Home Is Where The Heart Is

For a while now, my brain has been on overdrive.  Most of the thoughts swirling around in my head, preventing me from sleeping and concentrating, have been stressful in nature.  As anyone with anxiety can attest, it's not a pleasant feeling.  However, amidst the anxious thoughts, there has been one recurring one that is not the least bit stressful.  It is, however, something that's made me rather contemplative and I've been giving it a lot consideration.

Throughout my life, and most of yours I'm sure, the phrases "home is where the heart is," "home is where you lay your head," and "home is wherever I'm with you" have been flung around countless times.  It was something that I hadn't given much thought to previously as I felt I always knew what "home" was to me: the comfy house, on the fantastic creek, in the little town where I was born and raised in upstate New York, just north of the Pennsylvania border.

When I first left that comfort zone and came out to Connecticut for college, I never expected that home would ever mean anything different to me.  As far as I was concerned, "home is where the heart is" was true and my heart was still sitting right next to Sage Creek.  I've been in New Haven the better part of 10 years now and, while I did fall in love with the city, it has never felt like home.  I always refer to going to my parents' as "going home" for the weekend and returning to my apartment as "going back to CT."  But last year, I discovered that home can be somewhere else and, surprisingly, it can even be somewhere I've never even lived.

As anyone familiar with the flag above or just anyone familiar with my love affair with the state may have guessed, Rhode Island is what feels like home to me.  No matter where I go these days, there's a constant yearning to be in Rhode Island.  I spent most of my weekends last summer in that tiny little state and spent the time I wasn't there wishing that I was.  I spent a good number of days and nights exploring, adventuring, and enjoying myself, falling in love with everything RI had to offer and the people that called it home 365 (or 366!) days a year.

Waterfire in Providence; truly a sight to behold.

I had previously associated the state with sadness as my first trip there was after a friend, a Rhode Island native, passed away.  After that I had made just a few trips to Providence, for shows and shopping, but hadn't yet formed the relationship with it that I did last summer.  The history and low-key bustle of Providence, the relaxed adventures along the shore in quaint areas such as Warren, Bristol, and Newport, the welcoming feeling I got from everyone I interacted with, the parks, fairs, festivals, the clam cakes...it all won me over and made me never want to leave.

A RI staple I have been craving like mad ever since warmer temperatures made their return.

My adventures in Rhode Island were due in part to a long-distance relationship with someone who resided there.  But even after that relationship dissolved, I still spent most of my days wishing I was there with the same frequency, although not necessarily for the same reasons I had wanted to spend every waking hour there before.  I've been thinking incessantly lately about how I want to be in Rhode Island, for good.  I don't just want to visit every few months when my schedule permits.  I want to live in the place that feels more like home to me than anywhere else.  I am working hard toward that goal and crossing my fingers that it all works out...and the sooner the better.  I want to enjoy that tiny little place on a daily basis.  I'm tired of always longing to be somewhere I'm not.

The Summer of "Staycation"

After realizing I was going to be on a tight budget this summer, I was a bit bummed out (to put it mildly).  No festivals, no big trips, no drinking on the patios at my favorite bars.  But after a lot of thought, I realized I didn't have to make grandiose, expensive plans to enjoy the glorious weather that lie ahead.  With everyone at work taking their vacation time in July and August, there wasn't much of a chance of me doing the same anyway.  But that's okay...I've got a free vacation to Las Vegas coming at the end of October, so, I don't mind saving my vacation days until then!  In the meantime, however, I will be taking my fair share of "staycations" in Connecticut and the surrounding states.

Connecticut has so much to offer in the way of parks, museums, historical sites...and the best part is that most of it costs $0 to enjoy!  I sat down and made a list of all the free - insanely cheap things I could do throughout the course of the next few months.  When I finished, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of relief; my summer could still be incredible.  In addition to fireworks displays and BBQs with friends (which I've been taking full advantage of!), there are so many ways I can enjoy the season without depleting my bank account.

Sunday Fun-day at Bearerhawk!

West Haven fireworks!

I'm happy to say that my plans for an inexpensive, yet awesome, summer have kicked into high gear.  I wasn't feeling so hot at the beginning of the weekend and wanted to just lay in front of a fan all day, but I'm so glad I eventually dragged myself off the couch and got started on my fun "to do" list.

This past weekend, the New London/Groton area was abuzz with activity and a whole lot of sails and ships!  Both Sailfest and OpSail were in full effect on the Thames River.  I had every intention of going up Saturday, taking advantage of the festivities and stuffing my face with seafood at Fred's Shanty.  However, my immune system got the better of me and I ended up going on Sunday, with a pretty late start to boot, but that may have actually worked out to my advantage.  I headed to Fort Trumbull in New London and, instead of waiting in ridiculously long lines on the dock, I was able to breeze through the bag check and make my way out to the remaining tall ships.  The replica of the Amistad was there, along with a few small ships and tugboats, as well as the U.S.C.G.C. Eagle and a Brazilian ship, the Cisne Branco.  The latter two ships were amazing tall ships, masts and rigging going way up toward the sky.

The conveniently empty dock.

Foreground: Cisne Branco.  The U.S.C.G.C. Eagle is located on the far side of the dock.

 The U.S.C.G.C. Eagle is a barque ship, which means it is comprised of 3 or more masts.  In her case, it's three.  Three glorious masts holding up a number of sails.  Built in Germany in 1936, she was originally commissioned as a German training ship, the Horst Wessel.  After World War II she was acquired as a war reparation by the United States and recommissioned as a Coast Guard Cutter.  She found a new home in New London, which has served as her home base and a training location for countless Coast Guard cadets.  I had the opportunity to wander around her decks and it was a sight to behold.

Figurehead on the U.S.C.G.C. Eagle

Heading up to the upper deck on the stern of the ship.

Rigging as far as the eye can see!

I was pretty much in heaven.  Unfortunately, by the time I exited the Eagle, the Cisne Branco had roped off its entrance and I was unable to board.  But I was still able to enjoy the view from the dock!

 

Fort Trumbull, where these lovely ships were docked, is a place I plan to explore again this summer.  The few times that I've been here were always during off season or off-hours, so I never got to see as much of it and learn as much about it as I would like.  However, even just for walking around, it's a great place.  I snapped a bunch of photos but I feel like I shouldn't go overboard (no pun intended!) in this post and save Fort Trumbull shots for a more informative post somewhere down the road.  But, just to give you a taste...

Thunder & Angels

So, Christopher Mansfield claimed that he wasn't going to post to Fences' facebook anymore and that their manager would just be posting pertinent information from here on out.  I think he lied.  But I'm pleased that he did, despite the tears that just welled up in my eyes.

My grandmother always used to say that thunder was the angels bowling.  It's a phrase I hadn't thought of in quite some time.  Seeing this post just brought so many memories flooding back, both good and bad.  I don't believe in God but I do like to believe that there is some sort of afterlife where our souls carry on long after our bodies quit.  I know that, wherever she is, my grandmother is still watching over me.  And I know she and Grandpa, who were both avid bowlers back in the day, are probably part of the ruckus taking place in the sky today.

There's No Place Like Home

I grew up in a small, rural town in upstate NY.  Before the farm down the road was sold and divvied up into plots for new homes, my road--about a mile long--held 5 houses.  Corn, alfalfa, and assorted other plant life sprang up in the fields; cows were raised around the corner.  My brother and I, along with our neighbors, spent summers laying in between the stalks and stems, staring at the stars or hiking along.  We spent countless hours playing in the creek and catching fireflies.  When winter rolled around, we would build snowmen and igloos and go sledding down the giant hill until our fingers were numb. 

I never took that for granted.  I was a "country bumpkin," as my dad would put it, and I loved it to the fullest.  I lived for the outdoors and hiking and camping and canoeing and fishing; I never got the appeal of "city living."  I would spend a week around Christmas or Easter and a few weeks in the summer visiting family in Brooklyn and, while I loved every second of the visits, I always thought "I could never live in a city!"  I needed grass under my feet.  I needed a huge yard with neighbors out of sight, not just blocked by fences or some shrubbery.  I needed the creek that ran through our backyard.  I needed the Milky Way.  I did NOT need the sounds of buses and upstairs neighbors.  I did not need the smell of what my grandma's foreign neighbors were cooking each night.  I did not need grimy feet and garbage blowing around from the sidewalk.

When it came time to settle on a college, I worried.  Every school that had my program of choice was in a major city (or what felt like a city in comparison to my hometown).  My decision to attend UNH gave me some relief, since the student population was so small and the move was only temporary.  After undergrad, I stayed at UNH for my Master's.  Since graduate housing did not exist, I moved into my own apartment in New Haven.  I was surrounded by identical brick buildings and concrete as far as the eye could see.  From my kitchen and bedroom windows, I could see a gas station, a package store, and some run down (mostly student-rented, mostly frat) houses.  I reminded myself again and again that "this is only temporary."

But you know what?  City living has grown on me.  I enjoy having civilization at my fingertips.  I don't have to drive 20 minutes on highways just to do my shopping.  My friends are close.  Major cities are a short trip away.  And, notice, I didn't say a short drive away...public transportation exists.  Buses get me to and from work daily and I can hop a train or bus to countless places.  I can jump in my car, get on the highway and be in Providence, Boston, or Philadelphia in less than 3.5 hours.  In the four years that have passed since I completed grad school, I've learned not only to love city living but I've also grown accustomed to it.  I get weirded out when I go somewhere without streetlights.  Places with a lack of public transportation frustrate me.  Not being able to grab a cab home from the bar seems utterly ridiculous.  And having to drive 30+ minutes to get to Target?  No, thank you.

New Haven, Connecticut, New England in general, have an abundance of parks and beaches to keep me content and in touch with my roots but that's not to say I never get homesick.  There are nights where I long to see more than a handful of stars in the sky.  Where I'd love to hear a babbling brook instead of my neighbor's car alarm.  But this new life makes me appreciate home all the more.  There's a huge contrast between the two places, both in terms of the positives and negatives, but home will always be "home" and it will always win the beauty contest.

I returned to NY over the weekend for my 10 year reunion (it's terrifying how fast time has gone by!).  It was the first time in over 5 months that I had been back (and, really, last time hardly counts as it was only for approximately 12 hours) so I took full advantage of relaxing...and napping...in the sun and taking countless photos around my parents' yard. 

The creek that runs behind my childhood home.

Saw so many of these little guys running around this weekend.

This view will never, ever get old.

This is what I see every time I sit on the porch with my cup of tea!

The City of Brotherly Love, history, and tattoos!

Before the first weekend in June even ended, all I could think about was how excited I was to write about it, how much I wanted to share my adventures on here.  But, for some reason, every time I sat down to write, the words wouldn't flow.  And then I figured out why.  I felt like I was going to have to defend or justify my post, my trip, my spending of money, even though it affected no one but me.

These last few months, I've done my fair share of complaining and fretting, both verbally and via the Internet, regarding my current living/job/financial woes and concerns.  And even though I shouldn't feel obligated to explain myself to anyone, I'm going to preface the remainder of this post with the following:

My friend Krystal and I have made a habit out of attending the Philadelphia Tattoo Arts Convention the last few years.  We've always had a phenomenal time hanging out with friends who were working the convention and meeting amazing new people and artists.  This year, unfortunately, the convention fell just prior to Valentine's Day which is a super busy time at Krystal's job.  We were bummed knowing that our annual tradition wouldn't be feasible this time around.  But, luckily, fate intervened.  What could possibly be better than the convention in Philly?  How about another convention in Philly, held during a much warmer season, taking place aboard a goddamn battleship?!

Photo "borrowed" from the USS Olympia's Wikipedia page

That's right, the USS Olympia, the world's oldest floating steel warship, the sole surviving naval ship of the Spanish-American war, just so happens to be docked at the Independence Seaport Museum in Philly.  And she was playing hostess for a tattoo convention from June 1-3 of this year.  For a nautical nerd and a tattoo junkie such as myself, it was the perfect combination...the stuff dreams are made of.  I marked the dates on my calendar and started counting down; the months could not pass by fast enough.

With all the worrying that started overtaking my mind on a daily basis, I started to wonder if I should just cancel my plans.  As someone who always errs on the side of caution, I went against everything my brain was telling me. I ultimately decided that this was something I needed to do.  Not just because it was a rare opportunity but, also, because I needed it for the sake of my mental health.  I needed an escape and a distraction from the thoughts that were consuming me.  I needed to see my friend and I needed to have fun.  And I decided I needed to use some of the money I had set aside all year for the purpose it was intended for.  I know there's a good chance I'm going to have to kiss my dreams of a DSLR camera goodbye, despite having saved $1000+ for it since August, and I wasn't going to let my tattoo fund meet the same fate.  My "tattoo money" would provide me with enough cash for admission, food, and a small tattoo.  I had been planning on this trip since the beginning of February and I wasn't going to deprive myself of it because circumstances beyond my control had presented themselves.

With that being said, my weekend was awesome, guys!  The bad aspects -- getting stuck in horrendous traffic, getting caught walking in a downpour, fainting on Pat's front steps (sorry for scaring you, Krystal!) -- were very much outweighed by the good.  After TomTom sent me on a ridiculous traffic-filled, roundabout route, I finally reached Philly.  Krystal and I began our adventures and, let me tell you, it left us with some pretty great stories and memories.

As Krystal and I walked from her home in South Philly to the Olympia on Friday night, the skies opened up and all hell broke loose.  There was nowhere to take cover from the rain and wait for a cab. Our umbrellas weren't on hand so we had no choice but to grin and bear it and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.  We were soaked completely through before we arrived at the ship.  When I finally saw my reflection, the first thing that came to mind was when we gave my fluffy little furball of a cat, Reesie, her first bath.  It was not a good look; my bangs were glued to my forehead.  The two of us attempted to wring as much rainwater as possible out of our clothing before boarding the ship but it was no use.  Within minutes of being on board, someone from the museum staff ran over in a panic thinking something on the ship was leaking.  As we moved along, Krystal spotted an industrial fan which we promptly stood in front of in the hopes that we would dry out, at least a little.  Her ingenious plan worked and, although were were still damp, we were no longer dripping from every inch.  We were still worried about getting too close to the artwork and portfolios the various artists had on display, though!  We wandered around the 2 floors of the ship where the artists were set up and, on the second floor, met some amazing guys.

Joe and Vlad from Citizen Ink were sitting at their booth and invited us over to take a closer look, despite our sad appearance.  We explained what had happened and they kindly offered us a stack of paper towels to continue our efforts to become dry, presentable looking people.  We checked out Joe and Twace's portfolios and the available flash for acetate tattoos and fell in love.  We spent a good portion of our evening talking to these lovely Brooklynites (whose shop turns out to be only 2 blocks away from my aunt's apartment...and in a spot I've walked by hundreds of times since I was a kid) and made the decision to get tattooed by them the following day.  We paid our deposits, said our goodbyes and left, still damp but giddy.

We went back to Krystal's, changed into some dry attire, and headed to a Mexican restaurant for a night of karaoke in celebration of Krystal's friend's birthday.  I'm not one for singing at karaoke and, normally, I find myself wanting to cover my ears at other people's performances.  But this was a treat.  From an older guy singing LMFAO, among other age-inappropriate tracks, to a Fred Perry clad gentleman (I use the term loosely) singing R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly," to a cover of the Smiths, it was an interesting bunch of performances.  The entertainment and the drink specials made for a delightful evening.

Fred Perry guy doing his rendition of R. Kelly

The next day started a little too early for our boozy selves.  We braced ourselves with breakfast from Wawa and wandered through the Vietnam Memorial and over to the Olympia.  Once aboard, we needed to make our final decisions.  What were we getting tattooed and, just as important, where?

I finally, after much hemming and hawing, settled on a piece of Steve Delgatto flash from 1976; a bald eagle with a banner and small flower underneath.  It was one of the acetate tattoo offerings from Citizen Ink that Twace would be doing.  Krystal eventually settled on a piece of Sailor Jerry flash (one of my favorites pieces) from Joe Khay.

Joe working his magic on Krystal.

One of the cool things about this convention (aside from being on a BATTLESHIP, have I mentioned that yet?!) was that they were doing assembly line acetate tattoos.  There were countless pieces of flash to choose from.  One artist would outline the tattoo and another would color, much like they did years ago aboard ships like the Olympia herself.  I didn't go the assembly line route and, instead, had my entire tattoo done by Twace Martinez.

Twace in action (photo from Citizen Ink's facebook page)

The stencil and the real deal (photo from Citizen Ink's facebook page)

Unlike modern tattooing, where a stencil is printed onto paper and transferred onto the skin, acetate transfers are a bit more involved.  The design is scratched directly into the acetate with a heavy needle.  The artist then fills the grooves with powdered charcoal.  This charcoal is transferred to the skin, which is usually covered with a bit of vaseline to give it something to adhere to.  Because the acetate is not as pliable as paper (think of overhead transparencies from grade school) getting the transfer to sit properly can be a chore, since not all portions of the human body are perfectly flat.  I chose to have my piece on my upper thigh and it took a few tries and relocation before we had success.  The outline itself is pretty fragile, as it's just powder sitting on top of the skin, and it was a bit of a difficult tattoo; Twace did an awesome job and we were both excited with the result. I was his first and only acetate transfer tattoo of the convention!

This promptly came off the table after my tattoo was completed.

Krystal had work that night so I spent a few hours roaming around South Street and the surrounding blocks.  I was met with vintage store after vintage store, thrift shops and all sorts of little places I loved and can't wait to visit again.  I took in the architecture and art that part of the city had to offer as well.  Philly is one of my favorite places; artwork is around every corner.  Murals and mosiacs are everywhere.

South Philadelphia: We Have The Gold!! Neighborhood of Champions.

After the hustle and bustle of the previous night and day, we decided to take things easy that evening.  Which turned out to be a good thing since I had my mystery fainting episode on Pat's steps just moments after we arrived.  We had fun chit-chatting and watching Bob's Burgers and then were regaled with stories from Pat's roommates Ed and Erich.  We didn't leave until 5am.  The birds were chirping as we arrived back at Krystal's house.

The following morning she had to work, so I wandered around Philly in search of food before I left the city.  I took a nice scenic drive through PA and into NJ where I spent the evening hanging out with Shelley and Corey, two of my favorite friends from college, and their adorable beagle Jackson.

Look at that cute little mug!

All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.  It was a nice little break from stress and something I'll reflect on fondly for some time to come.

When life hands you lemons...she sometimes surprises you with a peach.

With all the stress and uncertainty I've been feeling these last few months, it's been hard for me to get excited about much of anything.  I've gotten my hopes up about a handful of things and, unfortunately, most of those same hopes have gotten crushed.  That's not to say I haven't done anything that I've enjoyed; in fact, I just spent the weekend in Philadelphia and NJ and enjoyed it immensely.  A post about that trip is coming soon; I'm just having a hard time organizing my thoughts, stories, and photos in a way that I'm happy with.  But, back to the matter at hand: getting truly excited about something.  Something tangible, not just some lofty aspiration.

I realize how nerdy this is going to make me sound but I'm going to write about it anyway.  What am I excited (really, truly excited) about?  The tumblr account I set up for Toad's Place the other day.  I know what you're thinking right now.  "Seriously, you're excited about a stupid little blog on tumblr of all places?  For the club you work at?  What's wrong with you?"  I know that would be my reaction if I was reading this on anyone else's blog.  But, truth be told, it's something that's been putting a smile on my face despite the feelings of gloom and doom regarding the other aspects of my life.

Since I started working at Toad's, social media has been one of my responsibilities.  Initially, it consisted of myspace, then our facebook account (now accounts) and fan page, and then I brought twitter into the mix.  With everything else on my plate at work (it's kind of a jack-of-all-trades position), it got a bit tedious to update all of those outlets daily and, to be honest, it was never much fun.  Those spaces limited us to a list of upcoming events, a short blurb about the evening's performance or a new show announcement.  None of those gave me the option to share as much as I wanted or promote in a way that I believed to be effective.  For that reason, I usually pawned the responsibility off on our interns.  Over the last year, I had been thinking about starting a blog of some sort for Toad's.  A place where we could go beyond 140 characters, and share more than just a blurb.  Tumblr is giving us a chance to share information in a variety of formats.  Text, photo, video.  We can post information not just about a show but about the artists themselves.  Sure, sure, you can do that on facebook.  But with facebook your thoughts are jumbled up with every comment a customer leaves, every junk photo of a sneaker or a ticket that someone tags you in, every piece of spam someone believes one of your followers might be interested in.

Tumblr gives a nice clear, continuous stream of just Toad's Place.  The info that is pertinent to our events.  Since I set up our page on Thursday evening, I've only written 10 posts (but, in reality, due to a day off and a weekend, 9 of those were posted in the last 2 days).  I'm not only excited because I feel this is a good way to promote our events, the club, and artists as a whole, I am excited because it's making me feel like I have purpose again.  I spent almost 6 years in (and out of) college reviewing albums for our radio station.  I wrote music reviews for the student paper.  I love music and I've always loved writing about it, in whatever form.  I think my previous posts on this blog attest to that.

This tumblr is giving me a chance to do that again.  I've started off with pretty basic posts, short and sweet, but I'm eager to write posts that delve a little deeper.  That tell the story of the performer who's going to be gracing our stage.  That review a new album.  That review a show that takes place on our stage.  I'm excited to take photos of the club, our patrons, and the performances to share with the Internet.  To possibly interview some of the acts that come through, to hopefully help some of them in their journey to increase their fan base.

Already, we have a good number of people following us.  We have people interacting and asking questions.  Every time I get an email notifying me of a new question or a new follower, a grin breaks out across my face.  The joy that little page is already bringing has gotten me excited about our other social media pages again.  I've spent the last 2 days updating them all (well, not myspace) incessently.  As I was sitting on the bus, making my way home from work today, I sat back and thought about all of this.  I wish that I had an opportunity to work somewhere where this was my main priority.  To write.  To promote.  To interact with our clientele.

Just for kicks, I searched job sites for positions as a social media manager.  And I've decided something.  I'm going to ask my brother and my computer savvy friends to teach me what they know about programming, about html and the like, and build on my abilities.  Maybe, just maybe, I'll be qualified for a web-based position such as that with a company I am excited about, and can have that smile on my face every single day.

Broadening my horizons

I started this blog with the sole intention of using it as an outlet for my writing.  I missed writing for fun, about things that genuinely interested me or that I felt passionately about.  But, while this blog has been serving its purpose, I still felt like it was lacking something.  My posts have been few and far between.  Even though I'm happy with the quality and content of what I've written thus far, I am upset with the inconsistency and sporadic nature of my posting.  I want to write more but I don't want to force topics on myself; I want it to come naturally and be genuine.

As I was sitting at work last night, bored silly with watching teenagers flirt and complain about how bored they were, I had a lot of time to reflect on the current state of my own life.  I have been content for a while with the routine nature of it.  I'm a creature of habit.  But, all of a sudden, I was forced into a situation where I have no choice but to contemplate a new career and new living situation.  There are some serious life changes on the verge of taking place.  I am frustrated and terrified beyond what words can describe.  However, despite all the thoughts and fears swirling around in my head, I am able to see clearly that this is a defining time in my life.  The decisions I make are going to greatly affect my future.  Do I pursue a career in line with my educational background in Criminal Justice and Forensic Science?  Do I stay within the music industry?  Do I stay at my current job and try to find some other way to make ends meet?  My current job is entertaining, to put it mildly, and definitely has its perks.  Or do I go outside of all of those areas and take on something entirely new?  Do I stay in CT?  Do I stay in New England?  Do I move back to NY?  Or do I up and move all the way across the country to Los Angeles?

While I'm not as old as I feel or act at times (I didn't get the nickname "Grandma" for nothin'), I can say that the way we document our lives currently is much different than it was when I was younger.  As I was growing up, and even into my first few years of college, we had hard copies of our life events.  We took real pictures with real film that we could place into albums or scrapbooks.  We wrote in a notebook and called it our diary or our journal.  Life now is very much Internet-based.  Digital images end up on Facebook and Instagram and the like.  They're sent to our families and friend in emails, not tucked away in a card.  Our thoughts are sent out as status updates on multiple platforms.  Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against this.  I myself am guilty of having, and regularly using, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr accounts.  I have a lonely little myspace account that hasn't been logged into in ages and had Friendster "back in the day."  I've published my writing on two blogs.  The only issue I really take with this "digital life" most of us lead is the scattered nature of it.  My photos, ticket stubs, handwritten captions aren't all sitting there on a single page for me to turn to and reminisce. 

Now that I've gone off on a bit of tangent, let me get back to the point at hand.  I've made a decision to expand on the content of this blog.  To share and document my everyday life.  While it may not be a physical scrapbook or diary, it is one link I can refer to and reflect on my life whenever I choose; I won't have to scour multiple sites to look back on all the inevitable changes that will be taking place.  The meatier, quality writing will not disappear; it will just have some filler in between when my creativity and deep interests are on hiatus.  For me, this blog will be a cohesive, pseudo-collection of the moments in my life.  Hopefully, those of you who have been super supportive of my writing on here will find yourselves entertained with the anecdotes, photos, and other things that will be popping up in the coming days and weeks as well!

A Tuesday Night Musical Discovery

Guys, I've fallen in love...with a little band from Nashville, Tennessee.

Today is my roommate's birthday (happy birthday, Morgan!) so a bunch of friends got together for fun and drinks last night.  We started off the evening at Elm Bar, with the intention of playing pool (it never happened).  As we sat in our corner of the bar, we came to realize that the evening was featuring live music.  There was a small crowd of maybe 25 people, our group making up more than half of it and the remainder consisting of performers, staff, and regulars.  I wasn't too keen on the first act so I stepped outside for a smoke and some conversation but, boy oh boy, am I glad I made it back in before the second act went on stage.

From the second Channing & Quinn approached the tiny stage, I knew they would be right up my alley.  I know you can't/shouldn't judge a book by its cover but everything about them screamed "Becky's going to love this!"  From Quinn's well manicured sideburns and vest to Channing's adorable dress, which easily could have either been vintage or pulled straight from the Dear Creatures lookbook, to her wonderful red curls, they just had a vibe about them that lured me in.  The smiles and warm greetings they gave the small crowd didn't hurt either.

As soon as they started playing, I was sold.  Channing's voice was incredible.  With each song, I kept hearing hints of vocalists I adore: Shingai Shoniwa (of the Noisettes), Leslie Feist, and Zooey Deschanel, in particular.  The mystery of the random board on stage was solved during the first song (accompanied by the realization that Channing was wearing tap shoes) when she started tapping along.

With each passing song, my adoration grew.  Channing sang, played the glockenspiel, tambourine, a cymbal, and a kazoo and tapped a bit more.  Quinn switched from guitar, to banjo, to bass drum, to ukulele, to accordion.  Their original material was creative and their covers were no less impressive (The Doors and Willie Nelson were seen in a whole new light).  They had the charisma and talent to warrant a much larger crowd but the intimate setting made it all the more wonderful for a first time experience.  I swear, my cheeks hurt from smiling; that's how happy their music made me.    

I purchased the CDs they had available and I've been listening to them at my desk all day ("The Vanishing Act" has been experiencing a lot of repeat play).  While I should be pinching pennies right now, the expenditure was well worth it.  They are a talented duo whom I wish the best success for.  Not only are they great musicians, in the short time my friends and I spent speaking with them, it was clear they are great people as well (Channing gave the birthday girl a free CD!).  They have a few tour dates left in the Northeast and I strongly encourage my friends to check them out before they head back south.

One shot of women, one shot of work. One shot's sweeter but they both can hurt.

I am anything but a music snob.  I'm not saying that I like or even enjoy all types of music but 6 years of working in college radio, most of it spent reviewing albums for every genre imaginable, has made me very open minded when it comes to music.  Just because something doesn't necessarily appeal to my taste doesn't automatically make it "bad."  It can be well executed technically which, by default,  makes it "good;" whether I like it or can't stand it doesn't change that fact.  Preference, when it comes to music, is something that's very arbitrary and personal and, for that reason, I've never really understood people's need to judge others based on it.

With all the albums I've listened to and reviewed over the years, however, it takes something really special to get me excited.  It might be a band I've never heard before -- in recent years, for me, that's been The Gaslight Anthem and Fences -- or just a new release from an old favorite.  Currently, it's the new Lucero album Women & Work.  I am downright obsessed.

When Women & Work was first released, I streamed it repeatedly on Rdio.com; it was on a loop at my desk while I was in the office and streaming from my TV and computer at home while I was cleaning, cooking, or doing other assorted chores.  It made my $4.99/month subscription seem like a steal.  Since I knew I'd be seeing them perform in Rhode Island this month, I decided to hold out to buy a physical copy as I'd rather purchase it directly from the band than from some conglomerate.  The date of the RI show happened to coincide with Record Store Day and, as part of the celebration, Ben and Rick did an in-store performance at Newbury Comics in Warwick, RI.  If I wasn't in love with Lucero and the new album before, that intimate set was enough to seal the deal.  Ben, with his white v-neck and tattoos, and his guitar in hand, sang in his signature gravelly voice.  Rick, who reminds me of a lovable tattoo artist I know from the Midwest, was there with the most amazing accordion I've ever seen.  Together, these two gentlemen knocked out some new songs, some old favorites, and a few requests.  It was enough to send any fan (regardless of gender) reeling.  Having only heard a handful of songs, with nowhere near a full band, my friends and I left elated and in eager anticipation of the performance that lay ahead that evening.

Forgive the poor quality, my cell phone camera & shaky hands don't mix well.

I was in no way, shape, or form disappointed that night.  We arrived at the Met a bit late, having missed the opening act, but were right on time for a drink and Lucero's set.  The crowd, most having had their fill of whiskey and beer, were in high spirits as Lucero took the stage.  Again, they played an assortment of selections, both new and old, a much beloved cover of Jawbreaker's "Kiss The Bottle" and, again, took audience requests.  While they did mix things up, there was an emphasis on the new record, with at least 5 of its 11 tracks being played.  I've spent a lot of time in RI in the course of the last year and it seems, at least from an outsider's perspective, that it's a pretty tight-knit scene.  Still, to me, it was astonishing to see an entire crowd of people singing and dancing together like old friends; it's a far cry from larger New Haven shows.  At the end of the set, you could hear chatter throughout the room; some praise, some complaints.  A handful of fans were not thrilled with the amount of new songs played.  Those same fans, most likely, that aren't that thrilled with the new album as a whole.

Musically, Lucero is a blend of everything great.  Drawing on indie rock roots, punk influences, and a country/folk twang that can surely be attributed to their hometown of Memphis, Tennessee, the band is hard to define.  The best I can say is that it's southern rock done 100% right.  The band, in its various incarnations, has been putting out music for the last 14 years and it doesn't appear it will be stopping any time soon.  A decade-plus can often result in a stale sound but Lucero hasn't let that happen.  With each release their sound has grown and evolved and the result is nothing short of phenomenal.  Over time, the band has grown in size to 8 members, allowing for the addition of keys, an accordion, and a small horn section (sax & trumpet).  Those recent additions are a main focal point on the new album.

Some devout Lucero fans aren't fond of the new album but, perhaps, they're just not fond of change.  I, personally, love the new spin they've put on their sound.  A vinyl junkie, I purchased the LP (which came with a CD to boot!) after the show.  As soon as I got home from RI the next day, I popped the record on my trusty Crosley and the one-woman singalong/dance party began.  And it lasted for hours.

The band's frontman Ben Nichols, equates Women & Work to a typical weekend.

“You work all week, thinking about women and the weekend,” says Nichols. “’Downtown’ is Friday night, ‘Go Easy’ is Sunday morning. The rest of the record is the party in between.”

And it is a party, indeed.  Owning the album on vinyl, however, has given me a new perspective on it. After listening to it in its entirety a few times, I found myself returning the needle to the start of side A, playing it over and over again, neglecting side B.  There's something in those first 6 tracks that just pulls me in.  The melodies are catchy and give my feet an involuntary urge to move.  The lyrics are memorable and are the ones I find myself singing throughout the course of the day.  That's not to say the latter half is a disappointment; that is not the case at all.  It doesn't share the same dance-able gusto as the beginning of the record but the lyrics are still heartfelt and the music is still top-notch...and the addition of a gospel choir surely doesn't hurt.

Most Likely To Succeed

My senior year of high school I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed."  To me, it was the crowning achievement of years of hard work and dedication.  I was flattered beyond words and it's a title I've spent years hoping to live up to.  With my 10-year reunion rapidly approaching (this June!), I've been devoting a lot of time recently to defining success as it applies to me.

Success is defined by dictionary.com as

1. the favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors.

2. the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like.

It's probably safe to assume, however, that most people have their own personal definition of success, one that more succinctly defines the "wealth, position, honors" and "favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors" mentioned above.  Those terms are vague and leave much room for interpretation.

Leading up to my high school graduation, I had it all together.  I wasn't the most popular or "cool" by any means but I had my priorities in order.  I focused on, and excelled in, my academic pursuits.  I was involved in a myriad of after-school activities.  I was a well rounded, well behaved person.  I was devoted to my family.  Parties, boyfriends, debauchery...none of it appealed to me.  And that hard work and focus on what I considered to be important paid off.  I was awarded numerous scholarships, both unsolicited and from all three universities to which I applied and was accepted to.

I had spent a good portion of my high school career mulling over what I wanted to do with my future.  I was nerdy, no doubt about it, and that love for learning and my multi-faceted interests left me with several career prospects I wanted to pursue.  I had written for fun, was never happy with less than an A on a paper, and was a staff writer for the student newspaper (an activity I continued in college as well).  Did I want to become a journalist?  I had always done well in Spanish (aced the NYS Regents exam, in fact), loved the language and thoroughly enjoyed both hosting a Costa Rican exchange student and traveling to CR as one myself.  Did I want to become an interpreter?  I had been learning ASL in my free time since middle school and contemplated furthering that education and becoming an interpreter for the deaf.  My family and I constantly watched shows on forensic science on the Discovery Channel and The Learning Channel and it seemed like something that would present me with new and exciting tasks on a daily basis.  After much hemming and hawing, I decided to focus my formal education on forensic science.

I decided to attend the University of New Haven, who had an established and reputable program (not to mention a relationship with Dr. Henry C. Lee!).  I plugged away through the first year and a half of the undergrad program, attending classes in pretty much every science you can name, as well as Calculus I & II, and other assorted classes.  I found myself, at that point, both incredibly stressed and unhappy.  Forensic science, as I had always seen it, had two focuses: laboratory and field work.  The latter was what interested me.  Developing and collecting fingerprints, searching for and collecting evidence, preserving the integrity of the crime scene and documenting it in every way imaginable.  Sadly, the program at UNH focused on the laboratory aspect and heavily.  After flourishing in my chemistry labs and floundering in the actual class, I decided it was not the right track for me.  The Criminal Justice major, with a concentration in Investigative Services, was exactly what I was looking for.  After several discussions with my adviser, I reached the end of my rope.  She kept trying to convince me to stay in the program even though it wasn't suited for me.  Why?  Well, as she finally told me, she didn't want the program to lose someone with my G.P.A.  That statement pushed me over the edge; I immediately signed the necessary paperwork and formally switched majors.  It ended up being the best decision I could have made.

I excelled in my coursework and graduated on time and with top honors, all the while being involved with several organizations on campus.  I decided to further my education at UNH and get my Master's in Forensic Science.  The university offered two different tracks in the graduate program, one which focused on criminalistics (lab) or advanced investigation (crime scene).  The decision was clear.  I, once again, was on a roll academically.  The decision to go after that degree also afforded me with one of the best opportunities I've ever had, an internship with the New Haven Police Department's Bureau of Identification.  I got to go to crime scenes on an almost daily basis, help search for and document evidence, help new detectives learn how to dust for fingerprints, learn how to use a 35-mm camera with manual settings, examine evidence in the lab, attend autopsies and tour the state crime lab.  It was one of the most beneficial and rewarding experiences of my entire academic career.  I was able to apply everything I had learned in my classes.

During grad school, I was also working part time at Toad's Place, a local, but legendary, venue.  Everyone from the Rolling Stones to Bob Dylan to U2 (before they made it big) had played there and the list of names (both big and up-and-coming) continued to grow.  I had started off in coat check, made my way to selling merch, working the juice bar and the front door.  A mere six months later, right around the time I was finishing grad school, I was offered a full time position in the box office.  I had always loved music (I had worked at a small club my freshman year of college and had been actively involved with my college radio station for over 5 years at that point) and loved the New Haven area so I accepted.  It was a far cry from my educational background but it seemed like it would be a great transition to the "real world."  It would allow me to stay in the area, would be enough to pay my bills, and had perks like getting to see some of my favorite bands for free.  For a while, that job and that life was exactly what I needed.

Now, as I'm 28 years old and nearing my reunion, all sorts of things have me second guessing my "success."  My current roommate is moving out when our lease is up and, thanks to student loan payments, I can't afford to live on my own.  I don't have any (reliable) potential roommates to help pick up the lease and the thought of having to take a loan from my parents to pay my rent makes me feel like much more of a failure than a success.  It doesn't help that a bunch of my friends (some my age, some younger) are at a point in their lives, and in their careers, where they're buying their own homes. 

The Internet is the worst reminder of how unsuccessful I feel.  I'm constantly seeing things that remind me that my former classmates are buying real estate, getting married, having children, and/or excelling in their chosen field.  I can't afford to rent on my own, haven't managed to hold onto a relationship for any significant amount of time (and since my last one ended my head has been a total mess), and am working (sometimes very unhappily) in a field that has nothing to do with the 6-year, expensive, education I received and am paying so dearly for each month.

I know I'm not a failure.  I have a job.  I'm not homeless.  I pay my bills on time.  I'm independent.  But with the current worries about my living situation and all the second guessing I'm doing of my career and relationships, I can't help but feel like I'm not a "success" either.  I want more than what I have now.  I want to be more financially independent.  I want to pay a mortgage as opposed to paying a landlord.  I don't want to not be able to buy something I want every now and again because it means I might not be able to buy something I need.  I want to be applying the education that I know for a fact I am capable of using, as my internship so clearly demonstrated to me.  I want a job where I feel like I'm respected at least 99% of the time and where there is room for advancement, or at least a paid sick day or two.  I want to find something that makes me happy and feel like I am flourishing at it, not just going through the motions and checking daily tasks off my list.  And I know the only way to make those things happen is to make them happen myself.  I can't just sit around waiting for good things to come to me but I'll be the first to admit I'm scared of change and even more frightened to be the one that has to initiate it.

In the meantime, instead of stressing out over what's going to possibly happen in the next few months, I'm going to try to focus on the here and now.  Taking what I have, trying to improve it and, if I can't, learning to appreciate what I've got.  After all, it's possible that the standard of "success" I've set for myself is much higher than what any of my peers had in mind back at good ol' Windsor High School.

Tattoos aren't meant for everybody and they're too goddamn good for some people.

The title of this post is a quote from Lyle Tuttle.

No, I don't want to see your tattoo.  I don't want to feign interest, nor do I want to lie and tell you it looks nice.  Is that rude?  No, just honest.  I cannot count the number of times I've been in this situation in the last 3 1/4 years.

I've always had an appreciation for tattoos and related artwork.  Long before I ever desired one of my own, in fact.  There's something about traditional American tattoos that gives me a bit of butterflies in my stomach.  Perhaps it's the nautical influence?  I grew up hearing my dad's stories from his days as a submariner in the U.S. Navy and his tales from working as a commercial fisherman.  I reveled in my mom's accounts of her childhood on the water.  Landlocked as I was, I developed a love and fascination for everything having to do with the sea.  The ships that glided over the tops of the waves, the creatures that lurked below its surface, the lore and mystical creatures that only existed in the tall tales of sailors. 

The work of Sailor Jerry and other artists brought those things to life in a whole new way.  The vessels, the anchors, the sharks...everything was so familiar but brand new at the same time.  While my taste in music, fashion, hobbies and pretty much everything else changed over time, my love for this brand of artwork remained constant.

In college, I toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo.  Of what?  A pair of chunky headphones with the cord curling into a cursive "wnhu," the call letters of my university radio station, where I was actively involved.  It would trail off and end with the large adapter that connected our headphones to the soundboard.  I loved the idea.  I loved the sketch I made; to this day it still hangs in my bedroom.  But, like most things, my feelings for the station changed over time.  The station evolved into something very different from what it was during my time there.  I'm glad I didn't follow through.

One day the thought of getting an anchor and a helm crossed my mind.  But, given my history of indecisiveness, I didn't want to jump into anything.  Three years later, I still wanted that anchor and helm with every ounce of my being.  I wanted them and I wanted them near my heart.  Why?  To me, those things were not only something I loved but, more importantly, represented something I loved: my parents.  They inspired my love of all things nautical.  They always pointed me in the right direction, guiding me to make the right choices (the helm) and always kept me grounded (the anchor).  For over three years, for more than 1095 days, my desire for those tattoos never wavered.  That's when I knew it was time to move forward.

I knew what I wanted but had no idea who I wanted to do it.  As fate might have it, I received a random friend request on myspace one day (you know, back when people still actually used myspace).  His artwork was phenomenal and totally in line with my taste.  The best part?  He was a new artist at the shop I had been pierced at a few times and absolutely loved.  We met and talked about what I wanted and then proceeded to bounce ideas back and forth online until we had just the anchor I wanted.

My first experience getting tattooed was great and I was hooked.  A few months later I was ready to get the helm done but wanted to tie the two pieces together somehow, instead of having two separate pieces floating around on my chest.  Unfortunately, Eric wasn't able to take on a full chest piece at the time but there had been a guest artist at the shop whose work I really liked.  As fate would have it, yet again, he was just starting full time at the shop and was exactly who Eric was going to suggest.

I mulled over ideas to connect the two pieces.  Did I want a scene based off the saying "red sky at night, sailor's delight.  Red sky at morning, sailor's warning," which my dad constantly used?  Did I want a treasure map?  After much internal debate, the treasure map won out.  And I'm so glad it did.  What it turned into is something so original and beautiful that I can't get enough of staring at it in the mirror, even after all this time.

Much like my chest piece, most of my tattoos are readily visible, especially during warmer months.  My lower left leg is home to an octopus attacking a clipper ship.  My left thigh holds a gypsy, the right an owl.  My left arm is nearing full sleeve status, with a lot of reminders to keep my chin up and stay positive no matter what life tosses at me.  The cat on my shoulder peeks out in pretty much anything that doesn't have a full back.  Really, the only one that's not easy to spot is the tattoo on the inside of my lip seeing as I don't go around showing it off.

 
While my tattoos are visible, and colorful, and well executed and attention-grabbing, they're for me.  I got them because I wanted them.  Because I liked loved the design.  Because I wanted to enjoy them.  As far as I'm concerned, they are not for other people.  They are not an open invitation to touch me, criticize me, talk about me while you're within earshot, and they are not an invitation to show me yours.

I honestly cannot understand the behavior of so many other people in terms of tattoos.  The people who have to (and do!) show their tattoos to anyone who glances at them or *gasp* also has a tattoo.  Those people who invade your personal space, grab your limbs, move your clothing, and touch your skin.  The people who criticize or question your value as a person.  Tattoos and, similarly, the lack thereof do not make a person who he or she is.  Sure, as I decided on tattoos, I was realizing more and more who I was as a person but that was all there before.  Getting tattooed gave me the confidence to break the girl I was out of her shell.

I'm heavily tattooed and, guess what, I'm not a delinquent.  I work between 40 and 70 hours a week; I pay my bills on time.  I have a Masters Degree in Forensic Science.  I love my family and my cat.  I help old ladies cross the street.  I give change to my homeless friend in exchange for the flowers she sells.  I recycle.  I donate clothing and household goods on a regular basis.  I don't, and never have, used drugs.

So why is it that people have basically told me that I'm going to hell, that I'm poisoning myself, and my parents must be sooo disappointed in me?

Once, while trying samples at Sam's Club with some friends, I had a vendor stop me and ask if I thought God didn't make me pretty enough.  I was caught so off guard that I couldn't respond.  I couldn't tell her I didn't believe in God and, even if I did, what I chose to do with my body was my business, not hers.  My tattoos were not affecting her in any way.  She wouldn't let up, asking me if I thought I was poisoning myself and what my parents thought.  Still in shock, I couldn't form words to tell her that the ink is perfectly safe and that my parents had grown to love my tattoos.  In fact, my dad had ended up getting two of his own: an anchor and his submarine insignia.  Clearly, my parents had not disowned me.  I was not dead.  And I was most certainly not dancing with the devil.

Since that time, I've learned to deal with the reactions of strangers and family (my uncle, tattooed as he is, doesn't approve of them on girls) but it doesn't make me any less aware of how outrageous and, often, inappropriate their behavior is, even the positive kind.

My parents taught me manners and I value and respect the concept of personal space.  I would never dream of going up to a total stranger, or even a friend for that matter, and grabbing their wrist to get a better look at their arm without asking.  Or lifting the hem of a dress to uncomfortable heights to see what was previously only partially exposed.  I wouldn't dream of pulling at someone's neckline or stroking my hands over their tattooed skin.  But that doesn't stop other people.  And it doesn't stop them from taking off their shirt, exposing a breast or their stomach, or pulling the waist of their pants down to show me theirs, either.

A shameless, underwear-less girl once pulled her skirt up in the air to show me hers on her hip.  Classy.  I have tattoos, love tattoos, but that doesn't mean I want to see your tattoos.  The funny part is, most of the people who are so showy when it comes to their work are usually the ones that have the worst ones.

Tattoos aren't for everyone.  But regardless of whether you love them or hate them, if they aren't yours, quite frankly, your opinion doesn't matter.  Mind your manners.

Certain songs, they get so scratched into our souls.

So, not to let the internet all up in my personal business, a few weeks ago I met a rather nice fellow at Toad's.  We've hung out a few times since and, at his request, I put together a CD for him with some Fences tracks since I had been singing the praises of the self-titled record but he couldn't find any of it online.  While I was burning the disc this morning, something I read years ago came to mind:

I'm never listening to music with someone i go out with ever again. When they leave the song goes with them, i can't afford to lose anymore of my jams.

That statement, written by Brace Paine (from the band Gossip), has stuck with me ever since I first read it, and not just because of the grammatical flaws. 

Back when I was still working in college radio, I won a Gossip promotion that was sponsored by Myspace and one of the promoters our station dealt with.  Part of the prize pack was this odd little typewritten book of thoughts, stories, and blurbs like this, all of which were authored by Paine.  This tiny bit of text resonated with me then and is still always lurking in the back of my mind when music and relationships become intertwined.

Why?  Because it's 100% true.

There was a time when I couldn't listen to Neutral Milk Hotel for over a year.  The sad but honest reason for that?  It was a band my boyfriend had introduced me to while we were dating and, after we broke up, it hurt me to hear those same songs that I once loved.  Every note, every lyric sung in Jeff Mangum's voice, brought memories flooding back.  They reminded me that those good times, with that specific gentleman, were over and done for.  Sure, we remained friendly but friendly wasn't what I associated those songs with; I associated them with being in love.  Being in love with him.

Music, much like images and smells, can spark memories.  We associate these types of stimuli with certain people, experiences, or times in our lives.  It's something that, as much as we may try to fight it, is fairly involuntary.  I can't hear Saves the Day without thinking of a "backseat mosh pit" on the way to the Webster or my former friend Meagan.  I can't listen to their song "You Vandal" without thinking of the weeks I spent as an exchange student in Costa Rica.  I can't even hear Bayside's name without thinking about 10 person trips to Denny's (and a waitress who didn't write anything down but only forgot one soda), Pez, Lizzie McGuire, dragging mattresses down a hall or the fact that *** was, apparently "a robot."  It's the same feeling I get when I smell a particular cologne; it still makes me think of my high school crush.  It's the same way I feel every time I walk into the coffee shop where my ex used to work.  The same pang of sadness I get when I smell Tiger Balm and think about how much I miss my grandmother.  These things all bring up memories, both good and bad.

For me, music is the ultimate stimulus.  Whether it be one song, one hook, or just the name of a band.  I've always been a music aficionado.  I've listened to it.  Written about it.  Sang along to it.  Attended a ridiculous number of shows, both small and intimate and large and crowded.  My passion for music resulted in me working at a small club my freshman year of college, being actively involved in college radio for 6 years and, then, spending more than the last 4 years working at a music venue.

Every friendship, every relationship, has always left me wondering if I was going to lose another band.  Have myself robbed of another Neutral Milk Hotel.  Shared interests are what tie a lot of us together but it also makes things difficult when those bonds come undone.  They remind us of that person, those memories, that time when everything was great.  Hearing them after is just a reminder of what we once treasured but lost.  There are certain tracks I avoid because I know there's a set of lyrics that will rip my heart out.  There are entire albums I can only listen to in certain settings.  There are concerts that delight me but also still manage to leave me with a pit in my stomach.  I don't want to lose those jams.  Not for a brief time and certainly not permanently.  If only there was an off-switch that allowed you to keep music and memories entirely separate.

A Post Secret I could have easily written (but did not).

The Hold Steady line I choose for the title of this blog post is yet another line I couldn't agree with more.  Certain songs, they get so scratched into our souls.