Set You Free

OK, so seeing the Black Keys live is going down in history as one of the greatest concerts ever.

It's such a relief after last week's disappointment with Jenny Lewis (she was fantastic, the crowd and my view was not) to go to the Gallivan Center and enjoy the experience. Yes, the audience was still full of self-important hipsters, but this time with some rowdy rock fans. And yes, everything still smelt like beer, smoke, and B.O., but when you're in the FRONT ROW, who cares?

That's right. Through some miracle, my friend Paige and I ended up in the front against the barrier, just to the right of center. Which was the best luck ever, as we probably would have died where we stood for the opening act. Let's just say personal space was non-existent, and that is no exaggeration. But never before have I been so happy, even while I was incapable of moving my arms. As I shook my hips and banged my head in time with the music, it was pure joy.

Blues rock is my ultimate. It's so full of emotion, so full of passion, and these two men wailed. Patrick on drums was a wonder; he just goes into this zone and creates this glorious cacophony that fills the air with clashing and pounding and rhythm. But when Dan touched the strings of his guitar, my face melted. I was a puddle, liquefied by his outstanding riffs. Being close enough to see his hands move up and down the neck, bending and twisting notes and banging out chords is a highlight of my life. As are the many moments where he came right in front of us and we shared brief eye contact as he blasted through a solo, leaning so close I could almost touch his guitar.

I'm pretty sure I just killed my body, what with the trials of standing that long and enduring the massive crunch of the crowd (major shout out to the guys behind us who protected Paige and me from the worst of it), but it was ABSOLUTELY worth it.

Now please excuse me while I pass out from exhaustion.

Epic.

Why Do We Love? Because We Can.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

When it comes to people, I definitely, definitely do not. Call me cynical and jaded, but that magical moment where time slows and lights dim, and you stare at each other across a crowded dance floor does NOT exist.

But when we're talking about other things, such as, oh I don't know, TV shows, I say "love at first sight? Affirmative!"

The miracle of getting hooked on a program from the first episode has only occurred a handful of times in my life. Most shows take two or three weeks to hit a groove, or an entire season to figure out just who the characters are and why we as an audience should care about what is going on. My first memory of watching a pilot and falling head over heels was with Psych. Shawn's hi-jinks and fast-talking ways, the rapport between him and Gus, everything combined perfectly to pull me in. It was comedy, it was mystery, it was intrigue with a healthy dose of obsolete pop culture references. Who wouldn't love it?

Some time after that I discovered the genius that is Bryan Fuller. This man has yet to create a
show I won't watch. Each of his sadly short-lived series is a gem of quirkiness, of philosophy and smart dialogue, with ideal amounts of sweet and sass. While my love for him extends to TV long ago canceled, his latest (and possibly greatest. I haven't decided yet.) accomplishment recently aired it's finale. The loss of Pushing Daisies still smarts, and ABC must fry for the heinous mishandling of this pinnacle of entertainment. Daisies was intelligent, whimsical, and surprisingly fun for a show involving death. It was truly inventive, a rare original in the wasteland of cop shows and reality TV. The creativity of the team behind it never lagged, but they stayed true to the viewer, boldly working to create a story so heart-breaking and strange, unbelievable and enchanting that I couldn't help but fall in love. Totally, committedly in love. And then the Network Powers That Be decided a spinoff of Grey's Anatomy was more important, and axed the highlight of my television week. I just watched the last show, and it was painful to see something so good try and wrap things up quite clearly before it was supposed to. The hastily tacked on final ending almost made me cry. Pushing Daisies, I miss you.

But moving on is an important step in any heartbreak, and while nothing will replace Daisies, I will love again. And have already. I'd like to introduce you to a little show called Glee.


The commercials for this new show, airing on Fox come fall, piqued my interest. And after watching the premiere, I can say with confidence that Glee has gained a new fan. It's good for: people who have participated in show choirs, Utah residents (sorry, that was redundant), people with a good sense of humor, anyone who has lived through the awkwardness of high school, future teachers, and you.

Check it out on Hulu. Click that link. If you regret it, I'm sorry. And we are no longer friends.

Ouch

Apparently I'm a "hot-tempered hussy".

Yeah. Thanks Mom.

Following those Country Roads

Well, it's official. I am home... whatever that means. By that, I mean I am back in Utah. It's odd. Yesterday, as I sat on the airplane, curled up in some absurd position to avoid the steady stream of cold air rushing in from the emergency exit door that was my seat mate, I looked through the window at the Rockies for the first time in over two months.

Europe was such a big part of my life, but as I cruised around SLC today I felt as if no time had passed. The trip was a dream, and the last thing I remembered was standing outside of that teppanyaki restaurant in the rain, wondering what was in store for me. That sounded lame. This is why tired posts should never be allowed. Which I almost spelt "aloud". I thought you might like to know that. I think I'll give up on the retrospective now.

Summer has officially started, my first real summer since 2006, and I am out of my mind excited. Freedom! No school! No required papers! I can write anything I want and read any book I choose when I choose! Is this Heaven? Quite possibly.

Like the organized dreamer I am, I have already written a list of things I want to do this summer, a list that I will now share with you, my lovely blog audience. I am doing this for two reasons. A: I have nothing else to write about, and creativity is so last week, and B: so that if I run into one of you, dear cyber friends, we will have something to talk about. As in, you will ask me about these and I will feel pride if I have done it and shame if I have not. The basic principle.

Things To Do, This Summer, Part 1A:

-Practice the guitar and become a blues goddess.
-Cook often, with emphasis on artisan breads and pastries.
-Finish all those books I've started, including the rest of the Border Trilogy, Executioner's Song, and House of Seven Gables, along with just reading a lot in general.
-Get a bike at DI. Use it.
-Go to every concert at the Gallivan Center.
-See 500 Days of Summer, along with many Broadway film offerings.
-Flesh out all of those essays I've outlined in my notebook, and to write more creative pieces.
-Get efficient at playing the organ.
-Watch that documentary on the Vietnam War, try to talk to father about it.
-Clean my closet.
-Get a JOB.

A European Explosion

Prepare yourself. Here comes a completely random, thrown at the screen rundown of all the odd, slightly blog worthy thoughts I have had over the past two or three weeks. WARNING: this post contains a great amount of text, with no pictures whatsoever. This should be an adventure.

Mini blog A: Wherein Rick Steves is God

So, traveling with two older ladies has been a vast, VAST change from bombing around the UK with 30 kids my age. I have never been so resistant to something in my life, but sadly my easy adaptability won out. I found myself quoting Rick Steves opinion at every landmark, treated his guidebooks like the Bible, and exhaled "how lovely!" at every brightly colored apartment building and sparse field of wildflowers. Following my mother and aunts example, I fed "scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time" (I've been listening to Billy Collins poetry lately. Check out "Consolation"), snapping artsy pictures of lamposts and skylines, churches framed by tree branches and details of statuary. I did resist the 9:30 bedtime, but I still went to sleep far earlier than the 3-7 schedule of London.

Mini blog B: My Soundtrack*

I listen to music far too often, and some songs work to define parts of my life. Drama class in junior year? "Don't Bring Me Down" summons memories of crouching in the wings of the stage, bobbing my head and worrying about the latest scandal with the choir kids before I left that behind me forever. Summer of freshman year? Walking across campus like a gangsta, cruising to "Seven Nation Army". OK, this walk down memory lane was not the purpose of this segment. I swear. What I really meant to talk about was the songs I've had on repeat the past few days, the songs that have embodied my post-London self.

1. West Coast, by Coconut Records.
All right, guy I kind of sort of dated but not really February aught eight. I owe you a big thank you for all those mix CDs. I didn't give them enough attention, missing little jewels like this song I didn't even know I had. I'm sorry I wasn't responsive to your wooing, but you're married now so you probably don't care. Still, thanks for the great tunes.

I played this song over and over the last week of my study abroad. Even though I wasn't heading back to the states, I still identified with leaving places and people I loved, friendships that would never be the same and the desire to take it all with you. And the fact that it's the awkward kid from Rushmore singing to me makes it even more special and bittersweet. Somehow. Don't ask me how that works. Also, the line "rains a lot this time of year" fit perfectly into the theme of my actual travels, which leads us to ...

2. Why Does it Always Rain on Me?, by Travis.
Major kudos to Kate for gifting me this awesome Brit band right before I left, and then to my buddy Grant for noticing them on itunes and giving me this particular beauty. Along with being yet another angsty, reflective song about the past, this quite literally described my trip. No joke, after the third day of traveling every, single, place we went to was cloudy and hazy and then rained at least once. This proved a saving grace in the oppressive heat of Italy, but grey skies make for some tricky, monotonous pictures.

3. So So, by Gary Go
Ladies and gentlemen, this is THE SONG. It is me the week after the program ended. It is the way I felt, wrapped up in one glorious feat of lyricism. Basically, each line expresses the emotions I was dealing with, the sense of loss and growth that I experienced. And have I mentioned how magnificently angsty it is? All of these songs made me so "emo", even though I prefer the term ruminative. Yes, that's it. They made me contemplative and reminiscent, as I was transported to a time, not too far off, that I missed. And Gary Go himself was such a part of my London adventure. From running around town looking for music stores to buy his album, to playing it on Allison's laptop and dozing off in a Stratford guest room with a gaggle of girls, to sharing it with members of the group, Gary Go was the quintessential English music find, and So So is the ultimate in London nostalgia. "Take me back to the London Town, when it felt good to be around..."

Mini blog C: Spew, a.k.a., Random Observations from the Road

When you are in the Italian countryside, the air tastes like wheat and sun-dried tomatoes and you almost fall in love. And then you get to the city, where the air tastes like garbage and acrid cigarette smoke that makes you miss English tobacco, and then you almost vomit.

Clouds that wisp like sulfuric steam rising from Roman baths of old are pretty neat.

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder.

Italian men are an even bigger letdown than the British accent's aphrodisiac power. Hint: ear piercings aren't as cool as you think they are.

Venice manufactures romance like it's cheap insulation, but you still fall for it.

You never know who you will run into and where. And how you will look when you run into them. And when that time comes, you will always regret not taking a shower that morning.

Germans are definitely not Nazis anymore, and are in fact quite warm and hospitable. And make freaking amazing food.

What is it about countries where they speak a different language that suddenly makes you want to eavesdrop on every conversation you hear?

*From now on, I've decided every song I mention on this blog can be found on the playlist to the right (with certain exceptions, like Gary Go, which is not on playlist.com but you should look him up anyway). Important ones will be near the top, but all should be found by browsing, along with several other great tunes that help me survive at work. Enjoy!

A Major Issue

So this study abroad has been dominated by two groups: the English Majors and the Theatre Majors.

I hope you envisioned a West Side Story-style rumble right then. I know I sure did.

We don't really have a rivalry. Not a blatant one anyway. It's just been very easy to see the difference. I mean let's face it. In the immortal words of Batman, "it's what I do that defines me". And majors most definitely define people.

Think about it. I say Information Systems. You think: person, slightly socially awkward but not too bad, really good at fixing your computer but will most likely judge you for not using your machine to it's fullest capacity. Or MFHD majors: yeah, they're here to get married.

It makes perfect sense. Different personality types are attracted to different careers. And this is oh-so-evident when you are living and traveling and spending every waking moment with a very select group of people.

Let's just say, it's very interesting/hilarious to see the English and the Theatre people interact. They are like two cultures, circling each other, with wary eyes and distrusting demeanor. I expect to hear the tribal drums any second now.

Only a few more days in London. I don't really want to think about it. This place has been incredible. Woah. Get ready. Here comes a change in tone. This place has been ... dare I say life-changing? That feels a little bold, but I think it's accurate. The atmosphere just suits me so well. In London, everything is busy, but not in an overwhelming way like big cities in the States. It has this gravity gifted by history, by a knowledge that the building you just walked past is guraanteed to be at least a century older than our entire country. And it only gets better when you leave London and venture into the countryside, see the green and yellow hills and smell the air, air you couldn't believe could taste so fresh.

They sell a T-shirt in those hole souvenier shops that says "Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to London". I chuckle a little at it, but realize how misguided it is. London is heaven, one and the same.

WIZARD! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian.

Bonus points to people who get that reference. And no, it isn't Lord of the Rings.

So I continued my rampage of getting famous people's autographs. Let's just say I might have a promising career as a paparazzo, judging solely by the lack of shame I feel holding a camera in celebrities faces and not by the photographic quality.

I saw Waiting for Godot this week, and first off can I say that absurdist theatre is fascinating? It's tough not to try to apply symbolism to every little line, and in some ways that's part of the fun, but the pure nonsense that is absurdism is glorious. Godot in particular was just so fun to see.

This version starred Patrick Stewart (!!!) and Sir Ian McKellan (!!!!!!!!!!!!), and I don't know what to say. It's incredible how spry and coordinated Sir Ian is. He can jig with the best of them. I think he and Patrick should be best friends, they just played off each other with impeccable comedic timing. And let's just say, Jim Dale has some serious competition when it comes to narrating my life. Patrick Stewart's dulcet tones would perfectly accompany my actions. "As Cat walked down the street, she was suddenly struck with how beautiful life is, and how wonderful falafel would taste at that moment." Hmmm.

On a completely unrelated note, I've decided I want to live in Ireland.