Sigur Ros

On Saturday I went to see Sigur Ros at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, and they literally brought the rain.  While the sky has been threatening with a couple of occasional droplets, just as they started the encore the first real rain of the season began pouring down on the already elated audience.  A roar of applause that could rival any thunder rose up and again reenergized the auditorium.
I'm glad to have seen Sigur Ros after the release of the last album.  Without it it might have been a bit too melancholy, a bit depressive.  Instead, the more upbeat songs (names of which I won't even dare to reproduce here... except maybe Gobbledigook) had 10 times the energy they already possessed on the album.  There was confetti, there were bright lights, there were wet, smiling faces and a general jois de vivre that is often missing from serious performances.

O'Bama

I managed to make it back to the Starry Plough last night for their Sunday night trad session and heard this amazing number.  I guess it has become fairly popular while I've been away and Joe Biden even has it on his website.  I remember those "O'Bama" shirts for St.Patrick's day a few months ago, but I never could have imagined that someone would write a whole Irish drinking song on the subject.

Tilly and the Wall

Last Saturday night at the Mezzanine belonged to die-hard indie pop fans and absurdly wasted Treasure Island Music Festival goers.  The former bouncing up and down and the latter attempting to mosh, they battled it out to the impeccable timing of Jamie Pressnall's tap dancing.

"You guys are wild!" exclaimed Neely Jenkins as she finished a song during which 3 or 4 grown men toppled over one another front and center of the stage.

Aside from being told by a friend to RSVP for the show and listening to a few songs while crossing the Bay Bridge, Tilly and the Wall was unknown to me.  I expected to bop my head.  I expected to jerk my knees around a bit.  I even expected myself to let out a few excited yelps.  I certainly didn't expect to get completely swept away into the sweetly simple magic that is Tilly's indie pop sound.

I first knew I was a goner when I saw Pressnall, Jenkins and Kianna Alarid do a few synchronized Supremes-style arm movements.  A team dancer for years, I can't resist the appeal of a rehearsed, extravagantly costumed performance.  Add to that a rhythm section that relies heavily on a tap dancer and I'm sold.

Although Pressnall's dancing stole the show for me,  the drum kit and tap shoes battle was over-planned and lacked a real chemistry.  In a similar way, the contrast between the casual shorts and t-shirt ensembles of Derek Pressnall and Nick White, and the sparkling fluorescent colors of the female half of Tilly appeared inept rather than ingenious.

After poking around blogs for a bit I've learned that Tilly and the Wall has generated a fair amount of buzz around indie music lovers.  Whether it was the late timing of the show or the clumsy drunkards in the crowd, Tilly still seemed like they are still literally getting used to the limelight, standing up on stage and the task of performing.  Elton John owned his outrageous get-ups, as did Freddie Mercury and Bowie.  There is a great deal of charm in amateur bands, but Tilly is past that.  They certainly don't sound like first-timers and they shouldn't behave like them either.

Of course I have had two days to examine the teeth of this gift horse (the show was indeed free).  While chanting, "One more song!" along with the rest of the crowd all I wanted was one last fix of that beat.  

I don't know how much I will listen to Tilly at home, but next time they're in town I'll seriously consider seeing them again.

Twenty-four

I just finished a very short children's story called Eleven by Sandra Cisneros (author of House on Mango Street) in which she describes a seemingly minor incident in a school day of an 11 year old girl.  On the day of her birthday, her teacher mistakenly hands her someone else's lost sweater convinced that it belongs to her.  The girl is too nervous and tongue tied to say no, so she goes along with it although everything inside her is rejecting this old, stretched out thing.  The feelings of disgust, the looming responsibility of yet another year of life, and her resentment of the teacher's reaction culminate in her bursting out into tears in front of the whole class, only to have the rightful owner sheepishly remember that it was her sweater in the first place.  The incident and the tearful outburst are instantly forgotten by everyone, but the narrator.  She does not feel 11, but instead 10, and 9, and 8, and 5, and 3... 
Perhaps 11 is a significant age for many people.  When I was 11 girls tried to get me to say that I was gay (gay = happy, and if I'm happy I must be gay, right?).  Let's not get into the ramifications of "gay" being an unpleasant word to be called.  At 11 I wasn't exactly concerned with being politically correct.  Learning english, not being suckered into making fun of myself, and fitting in were plenty for me to worry about.  So there too, I tried to be 11 and hold my own. But as I remember stepping out of that 6th grade math classroom with tears welling up in my eyes, I was not 11, I was 5.
Today I peek over this computer screen to check on my classroom (for the next 3 days), and I hope with all my heart that what they see is 24.  The moment I get flustered, I'm 18.  Lose control and raise my voice? 15.  Get tricked into turning the music on for the class? 11.  Let them get to me and start crying? About 5.  I haven't turned 5 in any of the classrooms I've been to yet.  And perhaps I have those mean 6th grade girls from math class to thank for that.

kaizen!

A while ago I wrote something about the typical middle aged American in a slightly senior position.  This was, of course, an entirely outside observation as I don't know what it would actually be like to be that person.  Back then, picking out the most obnoxious qualities was a fairly easy and fun task, both mentally and emotionally. 

As with the middle aged American, the typical Trader Joe's crew member is also a unique breed.  This time though, creating an accurate profile requires a bit more emotional strain on my part since I embody some of the most obnoxious and mundane qualities that I am about to prescribe to this animal.  I won't talk about the honest, hard-working people that are simply trying to feed their families with a blue-collar job.  I'm talking about the enthusiastic, yet whiny.  The slacking, yet consumed by the task at hand.  The educated, the resentful and finally, the broken and yet hopeful 20-something liberal arts college grads that comprise the average Trader Joe's crew - the dedicated, wonderful crew that I bitterly find myself a part of.

Rena, Age 16

Now on a more selfish note.  I got a car!  It's a 1991 Infinity G20.  It's pretty nice, but Dad is still fixing it (I got it 2 weeks ago =) ).
Ok, so Homecoming is coming up.  There's this guy in my Spanish class ([local community college]) who is kinda cute, but we just started talking, so I don't know if it's too early to ask him.  If I don't have the guts to ask him tomorrow and I don't have a date until Tuesday, I'll ask him then.  Then there's "Paul".  He's gorgeous.  He sits in front of me in Chem and today he offered to help me with the lab.  Yes, rescue me from the horrors of graduated cylinders and NaClO!  My knight in shining armor! Hahaha!  But he was very eager to help, so I don't know what to think.  Oh yeah, and there's this guy Adam who keeps asking me to homecoming...  It's crazy!  He's a total nerd and I think I'd rather live in exile than slow dance w/him.

07/15/08 Note: Uhm, Mean Girls, anyone?

In the dark. / En la oscuridad.

When I had sex for the first time six years ago, I knew what I was doing. I say this not out of pride, but more out of a slight sadness. I knew what I was doing because I've seen it done some many times on TV and in movies. I'd heard about it, in details, from kids in high school. Last, but not least, I read about it in the birds and the bees sex books my parents had given me when I was an overly curious child. The interesting thing was that my sister, who is four years older, got the more explicit edition of the same sex ed book, but since we shared almost everything, I read those same books at the tender age of nine. I remember the particular anxious feeling I got while looking through the drawing of people enjoying each other's bodies in different positions. I read about the mysterious thing called 'orgasm', something that no words could do justice to, and something I would not experience for another couple of years. But that seed was planted, and the anxiousness never quite went away.
I'm glad to find that there are some things that are still relatively new and that I still have to find a way to figure out for myself. Like the sheltered young ladies of the past, without any precedent, I find myself feeling my way through this new thing and discovering it for myself and only for myself. As if reading a good new book, the imagination is nudged just enough and I begin to build on concepts I already know and fill in the blanks with the inventions of my own mind.

Cuando tuve el sexo por mi primer vez hace seis años, había sabido que estaba haciendo. No digo esto de orgullo, al contrario, lo digo con un poco de tristeza. Ya sabía que estaba haciendo porque he mirado casi todo en la tele y los peliculos. He oído mucho, con muchos detalles, de chicas en mi escuela. Ultimamente, he leído mucho en libros sobre el sexo que mis padres me dan cuando estaba niña demasiada curiosa. La cosa interesante es que mi hermana que tiene cuatro mas años que yo, recibó los versiones mas explícitos de los mismos libros, pero desde entonces que nosotros compartiban en todo, yo leí sus libros en plena niñez de mi noveno año. Me acuerdo el sentido particular de la ansiedad que experimenté mientras que mirar a los dibujos de gente disfrutandose a sus cuerpos en posiciones diferentes. Era entonces que aprendí sobre la cosa misteriosa que se llama "el orgasmo", algo que ningunos palabras pueden describir y algo que no experimentare por un par de años. Ademas, la semilla estaba plantada y esta ansiedad nunca se fue.
Me da alegría que todavía hay cosas relativamente nuevas que todavía necesito encontrar una manera de hacer para yo. Como las señoritas timidas de los años mas allá, sin un precedento, estoy buscando a traves de esta cosa nueva, descubriendola a mi mismo, y solo a mi mismo. Como leer a nuevo libro, mi imaginación esta empujado un poco y yo empiézo a construir sobre los conceptos que ya se, y completar los espacios blancos con los invenciones de mi mente.