I just dropped Kevin K. off at Palm Beach International
for the second time today. His flight got canceled due to the weather. Apparently in the north they have this thing called snow. Now that it's mentioned, I think I remember it from when I used to live up there, but vaguely recall it nowadays, and only on the chillier nights here, like when the temperature drops below 65.
I love Kevin Krueger. And you do, too. Charmingly creepy has never been pulled off to this extent before.
Now that he's gone and I'm alone in the house (or might as well be [oh shit, that "my roommates are dead to me" tone doesn't stand too noticeably here since I've not complained about any habitual line-stepping that's taken place. Another entry]), I've got empty nest syndrome. No one too cook for or offer exorbitantly priced coffee or tea to. No one to criticize my affection for Spongebob and have me care to defend its place in the hearts and minds of impressionable children and casual drug users. No one to insinuate we have sex.
I mean, Bill's coming home tonight but, well, you know.
I kid.
But I am bored.
While he was here, we had a good time. Bill, Kevin, Joe, Susie from the manatee place, and myself went to a bluegrass festival in Bal Harbor, FL. KEEP READING THERE ARE NAKED PEOPLE IN THIS ENTRY. I actually had a really good time, despite the festival being more of a gathering than what the words "music festival" might mean to most people reading this. There were fewer than a hundred tents--I'd say maybe a few dozen, and that even that is stretching it--and then a parking lot overflowing with RVs.
I have to say, I fucking love watching bluegrass as it is performed. That shit is intense! I've heard people say when asked if they enjoy bluegrass that they are really into it, but only live. Having seen for myself some serious fucking bluegrass people, I have to jump into that boat. The amount of non-verbal communication that goes on during an impromptu jam is incredible in that it aids in the seamless production of a song never yet played before. There was a stage set up with numerous bands doing their thing throughout the three days, but the real action was behind said stage, where players who were waiting to get on or who had just gotten off along with other fans, families, or strangers with mandolins just got together and BLUE MY MIND GET IT? I'm sorry, that was completely inappropriate. It was a typo to begin with. But seriously, there's some pretty fucking intense academic studies to be put into place at these events. I have never seen that much communication between musicians in which the song was actively being pieced together while played without one odd note. Then, at the conclusion of each song (which somehow ended at the same time for everyone) the conversation would continue verbally. Someone would say something that was clearly a response to something that wasn't said with actual words like an agreeing "ohhh... I gotcha" or "see?" I had previously only heard of such communication between musicians in jazz. The craziness that is the rapidity of bluegrass pickin' adds a more impressive layer, though. It's such fast fucking music. I am cursing a lot due to my continued astonishment. Seriously, though, we need some neuroscientists with all sorts of EEG machines, small group/big group sociologists, maybe a detective, I dunno.
The park was right across the street from the beach. We went to the beach. On said beach, there is a clothing-optional section, the borders for which are clearly marked off by what I can only describe as the most inadequate, threadbare fence I have ever seen in my entire life. All men, of course, with the exception of three women Bill and I were able to spot. All loved walking up and down the perimeter of the clothing-optional section. And of course there was no buffer, either! No sir. There was a section for dangly parts, a strand of toothpicks nailed to a piece of decrepit driftwood, and then everyday non-nude people with perfect vision like you and me. I have to say that I have absolutely nothing against nudists, and commend them for their brave commitment to their lifestyles. Sure. But fuck yourself if you think I'm going to believe for a second that standing right next to the fence (at the ends of it, mind you--not behind it) and baring yourself and all your nasties to individuals who have clearly chosen not to enter your dirty little playpen for extended periods of time is not exhibitionism. Nudists aren't exhibitionists. There is a clear distinction between someone who enjoys spending as much of their time without clothing as possible and someone trying to be as close as possible to uninterested strangers while nude. Erections. Erections are the clear distinction.
Okay there are others, but it was the clearest fucking distinction in my memory right now.
Anyway. Yes. I would go to another bluegrass festival. I'd be more interested in a bluegrass get together. I feel as though I've overused the word "virtuosity" within the past few days, and I don't think I've even said it outloud. It was fun for me to stand there and watch these men and ponder the fact that appreciating this music was the only thing I shared with them.
Let me tell you about being one of only three non-White people there.
Actually, no. Let me tell you about the one Black man there who, upon accepting his lifetime member status into the South Florida Bluegrass Association, threw the words "preserving our heritage" around enough times for it to be obvious to Bill and I just how badly he wanted to ruffle some really White feathers. I very much enjoyed that man. He also gets points for telling us not to have open bottles near the stage and then following it up with "but I'm going to bed so whatever."
Our party was one of what looked like maybe... five that contained people who weren't qualified for AARP memberships and maybe twelve that didn't fight in the Civil war. I met a doppelganger for Frasure, and got the sex wink from a guy who looked like any blonde supporting actor in an American war film. He's from Belize, though, which made the wink make tons of sense.
PS FRASURE, WAY TO GO GETTING INTO THE PEACE CORPS TO GO TO FUCKING BELIZE AND HELP WITH "YOUTH DEVELOPMENT FACILITATION" OR AS EVERYONE ELSE CALLS IT, "PLAYING SOCCER WITH A BUNCH OF KIDS AND CALLING IT 'FOOTBALL'"! MAYBE IF THAT DOESNT WORK OUT, YOU CAN GET A JOB AT THE HILTON DOING THE EXACT SAME THING YOU ENGLISH SPEAKING MOTHERFUCKER! AND HEY DON'T FORGET TO ORDER A MAI TAI WITH YOUR MANGO-CHUTNEYED SALMON AS I HEAR IT'S A GREAT PAIRING! Ass.
It was warming to see Joe in his element. What was phenomenal was watching him play with others, something he had never done before, he says. Bill and I have heard him play quite a few times now, but he really stepped it up when challenged by some 9,000-year-old mandolin player who asked "can you play it a little faster?" Boy went into a trance and his fingers were flying!
He also got really grin-y (I guess we all did) when his favourite song to play started ripping from the stage. The James King Band is one of the most talented acts I've ever seen. We chilled with their fiddle player, Greg, the first night we were there. He played with Joe for a while and proved to be quite the musician. A few hours later, though, we saw him completely obliterate the fiddle. It was a very "wait, what?" moment. It was like having some random guy walk up to you and ask you to arm wrestle, beating him about half the time, and then watching him uproot an old pine tree with his bare hands.
Their banjo player was an interesting character to me, too. Bill described him best: he looked like a Southern lawyer from the 1920s what with his pale peach shirt tucked into his high-waisted off-white pants, his slicked back hair, and wide suspenders and tie. I wanted to offer him some pie and sweet tea.
Oddly, I found him somewhat attractive!
Coming back from this festival is the only time since my stay in Chennai, India that I've seen such black water run off my body in the shower.
Kevin just sent me a message. Third time's a charm I guess...
I love Kevin Krueger. And you do, too. Charmingly creepy has never been pulled off to this extent before.
Now that he's gone and I'm alone in the house (or might as well be [oh shit, that "my roommates are dead to me" tone doesn't stand too noticeably here since I've not complained about any habitual line-stepping that's taken place. Another entry]), I've got empty nest syndrome. No one too cook for or offer exorbitantly priced coffee or tea to. No one to criticize my affection for Spongebob and have me care to defend its place in the hearts and minds of impressionable children and casual drug users. No one to insinuate we have sex.
I mean, Bill's coming home tonight but, well, you know.
I kid.
But I am bored.
While he was here, we had a good time. Bill, Kevin, Joe, Susie from the manatee place, and myself went to a bluegrass festival in Bal Harbor, FL. KEEP READING THERE ARE NAKED PEOPLE IN THIS ENTRY. I actually had a really good time, despite the festival being more of a gathering than what the words "music festival" might mean to most people reading this. There were fewer than a hundred tents--I'd say maybe a few dozen, and that even that is stretching it--and then a parking lot overflowing with RVs.
I have to say, I fucking love watching bluegrass as it is performed. That shit is intense! I've heard people say when asked if they enjoy bluegrass that they are really into it, but only live. Having seen for myself some serious fucking bluegrass people, I have to jump into that boat. The amount of non-verbal communication that goes on during an impromptu jam is incredible in that it aids in the seamless production of a song never yet played before. There was a stage set up with numerous bands doing their thing throughout the three days, but the real action was behind said stage, where players who were waiting to get on or who had just gotten off along with other fans, families, or strangers with mandolins just got together and BLUE MY MIND GET IT? I'm sorry, that was completely inappropriate. It was a typo to begin with. But seriously, there's some pretty fucking intense academic studies to be put into place at these events. I have never seen that much communication between musicians in which the song was actively being pieced together while played without one odd note. Then, at the conclusion of each song (which somehow ended at the same time for everyone) the conversation would continue verbally. Someone would say something that was clearly a response to something that wasn't said with actual words like an agreeing "ohhh... I gotcha" or "see?" I had previously only heard of such communication between musicians in jazz. The craziness that is the rapidity of bluegrass pickin' adds a more impressive layer, though. It's such fast fucking music. I am cursing a lot due to my continued astonishment. Seriously, though, we need some neuroscientists with all sorts of EEG machines, small group/big group sociologists, maybe a detective, I dunno.
The park was right across the street from the beach. We went to the beach. On said beach, there is a clothing-optional section, the borders for which are clearly marked off by what I can only describe as the most inadequate, threadbare fence I have ever seen in my entire life. All men, of course, with the exception of three women Bill and I were able to spot. All loved walking up and down the perimeter of the clothing-optional section. And of course there was no buffer, either! No sir. There was a section for dangly parts, a strand of toothpicks nailed to a piece of decrepit driftwood, and then everyday non-nude people with perfect vision like you and me. I have to say that I have absolutely nothing against nudists, and commend them for their brave commitment to their lifestyles. Sure. But fuck yourself if you think I'm going to believe for a second that standing right next to the fence (at the ends of it, mind you--not behind it) and baring yourself and all your nasties to individuals who have clearly chosen not to enter your dirty little playpen for extended periods of time is not exhibitionism. Nudists aren't exhibitionists. There is a clear distinction between someone who enjoys spending as much of their time without clothing as possible and someone trying to be as close as possible to uninterested strangers while nude. Erections. Erections are the clear distinction.
Okay there are others, but it was the clearest fucking distinction in my memory right now.
Anyway. Yes. I would go to another bluegrass festival. I'd be more interested in a bluegrass get together. I feel as though I've overused the word "virtuosity" within the past few days, and I don't think I've even said it outloud. It was fun for me to stand there and watch these men and ponder the fact that appreciating this music was the only thing I shared with them.
Let me tell you about being one of only three non-White people there.
Actually, no. Let me tell you about the one Black man there who, upon accepting his lifetime member status into the South Florida Bluegrass Association, threw the words "preserving our heritage" around enough times for it to be obvious to Bill and I just how badly he wanted to ruffle some really White feathers. I very much enjoyed that man. He also gets points for telling us not to have open bottles near the stage and then following it up with "but I'm going to bed so whatever."
Our party was one of what looked like maybe... five that contained people who weren't qualified for AARP memberships and maybe twelve that didn't fight in the Civil war. I met a doppelganger for Frasure, and got the sex wink from a guy who looked like any blonde supporting actor in an American war film. He's from Belize, though, which made the wink make tons of sense.
PS FRASURE, WAY TO GO GETTING INTO THE PEACE CORPS TO GO TO FUCKING BELIZE AND HELP WITH "YOUTH DEVELOPMENT FACILITATION" OR AS EVERYONE ELSE CALLS IT, "PLAYING SOCCER WITH A BUNCH OF KIDS AND CALLING IT 'FOOTBALL'"! MAYBE IF THAT DOESNT WORK OUT, YOU CAN GET A JOB AT THE HILTON DOING THE EXACT SAME THING YOU ENGLISH SPEAKING MOTHERFUCKER! AND HEY DON'T FORGET TO ORDER A MAI TAI WITH YOUR MANGO-CHUTNEYED SALMON AS I HEAR IT'S A GREAT PAIRING! Ass.
It was warming to see Joe in his element. What was phenomenal was watching him play with others, something he had never done before, he says. Bill and I have heard him play quite a few times now, but he really stepped it up when challenged by some 9,000-year-old mandolin player who asked "can you play it a little faster?" Boy went into a trance and his fingers were flying!
He also got really grin-y (I guess we all did) when his favourite song to play started ripping from the stage. The James King Band is one of the most talented acts I've ever seen. We chilled with their fiddle player, Greg, the first night we were there. He played with Joe for a while and proved to be quite the musician. A few hours later, though, we saw him completely obliterate the fiddle. It was a very "wait, what?" moment. It was like having some random guy walk up to you and ask you to arm wrestle, beating him about half the time, and then watching him uproot an old pine tree with his bare hands.
Their banjo player was an interesting character to me, too. Bill described him best: he looked like a Southern lawyer from the 1920s what with his pale peach shirt tucked into his high-waisted off-white pants, his slicked back hair, and wide suspenders and tie. I wanted to offer him some pie and sweet tea.
Oddly, I found him somewhat attractive!
Coming back from this festival is the only time since my stay in Chennai, India that I've seen such black water run off my body in the shower.
Kevin just sent me a message. Third time's a charm I guess...