-unedited thoughts on the weekend-
As the title suggests, these thoughts have yet to be put through the mill of editing, and the resulting edits (and additions etc) can be found on my tumblr account, which you can track down if you've a mind to. There should be links to it floating around here somewhere. I post there quite a lot, in part because it makes posting very easy--I still give love to livejournal and myspace, sites to which I am dedicated.
It is Monday, a little past noon, and I am still slightly deaf. Aside from being at work, which by its nature sucks, I couldn't be happier. Sunday's trip up to Chicago and the Peter Murphy concert were wonderful. Before I go into too much detail about them, though, here is this really, really, really, amazingly cute video:
http://jezebel.com/#!5790571/cat-and-dolphin-are-best-friends-youre-not-made-of-stone
And then here are some not so cute links to stories I find interesting.
http://www.asiaobscura.com/2011/04/fake-graveyards-outside-beijing.html
http://io9.com/#!5790596/watch-jarring-footage-of-chinas-massive-ghost-towns
http://io9.com/#!5790504/hypnotic-24+minute-video-will-transform-you-into-a-taipei-mass-transit-car
So, I'll start at the beginning rather than just jump into the fray. I woke up on Sunday morning feeling the hints of a mild panic attack. These hints happen every now and then, and really are not all that worrisome, as most of them do not amount to anything more than a slight sense of unease. Knowing this, I tried to ignore it and drink some tea, which sometimes helps to calm my brain and set me on a path that is not so shaky. Instead, however, due to my persistent fear of traveling, I spent far longer than I'd like to admit simply not moving. Alex managed to bring me back to reality, and after taking a nap/an episode of Scrubs--the mind-wiping ability of such shows is wonderful--we headed out for parts west with a less than healthy Eric along in the back seat. It was an unseasonably hot day, ninety degrees in the City proper, so we all wore short sleeved attire that would also pass for club-wear. I wore a lovely silk shirt that ended up being not so lovely by the end of the night--it ripped down the back, for no reason at all, after the concert--and combat trousers on top of my new (and amazingly comfortable) jackboots. After a debate about the proper fashion for a goth concert (anything other than baseball caps, sports jackets, and polo shirts), Alex wore a simply lovely black dress along with silver tights and calf length black boots. Going with comfort over style, Eric wore a jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. Honestly, when you are going to be in a club for an untold number of hours, comfort beats style every time. Alex and I both had jackets for the prophesied storm after the show, and we carried them in shoulderbags along with whatever else we wanted to truck around for the afternoon. The drive up to Chicago (team driven by Alex and Eric) was quite pleasant, and the weather was nice enough that we had blue skies heading into the city. We arrived and found the perfect (read: free) parking space only a few blocks from the venue, and strolled over to Chinatown. Having never been to Chicago's Chinatown, it was something of an experience for me, even in the punishing April heat. After walking a few blocks on the main drag of Chinatown, Alex shepherded Eric and I into the nearest Chinese restaurant, which looked like nothing so much as a combination of an automat and a deli, with grim furnishings that spoke of an origin sometime in the late Eighties. Despite the slightly drab surroundings, the restaurant was cooler than the street outside, and sitting back to enjoy water, tea, bubble tea, and potstickers was just the ticket for the afternoon. The place was reasonably priced, too, though the food was nothing really to write home about other than perhaps a letter stating that 'the food has not killed me, yet.' Draining final glasses of water, we ventured forth in search of excitement, adventure, and things to do before the concert started up. Excitement and adventure took the form of the most alluring of the many souvenir shops on the main drag. We walked in to find ourselves facing the most fantastic piece of holographic art any of our eyes had ever seen. Simply put, there are two things every red blooded male loves: scantily clad women and tigers. Combining these two things in such a way that from one angle you see a tiger and from another you see a buxom woman pouring out of a tiny top is simply a recipe for making millions of dollars. Amused, we all studied the piece, and the other similarly atrocious pieces nearby, for far too long. The extreme tourist-trap nature of the area combined with stores that were actually dedicated to serving their community seemed quite fascinating. We continued to wander in the store, trying on all sorts of hats and marvelling at the terrifying array of small statues for every religious preference. Seriously, we saw a miniature gold painted last supper--had it not been five bucks, far too much for such an abomination, it might have made its way home with me for the complete novelty of it--and I'm sure someone in my circle of people would have appreciated it as a gift of sorts. Darting over to the clearance area, I found a set of cotton meditation clothes which fit me quite wonderfully. Various purchases in tow, we headed to the nearby Buddhist temple, which had a fascinating array of books, prayer beads, and devotional objects. The nun inside was munching on a bowl of baby carrots, and after greeting us in a cheerful manner, promptly went back to her carrots and paperwork. We spent a few minutes browsing, Alex studying the small pieces under the counter while Eric and I discussed meditation and Buddhism in general. Our nun/shopkeeper broke all our trains of thought when she asked for help with sentences. Confused, we flocked over to her desk, and after brief shrugging, turned the task over to Alex, who had the strongest grasp of the English language of any of our group. While Eric and I continued to putter around and look at all manner of shiny objects, Alex helped the nun with homework involving dependent clauses and the like--I would have been just as lost as the nun trying to puzzle through that rather simple sheet. And yet somehow I ended up with a college degree. I ended up buying two books (one for Eric, one for myself), and we trooped on our way after having helped the very nice, carrot-eating nun with her English homework. There have to be some good vibes in doing something like that. Walking back to the car with our loot (after checking out a store selling nothing but swords, knives, and spears--all of which were quite pretty and expensive as all hell), the wind buffeted us at every turn, shifting and knocking us about. After depositing our things at the car and changing out some of our gear for more sensible pieces, we headed off to Reggie's Rock Club for dinner and the show. Dinner turned out to be a wonderful portion of food (a grilled hot dog and fries) along with sparse cups of water. After devouring our meals, we headed out to wait in line at the gate of the club itself, having heard the thudding bassbeat of the soundcheck through the walls of the bar. The seven or eight people in line before us were all over thirty five, and sat on the pavement with a detachment that comes from years of waiting for bands on sidewalk with countless points where used up gum has blackened the concrete. Behind the last of these lined folks there was a black chair with a slight bit of leather padding on the seat. Since nobody else could be persuaded to take the chair, I sat in it for the first twenty minutes or so of our wait before I yielded it to Eric. Alex braided my hair as I sat on the ground next to her. The sky looked black with the predicted rains, as if they were waiting for the moment the doors to the club opened to unleash their fury. The club doors opened on time, and after delightfully minimal searches we headed in and made our way forward to the third row of bodies, close enough to the stage to touch it if we reached in the right direction (okay, so the fact that I have freakishly long arms might help). The sound crew took an age to set up for the first band, but eventually they took the stage. The shirtless and shave-headed singer, Livan (also the name of the band) was full of a dark rock energy that had the crowd moving even though it was quite clear that no one could understand a word that the vocalist was singing above the din of the rest of the band. All the same, the sang their set, transporting those of us who remembered going to garage band concerts and setups in the strangest of locations back to those locales, wishing we could go to concerts like this every day--I tried to explain that I really liked music like that to Alex later on, music that you couldn't hear because of how loud it was, music that vibrated you down to the core of each chakra. To her, this is probably just further proof that I am slightly deranged. The energy that Livan had on stage was undeniable, and he played the part of warm-up man quite well, having drawn the eyes of the crowd toward the swirl of black paint on the left side of his face as well as to his ability to perch on a microphone stand that he probably made himself. The set up for Peter Murphy proper took an age, and by the time the drummer for the band showed up and solved all of the problems that the inept soundcrew at Reggie's could not solve, for all of their pacing about and shrugging, the crowd was ready to riot. Soon after this quick fix from the percussionist, the band took the stage, with Peter Murphy holding absolute control over the audience, making everyone forget that they had waited nearly two hours to see him. Peter's first song was slightly difficult to hear due to the various instruments drowning out his voice, but after that the flow of the music and the crowd harmonized, and in their own goth way, everyone danced. The 'Godfather of Goth' hates being called such, and seems to regret all the vanity and pettiness that went with that lifestyle. I have never seen a person more comfortable on stage or with an audience--not treating them as something to be worked, a beast of burden that will always spit out money, but rather as friends. When one man can make it seem as if everyone in a packed club matters, and is one of a very select number of people sharing the music with him, that is something beyond talent. As the master himself said: "I'm a genius."--and he totally is just that. An absolute genius. Alex and I swayed with the music, knowing many of the songs by heart and moving with them as well as those we'd only heard for the first time. On stage, Peter danced about in a fashion that seemed almost out of place for the creator of 'Bela Lugosi's Dead'--but here, now, he shed that persona and seemed to be truly himself--I don't think that is something many people can say. He played all of his hits, merging the wonderful 'Strange Kind of Love' with 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' to create an absolutely beautiful piece. I would swear he looked at Alex and I and smiled during "Cuts You Up."--as if our dancing and closeness made him happy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RN3A91YQF7w
During part of 'Cuts You Up' it seemed like he simply stopped and painted the small portion of space occupied by Alex and I with his hand. It was an interesting experience. We are in the bottom left frame of this video from time to time, but in the dark of the club, it is hard to tell.
And then we have 'Ziggy Stardust'--the best version I have ever heard, mind you--a small bit of which is posted here. Listen closely at one point and I think you can even hear Alex laughing (you'll know where--how's this, at that exact moment, I remember her laughing clear as day, and since the man behind the camera was rather close to us, odds seem to be favoring it being her (or her clone)).
I'd write more, but my brain is turning to mush, and I desperately need sleep (I wrote this part in between the youtube links late on Monday night, and by late, I mean 11:10. I am getting old, and I need sleep).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70z9Ejb4t30
The first encore found Peter and co. coming back on stage and playing a few songs before darting back off into the hallways that make up the back of the club. For the second encore, Peter came out wearing only a vest and a string of pearls (and pants). It was during this part of the night that he sang both 'Strange Kind of Love' and 'Cuts You Up'--back to back and in an absolutely wonderful fashion. After a longer stretch, the band took the stage for the third time, with Peter calling up all of the other people on the tour, and inviting those he didn't know very well to come and lie naked with him after the show. If there is a human being more high on life and people...well...good for them, I suppose, but seeing someone who is truly comfortable in their element is always wonderful. While on stage this final time, Peter smoked and drank what looked like cheap beer from a plastic cup--it might well have been ginger ale (I forget whether or not he actually said it was beer), and announced that as it was the last night of the tour, he was going to get a little emotional. And emotions were high in the club, all of them (aside from the drunken emotions of fighty pseudo-goths who think all goth amounts to is white makeup and a slutty French maid outfit) wonderful and very positive. I wore meditation beads that I actually wanted to get some positive energy flowing into (like I've said before, my beliefs are strange, my practices even stranger), and now have good memories attached to those beads. And that...is a very good thing indeed.
After three encores, the show finally wound to a close and the house lights went up. I did not have a chance to get anything signed by Peter or introduce myself formally, but I think the informal smiles and touching of hands during "I'll Fall With Your Knife" more than make up for that. All the same, one of these days I'd like to get him to sign a copy of something by Rumi for me--I actually had a copy of 'The Whirling Ecstasy' in my pocket as well as 'A Place Where We Can Meet' in Alex's bag as possible things to be signed, but as the hour was late and the weather absolutely horrible, it was agreed (and really, sane) that we left for home right after the show. The light rain outside of the club quickly turned to a downpour as we walked eastward to the car. It was a hard, vertical rain that was warm at first but changed to quite chill by the third of five blocks between the concert and our ride home. This kind of rain, as Eric pointed out while we scurried along through it, really only happened in Chicago, and South Bend's heavy rains were always disappointing, never lasting as long as those in the city. Marvelling at the number of drops that barraged the street, I couldn't help but agree with him. The coats that Alex and I donned before going out into the storm were soaked by the time we made it to the car. After awhile of driving the storm tossed roads between Chicago and Hammond, we pulled off and got food for Eric, who was our driver for this portion of the trip. As we got back into the car, my silk shirt ripped horizontally along the back for absolutely no reason at all. Annoyed but also amused by this development, I displayed my now shredded garment to those up riding up front, who were likewise amused by it. We were all more than slightly deaf at this point of the ride, ears still ringing from the concert. Eric turned on the sleep-inducing 'Late Night Coast to Coast AM' and we listened to someone babble on about crop circles and Nibiru (the tenth planet) until Alex took over driving and I moved up front. We managed to keep one another awake for the nineteen miles home, and after dropping Eric (who had, of course, fallen asleep the moment he sat down in the back of the car) off at his apartment with a bag of mandarin oranges, we returned to the Robinson household and slept the sleep of the dead until we were awakened roughly five and a half hours later by our internal clocks. Spending a late morning, not having to worry about work or school when you normally would, is one of the nicest ways to wake up, especially when it involves lots of cuddling, snuggling, and wonderfulness. At exactly the stroke of noon, I sat down at my station in the main reading room--my proper station having been moved about slightly, as the chairs in here have been moved into little groups of three for no apparent reason. My new station is in the southwest corner of the room, and as I depart it for the afternoon (which will hopefully consist of more tea and more snuggling), I realize that it is actually a very nice place to write--allowing me to watch as the various people stroll through the room, but also to just Zen-out and focus on the words flowing across the page. That said, I hope that everyone has had a wonderfully fantastic weekend.
It is Monday, a little past noon, and I am still slightly deaf. Aside from being at work, which by its nature sucks, I couldn't be happier. Sunday's trip up to Chicago and the Peter Murphy concert were wonderful. Before I go into too much detail about them, though, here is this really, really, really, amazingly cute video:
http://jezebel.com/#!5790571/cat-and-dolphin-are-best-friends-youre-not-made-of-stone
And then here are some not so cute links to stories I find interesting.
http://www.asiaobscura.com/2011/04/fake-graveyards-outside-beijing.html
http://io9.com/#!5790596/watch-jarring-footage-of-chinas-massive-ghost-towns
http://io9.com/#!5790504/hypnotic-24+minute-video-will-transform-you-into-a-taipei-mass-transit-car
So, I'll start at the beginning rather than just jump into the fray. I woke up on Sunday morning feeling the hints of a mild panic attack. These hints happen every now and then, and really are not all that worrisome, as most of them do not amount to anything more than a slight sense of unease. Knowing this, I tried to ignore it and drink some tea, which sometimes helps to calm my brain and set me on a path that is not so shaky. Instead, however, due to my persistent fear of traveling, I spent far longer than I'd like to admit simply not moving. Alex managed to bring me back to reality, and after taking a nap/an episode of Scrubs--the mind-wiping ability of such shows is wonderful--we headed out for parts west with a less than healthy Eric along in the back seat. It was an unseasonably hot day, ninety degrees in the City proper, so we all wore short sleeved attire that would also pass for club-wear. I wore a lovely silk shirt that ended up being not so lovely by the end of the night--it ripped down the back, for no reason at all, after the concert--and combat trousers on top of my new (and amazingly comfortable) jackboots. After a debate about the proper fashion for a goth concert (anything other than baseball caps, sports jackets, and polo shirts), Alex wore a simply lovely black dress along with silver tights and calf length black boots. Going with comfort over style, Eric wore a jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. Honestly, when you are going to be in a club for an untold number of hours, comfort beats style every time. Alex and I both had jackets for the prophesied storm after the show, and we carried them in shoulderbags along with whatever else we wanted to truck around for the afternoon. The drive up to Chicago (team driven by Alex and Eric) was quite pleasant, and the weather was nice enough that we had blue skies heading into the city. We arrived and found the perfect (read: free) parking space only a few blocks from the venue, and strolled over to Chinatown. Having never been to Chicago's Chinatown, it was something of an experience for me, even in the punishing April heat. After walking a few blocks on the main drag of Chinatown, Alex shepherded Eric and I into the nearest Chinese restaurant, which looked like nothing so much as a combination of an automat and a deli, with grim furnishings that spoke of an origin sometime in the late Eighties. Despite the slightly drab surroundings, the restaurant was cooler than the street outside, and sitting back to enjoy water, tea, bubble tea, and potstickers was just the ticket for the afternoon. The place was reasonably priced, too, though the food was nothing really to write home about other than perhaps a letter stating that 'the food has not killed me, yet.' Draining final glasses of water, we ventured forth in search of excitement, adventure, and things to do before the concert started up. Excitement and adventure took the form of the most alluring of the many souvenir shops on the main drag. We walked in to find ourselves facing the most fantastic piece of holographic art any of our eyes had ever seen. Simply put, there are two things every red blooded male loves: scantily clad women and tigers. Combining these two things in such a way that from one angle you see a tiger and from another you see a buxom woman pouring out of a tiny top is simply a recipe for making millions of dollars. Amused, we all studied the piece, and the other similarly atrocious pieces nearby, for far too long. The extreme tourist-trap nature of the area combined with stores that were actually dedicated to serving their community seemed quite fascinating. We continued to wander in the store, trying on all sorts of hats and marvelling at the terrifying array of small statues for every religious preference. Seriously, we saw a miniature gold painted last supper--had it not been five bucks, far too much for such an abomination, it might have made its way home with me for the complete novelty of it--and I'm sure someone in my circle of people would have appreciated it as a gift of sorts. Darting over to the clearance area, I found a set of cotton meditation clothes which fit me quite wonderfully. Various purchases in tow, we headed to the nearby Buddhist temple, which had a fascinating array of books, prayer beads, and devotional objects. The nun inside was munching on a bowl of baby carrots, and after greeting us in a cheerful manner, promptly went back to her carrots and paperwork. We spent a few minutes browsing, Alex studying the small pieces under the counter while Eric and I discussed meditation and Buddhism in general. Our nun/shopkeeper broke all our trains of thought when she asked for help with sentences. Confused, we flocked over to her desk, and after brief shrugging, turned the task over to Alex, who had the strongest grasp of the English language of any of our group. While Eric and I continued to putter around and look at all manner of shiny objects, Alex helped the nun with homework involving dependent clauses and the like--I would have been just as lost as the nun trying to puzzle through that rather simple sheet. And yet somehow I ended up with a college degree. I ended up buying two books (one for Eric, one for myself), and we trooped on our way after having helped the very nice, carrot-eating nun with her English homework. There have to be some good vibes in doing something like that. Walking back to the car with our loot (after checking out a store selling nothing but swords, knives, and spears--all of which were quite pretty and expensive as all hell), the wind buffeted us at every turn, shifting and knocking us about. After depositing our things at the car and changing out some of our gear for more sensible pieces, we headed off to Reggie's Rock Club for dinner and the show. Dinner turned out to be a wonderful portion of food (a grilled hot dog and fries) along with sparse cups of water. After devouring our meals, we headed out to wait in line at the gate of the club itself, having heard the thudding bassbeat of the soundcheck through the walls of the bar. The seven or eight people in line before us were all over thirty five, and sat on the pavement with a detachment that comes from years of waiting for bands on sidewalk with countless points where used up gum has blackened the concrete. Behind the last of these lined folks there was a black chair with a slight bit of leather padding on the seat. Since nobody else could be persuaded to take the chair, I sat in it for the first twenty minutes or so of our wait before I yielded it to Eric. Alex braided my hair as I sat on the ground next to her. The sky looked black with the predicted rains, as if they were waiting for the moment the doors to the club opened to unleash their fury. The club doors opened on time, and after delightfully minimal searches we headed in and made our way forward to the third row of bodies, close enough to the stage to touch it if we reached in the right direction (okay, so the fact that I have freakishly long arms might help). The sound crew took an age to set up for the first band, but eventually they took the stage. The shirtless and shave-headed singer, Livan (also the name of the band) was full of a dark rock energy that had the crowd moving even though it was quite clear that no one could understand a word that the vocalist was singing above the din of the rest of the band. All the same, the sang their set, transporting those of us who remembered going to garage band concerts and setups in the strangest of locations back to those locales, wishing we could go to concerts like this every day--I tried to explain that I really liked music like that to Alex later on, music that you couldn't hear because of how loud it was, music that vibrated you down to the core of each chakra. To her, this is probably just further proof that I am slightly deranged. The energy that Livan had on stage was undeniable, and he played the part of warm-up man quite well, having drawn the eyes of the crowd toward the swirl of black paint on the left side of his face as well as to his ability to perch on a microphone stand that he probably made himself. The set up for Peter Murphy proper took an age, and by the time the drummer for the band showed up and solved all of the problems that the inept soundcrew at Reggie's could not solve, for all of their pacing about and shrugging, the crowd was ready to riot. Soon after this quick fix from the percussionist, the band took the stage, with Peter Murphy holding absolute control over the audience, making everyone forget that they had waited nearly two hours to see him. Peter's first song was slightly difficult to hear due to the various instruments drowning out his voice, but after that the flow of the music and the crowd harmonized, and in their own goth way, everyone danced. The 'Godfather of Goth' hates being called such, and seems to regret all the vanity and pettiness that went with that lifestyle. I have never seen a person more comfortable on stage or with an audience--not treating them as something to be worked, a beast of burden that will always spit out money, but rather as friends. When one man can make it seem as if everyone in a packed club matters, and is one of a very select number of people sharing the music with him, that is something beyond talent. As the master himself said: "I'm a genius."--and he totally is just that. An absolute genius. Alex and I swayed with the music, knowing many of the songs by heart and moving with them as well as those we'd only heard for the first time. On stage, Peter danced about in a fashion that seemed almost out of place for the creator of 'Bela Lugosi's Dead'--but here, now, he shed that persona and seemed to be truly himself--I don't think that is something many people can say. He played all of his hits, merging the wonderful 'Strange Kind of Love' with 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' to create an absolutely beautiful piece. I would swear he looked at Alex and I and smiled during "Cuts You Up."--as if our dancing and closeness made him happy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RN3A91YQF7w
During part of 'Cuts You Up' it seemed like he simply stopped and painted the small portion of space occupied by Alex and I with his hand. It was an interesting experience. We are in the bottom left frame of this video from time to time, but in the dark of the club, it is hard to tell.
And then we have 'Ziggy Stardust'--the best version I have ever heard, mind you--a small bit of which is posted here. Listen closely at one point and I think you can even hear Alex laughing (you'll know where--how's this, at that exact moment, I remember her laughing clear as day, and since the man behind the camera was rather close to us, odds seem to be favoring it being her (or her clone)).
I'd write more, but my brain is turning to mush, and I desperately need sleep (I wrote this part in between the youtube links late on Monday night, and by late, I mean 11:10. I am getting old, and I need sleep).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70z9Ejb4t30
The first encore found Peter and co. coming back on stage and playing a few songs before darting back off into the hallways that make up the back of the club. For the second encore, Peter came out wearing only a vest and a string of pearls (and pants). It was during this part of the night that he sang both 'Strange Kind of Love' and 'Cuts You Up'--back to back and in an absolutely wonderful fashion. After a longer stretch, the band took the stage for the third time, with Peter calling up all of the other people on the tour, and inviting those he didn't know very well to come and lie naked with him after the show. If there is a human being more high on life and people...well...good for them, I suppose, but seeing someone who is truly comfortable in their element is always wonderful. While on stage this final time, Peter smoked and drank what looked like cheap beer from a plastic cup--it might well have been ginger ale (I forget whether or not he actually said it was beer), and announced that as it was the last night of the tour, he was going to get a little emotional. And emotions were high in the club, all of them (aside from the drunken emotions of fighty pseudo-goths who think all goth amounts to is white makeup and a slutty French maid outfit) wonderful and very positive. I wore meditation beads that I actually wanted to get some positive energy flowing into (like I've said before, my beliefs are strange, my practices even stranger), and now have good memories attached to those beads. And that...is a very good thing indeed.
After three encores, the show finally wound to a close and the house lights went up. I did not have a chance to get anything signed by Peter or introduce myself formally, but I think the informal smiles and touching of hands during "I'll Fall With Your Knife" more than make up for that. All the same, one of these days I'd like to get him to sign a copy of something by Rumi for me--I actually had a copy of 'The Whirling Ecstasy' in my pocket as well as 'A Place Where We Can Meet' in Alex's bag as possible things to be signed, but as the hour was late and the weather absolutely horrible, it was agreed (and really, sane) that we left for home right after the show. The light rain outside of the club quickly turned to a downpour as we walked eastward to the car. It was a hard, vertical rain that was warm at first but changed to quite chill by the third of five blocks between the concert and our ride home. This kind of rain, as Eric pointed out while we scurried along through it, really only happened in Chicago, and South Bend's heavy rains were always disappointing, never lasting as long as those in the city. Marvelling at the number of drops that barraged the street, I couldn't help but agree with him. The coats that Alex and I donned before going out into the storm were soaked by the time we made it to the car. After awhile of driving the storm tossed roads between Chicago and Hammond, we pulled off and got food for Eric, who was our driver for this portion of the trip. As we got back into the car, my silk shirt ripped horizontally along the back for absolutely no reason at all. Annoyed but also amused by this development, I displayed my now shredded garment to those up riding up front, who were likewise amused by it. We were all more than slightly deaf at this point of the ride, ears still ringing from the concert. Eric turned on the sleep-inducing 'Late Night Coast to Coast AM' and we listened to someone babble on about crop circles and Nibiru (the tenth planet) until Alex took over driving and I moved up front. We managed to keep one another awake for the nineteen miles home, and after dropping Eric (who had, of course, fallen asleep the moment he sat down in the back of the car) off at his apartment with a bag of mandarin oranges, we returned to the Robinson household and slept the sleep of the dead until we were awakened roughly five and a half hours later by our internal clocks. Spending a late morning, not having to worry about work or school when you normally would, is one of the nicest ways to wake up, especially when it involves lots of cuddling, snuggling, and wonderfulness. At exactly the stroke of noon, I sat down at my station in the main reading room--my proper station having been moved about slightly, as the chairs in here have been moved into little groups of three for no apparent reason. My new station is in the southwest corner of the room, and as I depart it for the afternoon (which will hopefully consist of more tea and more snuggling), I realize that it is actually a very nice place to write--allowing me to watch as the various people stroll through the room, but also to just Zen-out and focus on the words flowing across the page. That said, I hope that everyone has had a wonderfully fantastic weekend.