Monday, June 27, 2005
oh what gloriousness this weekend be
Oh man, heavy fuck-tons of fun these past few days, unparalleled in recent years. Firstly we ate us some Thai food on Friday night, at the formerly redoubtable Brown Sugar, and proceeded to sweat like a burlap-clad Ustinov in the tropics. Spicy food plus Singha plus 90 degrees minus effective air conditioning equal one severely soaked handkerchief. Afterward we walked the block or so down to Agannis Arena to take in the Wilco / My Morning Jacket concert. Those hairballs from MMJ were giving the congregated Bahston assholes a crash course in primo Skynardism when we entered. BU or the dude who paid for this arena really fucking hates bags, though, as the headset chick had to rifle through both ladies' satchels. One was deemed too lengthy for admission (apparently CSC Security knows the minimum width of explosive devices); it was our designer friend's work bag, and so she had to stuff all her architectural documents and shit in my lady's bag and situate her purse beneath the stairwell. After passing bagchecks one and two, the missus's bag came into question at the foot of said stairwell, and was almost similarly denied entrance. Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, and at least one foot-long purse made it in unconfiscated. But man, what bullshit! So we finally get to our seats, see about a half-hour of My Morning Jacket, and then grab a four-fifty Bud as soon as they're finished. At this point friendly Rob Lomblad (aka thefieldrecordist) comes to gloat about his third-row seat and backstage laminate deal. Some old buddy of his has become Wilco's fourth alternate clavinet tech, or something, and got non-Wilco fan Rob a free pass. We chatted cleverly and politely during the forty minute lull between bands, outdueling each other with our increasingly witty bons mots. Eventually Wilco appeared and filled a thoroughly enjoyable two hours with their highfalutin trad-pop-rock neologisms. There were a couple of encores, some hits, revisitation of olden chestnuts, personalized Boston University hockey jerseys, and only the occasional hint of hoary arena-rock cliche. All in all, a good show.
After an evening of rest, we woke up to find the thermometer nearing 100. Boston is a town largely without air conditioning, and on a day like Saturday that simply wouldn't do. We called up Brandon and Holly and asked if they wanted to go enjoy the air conditioning and Chik Fil-A at the mall in Burlington. They excitedly said yes, and so off we were to a typical suburban shopping mall located a half hour north of Boston. We ate some fried chicken products, wandered languidly through the mall, and then wound up seeing a movie across the street. Mr. and Mrs. Smith is a perfectly acceptable film, and not in any way a waste of our collective $28.00. Even more acceptable, however, was the amazingly frigid theater in which we got to sit for over two hours. After the film, we headed back into town, and dropped the future Virginians off at their pad in Somerville. We stopped at the grocery store before going home, where we picked up some stuff for the week. I angered my wife by buying a bottle of whiskey, and then placated her by not drinking any of it. Upon arrival home we sat around the house listening to records by Fleetwood Mac, Dire Straits, Van McCoy, Rod Stewart, OMD, and more. I drank a few deliciously cold bottles of Miller Lite, and the wife smoked a B&H or two. Around eleven or so the missus went to bed, so I dicked around on unplugged guitar for a while, before hooking up the GameCube and playing some fake baseball. Around one I watched a half hour or so of the syndicated WWF Raw recap show, whose name I have never committed to memory. I headed to bed at 1:30 or so, and slept very well indeed.
Yesterday we watched Bull Durham.
Oh man, heavy fuck-tons of fun these past few days, unparalleled in recent years. Firstly we ate us some Thai food on Friday night, at the formerly redoubtable Brown Sugar, and proceeded to sweat like a burlap-clad Ustinov in the tropics. Spicy food plus Singha plus 90 degrees minus effective air conditioning equal one severely soaked handkerchief. Afterward we walked the block or so down to Agannis Arena to take in the Wilco / My Morning Jacket concert. Those hairballs from MMJ were giving the congregated Bahston assholes a crash course in primo Skynardism when we entered. BU or the dude who paid for this arena really fucking hates bags, though, as the headset chick had to rifle through both ladies' satchels. One was deemed too lengthy for admission (apparently CSC Security knows the minimum width of explosive devices); it was our designer friend's work bag, and so she had to stuff all her architectural documents and shit in my lady's bag and situate her purse beneath the stairwell. After passing bagchecks one and two, the missus's bag came into question at the foot of said stairwell, and was almost similarly denied entrance. Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, and at least one foot-long purse made it in unconfiscated. But man, what bullshit! So we finally get to our seats, see about a half-hour of My Morning Jacket, and then grab a four-fifty Bud as soon as they're finished. At this point friendly Rob Lomblad (aka thefieldrecordist) comes to gloat about his third-row seat and backstage laminate deal. Some old buddy of his has become Wilco's fourth alternate clavinet tech, or something, and got non-Wilco fan Rob a free pass. We chatted cleverly and politely during the forty minute lull between bands, outdueling each other with our increasingly witty bons mots. Eventually Wilco appeared and filled a thoroughly enjoyable two hours with their highfalutin trad-pop-rock neologisms. There were a couple of encores, some hits, revisitation of olden chestnuts, personalized Boston University hockey jerseys, and only the occasional hint of hoary arena-rock cliche. All in all, a good show.
After an evening of rest, we woke up to find the thermometer nearing 100. Boston is a town largely without air conditioning, and on a day like Saturday that simply wouldn't do. We called up Brandon and Holly and asked if they wanted to go enjoy the air conditioning and Chik Fil-A at the mall in Burlington. They excitedly said yes, and so off we were to a typical suburban shopping mall located a half hour north of Boston. We ate some fried chicken products, wandered languidly through the mall, and then wound up seeing a movie across the street. Mr. and Mrs. Smith is a perfectly acceptable film, and not in any way a waste of our collective $28.00. Even more acceptable, however, was the amazingly frigid theater in which we got to sit for over two hours. After the film, we headed back into town, and dropped the future Virginians off at their pad in Somerville. We stopped at the grocery store before going home, where we picked up some stuff for the week. I angered my wife by buying a bottle of whiskey, and then placated her by not drinking any of it. Upon arrival home we sat around the house listening to records by Fleetwood Mac, Dire Straits, Van McCoy, Rod Stewart, OMD, and more. I drank a few deliciously cold bottles of Miller Lite, and the wife smoked a B&H or two. Around eleven or so the missus went to bed, so I dicked around on unplugged guitar for a while, before hooking up the GameCube and playing some fake baseball. Around one I watched a half hour or so of the syndicated WWF Raw recap show, whose name I have never committed to memory. I headed to bed at 1:30 or so, and slept very well indeed.
Yesterday we watched Bull Durham.
