldn't want to drag K to jail with me.
I'll say it again, and again, and again. I adore John Mayer. Not for his good looks (I actually don't think he's particularly good looking). Not for his amazing guitar skills. I adore him for playing twelve-bar blues for his encore, because it was Chicago - but not saying so, so that the kiddies in the audience were clueless, but a few of us grown-ups got the message. I adore him for saying he was on "cold watch" or maybe just that weird day-after-Thanksgiving thing. I adore him for writing lyrics that I wish I'd written, for putting in words things I haven't been able to express yet, for knowing that music is communication, not just expression, and for sticking to his voice and taking responsibility for what happens with his music, good or bad.
Yup. Lost my mind. Dunno where it went. Oh, well.
On the way home from the show, much fun again - we sprinted through the Rosemont el station to catch the train, only to be accosted once seated by a strange Russian man who seemed bent on conversing with me about his daughters, the cold weather, that he was from Siberia...and, inevitably, about my apparent beauty.
You know what would be nice? If someone I wanted to think I was beautiful....thought I was beautiful. But noooooooo....I get creepy Russian men old enough to be my father. And garbagemen. And taxi drivers. And truck drivers. And broke, stranded dudes who ask me for money.
Never - and I mean NEVER - do I get big, tall, strapping, hot, curly-haired musicians in kilts. Why the hell is that?!?! No justice, I tell you!
On to the rest of the weekend. Saturday was veg-a-licious. Me and the couch got reacquainted, and I watched a few movies and generally lounged like a maniac until it was time to relocate to bed and sleep. Niiiice.
Then yesterday, roomie and I went to see "Love Actually," a movie I knew I was going to love about five seconds into it. The story is quirky and convoluted and wonderful and life-affirming and heartwarming and real and honest and gut-wrenching and sad and happy and bittersweet and amazing and fabulous and I loved it like I haven't loved a movie in quite some time. I want to own it now, so I can watch it again.
Because love actually *is* all around us.
After the movie, I went home and got stuck in this creative frenzy which led to a few epiphanies about my life, which led to some in-depth Tarot spreads which led to the realization that I am being rather cavalier about changing my life and really ought to get up off my bum and do what it is I really want to do, otherwise I will wind up bitter and lonely. And I don't mind bitter and lonely so much, it's just not near as much fun as doing work I love, spending my time producing something I care about, living a life I believe in, and having someone around to talk to and read with and wake up beside and shag rotten a couple times a day and that kind of thing.
So, some changes are in the works. I'm not sure how or what or when or anything like that. I just know that old patterns are not serving me, and new ones need to be constructed.
This oughtta be fun.
Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.