Year of Dave '07- Conclusion

(Y’all, I’ve read through it again, and I warn you now, it’s beyond long- beyond all reason really, where length is concerned. That said, if you’re still in, bring coffee, bring Red Bull, bring a full-bodied California Chardonnay with an aroma of pear and oak if you’re going to do this in one sitting…
Also, there is * language * and for once, it’s not $%&* out. I do, in fact, when I’m not on best behavior use * language * and it seemed right here, so just another head’s up.)

As this year starts to wind down, I’ve been thinking about our Summer of Shows. I realize most people read that one post about One Year, Ten Shows and thought “Stalker!” Those people are absolutely right, though only on the surface I think.

It’s funny how things come up, little opportunities, all the time, and so often, I, at least, have thought, “Nah, I’ll catch it next time.” Next trip, next encounter, next year, next lifetime maybe. Different reasons not to seize the moment arise. Not enough money. Not enough time. Too much fear.

In December last year, DMB announced a two-night show in Las Vegas, set for March ’07. The attempt to secure tickets as a Christmas gift for The Hubba failed. It never had a shot, really. But, even without the surprise, we did get tickets and we, in cahoots with our divine friends, the Hajeks, did go to Las Vegas in March ’07. And this trip was unlike any trip I’d ever been on before. I wrote several funny posts (I know, I flatter myself) about it, and there were lots of funny times. But there was still more in it then I was willing to admit to the worldwideweb. We met a member of Dave Matthews Band in the most beautiful moment of perfect timing you could imagine. I married the man I was already married to again and was brought up starkly to realize I loved him far, far, far more now than I ever realized possible when we first pulled that stunt in ’02. I worried about money and considered denying myself experiences because of it and then got over it. I spent time with friends who adored their son in a way that made them want to do it all over again and they changed my way of looking at that topic.

At some point, home again, The Hubba and I decided to consider Vegas the start of something bigger, to make it an event, a year of something. Not all at once, but after the Summer Tour was announced, and over about a week, the idea of seeing them five times grew to seven, to nine, and eventually to ten. We would see them ten times, we said. We decided this in April and bought tickets to nine more shows. We decided this with no idea of how to afford so many hotels, plane tickets, gas (almost as bad as plane tickets). We couldn’t know then he would be moved to a different branch, some thirty miles away, in May (this being work lingo, not some suggestion of tree-leaping on his part) or that we, too, would move in July or that I’d have two different jobs in the course of the concerts or- or- or. You know the “or’s”. All the little things that come up and you can never plan for all of them. Car difficulties, surprise weddings, hotels fully booked. I don’t think they creep up on you; I think they spring.

The thing that some of you, not privy to the many meltdowns of the past, might not know is, I’d never been a creature of change. While I am one hundred percent glad to have had the childhood I did, and I’m so appreciative of all the people involved in it doing the best they could to make sure it was a good one… I’m also pretty sure (and this is with no professional help here, so bear with me) a lot of beliefs got “set”, so to speak, in me. If I could know as much as possible in advance, control as much of that as I could, then I would be… I’m not really sure, I was little, but the word that springs to mind now is: secure. Safe. I’d be under control.

The thing about those trips? They weren’t ME. I wasn’t someone who hauled off, throwing a thousand dollars at concert tickets, no plan in sight, no idea of getting from one place to the next, or where or when or how or what might come up. At least, the ME I was didn’t do that.

That’s the thing (funny how the thing always changes huh?). That wasn’t ME anymore either. Shifts happened in my personal plates tectonics, causing, through their tiny, subtle movements over time, huge changes to the ME that I knew.

Would you call it faith? Belief? Faith The Hubba and I could sort out flight schedules, unknown subways, and bill payments? Belief hotels would be available, funds would arise, middle-of-the-night dog emergencies could be overcome?

But was there something more? More to these trips than simply the face value of travel concerns, planning and finance? I think so. Some part of me hoped or believed or knew this kind of adventure would be worth it.

Adventure. Hold that thought.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those steady, unshakeable, constant people. Stable in the face of the good and the bad. Anchored. To me that meant predictability. Staidness.

Which created a pretty strong conflict with the part of me that wanted to go out and live like it was 1999.

An author I love, Marian Keyes, once described herself as devoid of an “off button.” That statement leapt off the page; I knew exactly how she felt. In that case, Marian was applying it to her battle with alcoholism (also, maybe, her love of chocolates), but in my case, I knew my lack of an off button was bigger than that, was more.

I had these two sides, the one that wanted to see and do and taste and smell and be and have- Go! Live! Big things are happening! There was also the one who wanted me to sit down, stop wanting, balance your checkbook, vacuum, who knows what might come of that, I don’t trust you for a second, just suck it up, there are starving children in China, for God’s sake. If you’ve never experienced that push-pull, trust me, it is exactly as fun as it sounds.

The second side, the Hall Monitor side, really started to fall apart about three years ago, around the time we moved to Chicago. Mind you, I was a mess long before The Hubba’s promotion and subsequent transfer, but Good God, I did not want to let go of this life I knew and didn’t like very much at all. So I put on the best face I could for my parents and friends, and mentally pitched a fit, and drove to Chicago to find the dark house we’d bought that I’d only seen once before and was convinced was more than we could afford and I had the best break down possible for me, being someone who saw breakdowns as an off-limits game reserved strictly for life’s wusses.

Once we had a house to bring the dogs to, I got to Chicago, a month behind The Hubba, at the end of December. My fall apart lasted, fairly consistently, until March, a sort of ritual, this day OK, this day not so good, this day OH HELL, this day OK- you see the pattern. That length of time seemed about all my mental state, even with breaks of good news, like finally selling the house in Knoxville, and being with The Hubba again, could stand. Around the same time, my mom came to visit and before she left, she left me a book.

I didn’t really want to read this book, but when one is lying in bed and cannot stomach the idea of unpacking boxes into a home one doesn’t like and one is a natural-born reader and there are unread pages lying on the bedstand…

I read it. I read it and I wanted to believe it. The message, summed up, said: “Life is supposed to be good.” The idea of it, when read deeper, suggested all experiences, wanted and unwanted, coming up in your day-to-day life, are your own creation.

That’s a bitch to read when you’ve been passively going along for the last six months, a little pissed at your husband, a little pissed at your parents, a little pissed at your dogs and really mega super-huge pissed at life in general and whatever fool thought this whole thing up.

But there it was. In front of me, what was evidence enough for me, saying me and my sad mental state of affairs had brought all this about.

I tell you now, breakdowns (even mini ones, lived out in bits over a period of months) are about the best thing that can ever happen to a person. Is that just me who thinks that? I think most of us- no, wait, why get general? I know I am the kind of person who will continue to butt my head at a situation, no matter how fruitless, how painful, how trying, over and over in the hopes that this next time I will have a different result (sometime I’ll tell you about my dad’s brick analogy; it’s a classic). In this case, the wall on which I cracked my skull was: I will continue to expect the worst, I will be frustrated and agitated, I will take the lonely moral high ground of right, I will dislike and criticize and in the midst of all this something will change and I will feel better.

I know it seems like a solid plan.

And here was one book, then another, then a CD, by different folks, with no real ties to each other, saying that dull old platitude, Life is what you make it. This information absolutely falls under the general heading “Self-Help.” And there was nothing I really wanted to do more than Self-Help myself into some kind of happy. Maybe that’s not entirely true. At the time, if there’d been a genie with a magic wand, who’d promised to get rid of all my fear and doubt and worry with one little flick, I’d have taken him up on it. But he never showed, so Self-Help it was.

It is almost three years later and I write these words now and I think back on that girl, in the bed, in Chicago, and I just want to hug her neck. Thank God she broke down, Thank Buddha she gave up, Thank Vishnu she took a little help when it came to her. I never did see a professional or attempt any kind of medication (unless you count eating and that is just as easily blamed on the Chicago cold-blubber warmth idea I came up with and it never failed to amaze me how far, far more people in sub-zero Chicago, on average, were thin, than in the South, where you could sweat out five pounds just walking from your car to the Wal-Mart in July- yet I digress), but, in my eyes, opening up to the literature out there to help people was the same. It makes sense, for a cerebral bookworm like me that, put it in the pages of a book and I will believe.

There was no action I could take to change anything. There was no fixit answer I could produce, no cureall, no genie I could find to make it better. Remember the song about going on a bear hunt? We’re going on a bear hunt (going on a bear hunt), we’re gonna hunt some bears (gonna hunt some bears). Eventually, in the song, you reach a place where you can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it. You’ve got to go through it.

In my whole sticky equation the only power I had, the one step I could take in that moment, was to change the way I felt. I could sink under this avalanche of worry, fear, depression, anger. Or I could try to find one crack, one nook, one foothold in the rocks that might- might- lead to up to something else, something better.

HA! Easy. Life is hard, life is a struggle, life is liberally peppered with frustration and well salted with disappointment, maybe something good happens if you work really, really hard, save for a really, really long time, maybe the good comes when you retire, hoping you don’t die first. What easy thinking to change.

New thoughts took some time, I realized. At a Weight Watchers meeting I attended, I had a leader point out no one gained all that extra weight in a month, why expect to lose it so fast? That reasoning always struck me as darned sensible. Of course it would take time! Mind you, changing thoughts had to be faster than changing diets. These were just my thoughts; eating, now that was something important. Surely less than a month to become as bright and sunny on the inside as I tried to appear to the world on the outside shouldn’t be too hard (see above statements again for recalling about where my mental state was). One month. A whole new me.

It took a little longer. About 1,005 days so far and counting.

Yet. Those little shifts. Waking up in the morning and finding one reason the day might be salvageable. And yes, first thing in the morning, I was trying to save my day. Talk about stuck huh?

Still, thoughts came. I could cook something tasty for dinner. I’ve got a new book to read. I love my husband; maybe I won’t yell at him today. Sure I don’t have a house payment in my back pocket, but I can swing a meal right? At least it’s sunny. At least it’s started to warm up. Things can’t stay this way forever. Something’s gotta give. Hey, I love that movie! Maybe I’ll watch it.

Like I said, teeny-weeny, tiny baby steps. They did get easier though. I listened to lots of CDs, I read lots of books, I listened to more CDs (feel free to email me if you’d like some self-help pointers- I’ve pretty much got the gamut covered from Southern Baptist to people who channel to anything with Tom Hanks in it because who can’t feel better while watching TH?). I wore my mom out on the subject. She was the only person I felt comfortable talking to about this; maybe because she never said, “Just come home” and I was terrified, if one person suggested it, I’d be on the next plane to Knoxville. The Hubba lived through it too, but he worked a lot (who can blame him?) and I was so excited to see him when he got home, I tended to come out of my funk long enough for us to have a good couple hours together before bed. But mom pretty much lived the whole soundtrack, anywhere from “I hate this fucking place, I’m going to die here” to “I just took a walk, Spring is coming, maybe it’s not all disaster.” Thank all deities for the telephone and her willingness to listen. What a help it was to just get it outside of me.

All this to say, I started to feel better. Evidence didn’t necessarily pour in, proving the power of positive thinking (if you want to call it something as simple as that), but the fact I remembered what it was like to hope something good could happen was most of the evidence I needed. Sure a book deal or a million-dollar jackpot wouldn’t have hurt. But I was, over not much time at all, seeing life with a little more enthusiasm, I was writing, I was getting out and about, I even managed to go home for a week and have the startling realization, while home was beautiful and so many people I loved were there, all my crazy had never been about the place. It wasn't Chicago or Knoxville or the beach, selling shells and beads to pay for frozen drinks, an option I often considered. Wherever you took me, I would still be me. It wasn't Chicago's fault. Knoxville wasn't the answer. Talk about a humdinger.

The opportunity to move to North Carolina cropped up. We had no money, no idea how it could work out, how to sell the house, how, if The Hubba was there and I was still in Chicago, it would work out. It was an opportunity. We took it. And parts of it were brilliant and parts of it were rough. But over that fourteen month period in Chicago hope germinated inside me. Maybe life is supposed to be good. Maybe we are here for a good time. Maybe it is about the journey and the destination is the icing. Maybe.

In April this year, a little less than a year after our move from Chicago, I agreed whole-heartedly, to take a ten-concert tour with The Hubba. We struck both Vegas shows off our list and made ready for eight shows to come. Nine shows, it turns out, when you add in the Concert for Virginia Tech. In the last year, I saw DMB play in six different states, I traveled by plane three different times, I went as far west as I’ve ever been in this country, I slept in a car, I renewed my wedding vows, I saw John Mayer play my favorite song in two different states with the band, I met Oma and Opa, I saw the band play in three different time zones, I met Boyd Tinsley, I closed out the tour with my husband, with the band, on said husband’s birthday. And between all that The Hubba changed jobs, I did too, we left our old house and bought a new one.

What I realize now about that list of action, about those physical accomplishments (I use that word loosely, except for maybe where it concerns sleeping in a car- that was a physical accomplishment), what finally makes sense to me is- none of it was about the doing. It was about the idea of it. I know me well enough to know, if I honestly, on some basic level, didn’t think I could do it, I wouldn’t have gone. Which means some part of me, no matter how small, believed in me that much to say, “Yeah, alright, ten shows. Let’s do it.”

There was so much in this last year about The Hubba and I taking this adventure together. But even more than that, at the core, was ME taking this adventure at all.

Back to that word: adventure. As a noun “adventure |an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity” or as a verb “engage in hazardous and exciting activity, esp. the exploration of unknown territory.” Well, if you put it that way, I don’t know if you shouldn’t just call it Life. Maybe not life as I first thought it, life that’s meant to be controlled and molded and perfected, so nothing ever breaks, nothing moves, opportunity, another word for chance, isn’t taken. Let’s take another look.

It’s the “hazardous” bit that’s worrying, isn’t it? Yeees, I can see that now. Who wants hazardous? Maybe, sure, exciting comes with it. Unusual, that’s interesting too. Unknown territory has a certain ring to it. But… we just keep coming back to hazardous… That damned word just won’t change. Look, right there, it says it’s typical. Jesus. Forget exciting, unusual, unknown territory. Who wants that?

One word. Hazardous. One word that one person who works for the Apple laptop people decided best summed up the idea of adventure. And really, what the hell does that one person know anyway?

Maybe something. Sleeping in the front seat of a Honda Civic with a beach towel under my head for a pillow and another one as a blanket, that isn’t comfortable, that’s for sure.

However you might define it, I realize, the idea of it is starting to define me. Not as one who wants to take a big-game safari adventure in Africa. As one who’s started to realize, maybe my life, at least, doesn’t want to be kept tightly controlled, in a box that keeps the worry, the fear, those constant spooks, out. Maybe spooks, in whatever form they take- hotel in the middle of Latin America L.A., bills that haven’t gotten themselves paid yet, who knows how long we’ll even be in the house we just moved into?- are as ghostly and made of the same vapor as the name implies.

For a very, very, very long time (or as Mark Twain might suggest, a damned, damned, damned long time) I woke up every morning with my list of what to do, to make the day go by smoothly, sidestep kinks, avoid all potholes. What needs to be done? Who needs to be called? What needs to be paid? Where do I have to be? What time is it? Oh, hell, I’m already running behind. My lists soothed me; they gave me a sense of purpose, I would have said then. Now, looking back at that me, I think, God love her heart, all those lists gave her a sense of control. Talk about a spook.

These days, I take that old, dull platitude to heart. Life is what you make it. And when I wake up, I have a few thoughts like, This is going to be a great day. Oh look, it’s sunny! Or, Oh look, it’s rainy! What am I going to have for breakfast? Something tasty. The dogs can’t wait to eat; no wonder they’re rumbling around on the floor down there. I bet The Hubba’s going to have a great day. I’m really glad I can wiggle my fingers and toes. Gosh, I love having a comfy bed. I slept so well! I am really looking forward to this day. I bet something meaningful and exciting will happen.

Occasionally, those old thoughts crop up. Who needs to be called? What needs to be paid? I know how to soothe those thoughts down. I’m in bed. It’s seven thirty; no one’s there anyway. I bet I’ll call at the perfect time. I bet we’ll have a great conversation. I bet I did pay that and forgot to write it down. I bet, if I didn’t, some really kind person will help me take care of that over the phone. If I can’t do it today, I bet I can do it tomorrow.

After I get up, however I'm feeling, I'll take out my handy-dandy notebook and write down "What I Appreciate Right Now." I make lists. These lists say things like: I appreciate the great weather. I appreciate this hot tea. I appreciate my laptop. This yarn. My full head of hair. My dogs and their funny, furry faces. This beautiful home. These windows. My ability to bounce out of bed, shower, no strain, no difficulty. My health.

I do general lists every day. I have specific lists, too, lists titled Matt (who knew The Hubba had a name?), Mom, Dad, Suz, Kelly, Barkley, Georgie, Wally, Howie, Renee (both of them), Ann, Dave H., Nolan, my boss, The Hubba's boss, on and on, I have a few dozen by now and I write what I appreciate about these people all the time, little lists that have grown into long, long, long lists.

It turns out, no off button, means thoughts like these really start to build too. Suddenly, days are more fun, they are exciting, people are kind, I’m kind too, there’s time to do everything I wanted to do… and haven’t I rambled off track?

I thought I took an adventure this year. The Hubba said “all aboard?” and I hopped on the DMB train. And taking that trip led to a wild new discovery, one the girl, in the bed, in Chicago had been looking for a damned long time: it’s all an adventure. I couldn’t say for anyone else, but for me? It’s all an adventure. It is what I make it. I make it an adventure. An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity. Sometimes exploring unknown territory.

For me, there was a thrill in realizing I’m becoming the person I wanted to be. Not always. Not all at once. Slowly, over time, over the last three years, over three more and three more and three more to come. All the years before that. All the years to come.

Anchored. I am becoming anchored. Or maybe, better said, these beliefs are becoming anchored in me. Life is what you make it. I make it an adventure. So often, it is brilliant, it is moving, it is thrilling, it is delicious. And thank goodness for the hazards. The hazards perfectly sharpen my appreciation of all I have every time they crop up. It’s what I make it. The hazards show me what I don’t want and point me towards what I do want. Thank goodness for the hazards.

I don't know why, exactly, I've chosen to say so much *stuff* out into internetland. Maybe becauuse I took this little blog along for the Year of Dave ride. Maybe I'm ready to put it out there, as the saying goes. Maybe I'm just really interested to see if anyone actually reads this whoooole loooooong pooooooost. But all these thoughts, realizations, mini-hallelujahs, whatever you might call them, have been coming over me for some time and they had to be put down somewhere.

I'm still amazed to recognize my biggest year was absolutely my worst year. I am so grateful for Chicago, I would never, in a million years, trade that time there. Not for a book deal. Not for the jackpot. It's simple for me to appreciate the easy times, everyone's healthy, all the bits and pieces of the house work, my job's straightforward... Going crazy for the hard times though? Appreciating every rough time, every bad morning, every bit of the gloom and doom... That has been powerful. Mind you, I'd rather not ever go back to that place (mentally that is, Chicago is a lovely place to visit), but what I've gotten from it? Wouldn't trade it. You couldn't pry it from me with a crowbar.

And this year, a part of what I made it, was a tour around the country, watching one of the greatest bands of all time, with one of the greatest people I have the good fortune to spend so much of my life with. In all this realization of what I am, now, in myself, I am further delighted by what I’ve become in this partnership.

Five years in? Bah. If you told me five years ago how I would feel, how I could love The Hubba, and the love the world and love the people in my life and celebrate being alive, I might have laughed, because, frankly, for all my disasters and come-aparts, I was still having a pretty good time. I look at that and then try to grasp the enormity of five years to come? Damned, damned, damned exciting if you ask me.

Hazards and all.

Redneck Surround Sound

So there was a Dave Matthews Band concert this week and we didn't go. The Hubba and I agreed, one more concert and people might start to think we were a wee bit obsessive. We didn't have to go, it wasn't necessary for us to hop a plane to Jersey in the middle of the week to see the boys do a free concert at Westpoint.

Luckily the concert was broadcast over the world wide web (can I get an Amen! for the Internet?) and we were able to watch.



Instead of watching on the desktop computer (the only reason not to watch there being we are weird and prefer the complex to the simple) we decided to watch it on my laptop in the living room.

Slight problem? The laptop's sound leaves something to be desired. I might as well have Alvin and the Chipmunks stuck inside my hard drive so weak are the speakers.

Hmm. Speakers. Not a bad idea. But where would one find speakers?

(Two minutes later...)
So detach the speakers from the desktop like so... attach them to the laptop... right... looks good... except... where do we set the speakers?



Voilà! (Voy-la we might say here in the South) Who needs fancy rigging and The Best Buy when you've got an ironing board? Y'all might have ritzy education systems up north, but do you have this kind of on-your-toes, MacGyver-esque, lighting-quick thinking?

Hmmmm?


We didn't think so.

Travel Brain

We're home again and, while I feel great (what an amazing trip!), I've definitely not caught up from jet lag, time change, walking miles and miles everyday, etc., etc. I know this because I just ran the washing machine through an entire cycle without any clothes in it. (Also the spelling in this post could be truly horrendous. Either Blogger's not working properly or else I'm not clicking on "ABC" properly. Right now I'm voting for the latter and apologizing ahead of time for spelling errors.)

Until I've gotten mentally back on track, I give you: pictures.

Us on the red carpet before the premier of Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

If we hadn't had a concert that night, I absolutely would have been one of the crazed fans outside the ropes screaming "CAAAAAAAATE" as she went by. I just love her.


We spent The Hubba's birthday at Universal Studios. By the way, as I missed writing this on the day of, HAPPY BIRTHDAY HUBBA!


Scarificing himself on his birthday. What a guy.


King Kong from the latest film.


Jaws, apparently able to be in two places at once, coming at yours truly on the Universal Studios tour.


The front street of Wisteria Lane.


Remember the plane crash scene from War of the Worlds? Yeah, me either. But if you do, this is the set from it.




The boys of Apollo 13 and me.


The Hubba & Family.


From the Animal Exhibit. He was called Chip or Sam or some other such oranguntan name.


The last night of the tour.





John Mayer showed up (again!) and played on #41 (again!). He. Is. Awesome.


Stephen Marley opened for the band and then he and his brother Ziggy came out and did his dad's song "Exodous" with DMB.


Last concert of the year. Last day of the Year of Dave.


I can't quite talk about that yet.

Good Morning Los Angeles!

I do mean 'good morning.' I woke up about quarter of six and, after some fruitless flip-this-way-and-that, realized I wasn't going back to sleep. So why not blog?
We arrived in Hollywood (OK, we're next door to Hollywood, but still, pretty close) yesterday, around noon, and, first off, the time difference is nuts. Flat out nuts. Weirder than Las Vegas and lemme tell you why: in Vegas, all real life is suspended. Breakfast at four p.m., drinks at ten a.m., gambling all the time. It doesn't seem to matter where you're from- time stops being important.
Here, though, we must still adhere to normal life, i.e. lunch at nine a.m., when I would want it, or bed at eight p.m. does not make sense (not that that stopped us. We were were so exhausted yesterday, after leaving our home at four in the morning E.S.T. to get to the airport, that we came back to the room at seven last night and by eight we were both asleep- mind you, I'd been dozing since about seven fifteen).
But already, in the space of a day, we've managed to pack in, not just flying here, but a trip to Hollywood Boulevard!
Transportation was a question at the start of the trip, as we decided, with only two and a half days here (don't even ask what time we fly out Wednesday a.m.), and two concerts planned in the evening, dedicated, investigative sightseeing was pretty much out of the question. And our hotel is only a block from the subway (she says with false confidence) so why not try this whole mass transportation system and see what it's all about? We'd done it (closely supervised- thanks B&B!) in Atlanta. How hard could L.A. be?
Not bad at all is the answer (you weren't expecting that, were you? Me either). We walked to the station, hopped on, and rode straight to Hollywood/Highland.
Sidenote: Question: The first thing we do when walking out of our hotel? Answer: Run into some University of TN Vols fans. There were two women, one wearing that hard-to-miss UT orange and as we passed I (look, it's in my blood) yelled "Go VOLS!" At which they both laughed and callled back "Go VOLS!"
But they're from TN. And we're from TN. So they had barely passed, before one turned around and called over her shoulder, "Where are you from?"
To which I called back "Knoxville!"
And they called back, "Us too!"
Southern chatting commenced. They told us about some cut-rate place to shop called The Alley and gave us Tennessee-style directions on how to get to there ("it's called The Alley and you take the bus stop right up here and then you hop off at Adams-" friend cuts in "no it wasn't Adams-" "no, that's right, but it was next to that huge building with all the windows-" "that's right, and then a few streets over-" "by the gas station-" "yeah, there was a gas station-" "maybe you should just ask the busdriver"- "that's right, but it's called The Alley") and we told them we were here for two concerts and on our way to Hollywood Blvd, and pointed out our hotel behind them and they told us they were flying out that night at ten and had been there for four days and really wanted to be on The Price is Right but the show was cancelled so they saw Dr. Phil instead and then everyone exchanged social security numbers and passwords and finally parted ways, glad to have met a fellow Tennessean all the way out here in Los Angeles, California.
End Sidenote.
The subway was easy and, as we were only four stops away from Hollywood Blvd., we were there fast and we headed back up to street-level, stepped out onto the sidewalk, into a crowd of millions, it seemed, and started walking. And wondered about where Grauman's Chinese Theater was and how did we get to the Walk of Stars and if we couldn't find it today, we'd find it tomorrow, let's just look around and observe and what sounds good for dinner (at three p.m.) and- oh, look!- an outdoors shopping mall! Which we wandered around, admiring the architecture of the buildings surrounding us a little and talking about where to eat a lot, and somehow we found ourselves four flights up, looking over the street we'd just left, only for The Hubba to announce he wanted to take a picture of the building across from us.
It was here when he looked down and discovered the sidewalk we'd just left was the Walk of Stars.



How about that for dedicated and investigative sightseeing?

And one block over we found Grauman's Chinese theater and the famous hand and footprints.











For you, Knitty Yoda...


We saw the Kodak Theater, where the Oscars are filmed every year. There were people on the streets (out of work actors perhaps?) dressed up as superheroes and getting their pictures made with kids.



After about two hours of jumping around and exclaiming, we (i.e. I) realized we were to hungry to go on and so ate at the Pig n' Whistle.



Then took the subway back to our hotel rooms and, well, fell asleep.

I Am Forever Spoiled

... by our seats at our Raleigh and Charlotte concerts.

(By the by, all photos taken by a cell phone camera; security was insane and even in Raleigh, The Hubba had to sneak shots. Luckily, he had me to do lots of dramatic, arms-flailing, Stevie Wonder head-bobbing dancing to distract the nearby security guard.)

Our seats in Raleigh...

I know there's a lot of lights. I know it's a bit hard to see Dave, but note the number of heads between ourselves and the stage.

Exactly.

Our seats in Charlotte...

See the large fellow in the stripey shirt? That's Rashawn Ross, the band's trumpet player. I love Rashawn Ross. I might have yelled this one or twelve times.

These were not our seats originally. We had good seats, but our fantastic friends had better and due to work and babies on the way and what-not, couldn't come. So we sold our tickets and bought theirs and they sent us surprisingly generous well wishes for a great concert. And, yes, we will be giving them our first-born child, if asked.

So, thanks to them, at both concerts we were to the right of the stage (LeRoi side, if you're a Dave fan), three rows back.

For once, I finally understood why fans try to jump on stage. I've always thought they were weirdos, until I found myself so close and seized with the idea "Just one quick jump- and around that mountain of a man- and I might touch LeRoi before I'm hauled off to prison. Is it worth it...?"

During Robert Earl Keene

Dave came out and watched the show. He's the one in the dark shirt next to the sound guy. If I was ever thisclose to rushing the stage... But then I would have missed the concert, what with being arrested and all that.

Of course...


classic cheese shot.

How do you come back from such seats? How do you ever settle for thirty rows back, even center-stage, these days? I don't know how I'll handle our *normal* seats in Hollywood.

Also, and totally off subject, a member of the Knitter family- Pops and Suz Knitter's dog- is having some pretty dramatic surgery today (What do Paris Hilton dogs do after too many fashion shows? Develop anorexia. What do Knitter dogs do, after too much football? Tear their ACL.). So if you're someone who would spare a moment over a much beloved four-legged fur friend, please send some good thoughts or ask whoever or whatever you ask for an easy, simple surgery for Bear and a quick recovery. He's such a lovely dog.

And Then There Were Four...

We have Raleigh tonight and Charlotte tomorrow. Hope (if you wouldn't mind) for a spectacular concert, including "Lie in Our Graves."

Only four shows left! I can't quite figure out how that happened...

Don't Worry 'Bout a Thing... A Mixed-Up, Jumbled Recollection of Two Great Concerts (Part Two: An Emphasis on Bathrooms and, Folks, It's a Long'un)

The Green Concert, Saturday, 9.08.07

Well, maybe I exaggerated a tad about The Allman Brothers. Clearly, those who were always dead still are. Sorry if I got anyone's hopes up.

But I'm getting ahead of my story.

An important understanding to have of this concert is that it was, as the title suggested, Green. I suspect, unless you're living under the diesel engine of a Ford F-150, you're probably already familiar with the term. There was no parking for this concert, the idea being you should bike, walk, or take public transportation and when friends of Mum Knitter offered to have us we jumped at it, as much for guidance on navigating Atlanta's public transportation system, as for the free board and good company.

And guide us they did! I recommend- highly- if you ever go to Atlanta stay with Barbara and Bill! They are PHENOMENAL. They're the kind of adults I want to be when I grow up: organized, efficient, easy-going, with a gorgeous house and no clutter or dog hair tumbleweeds in sight.

Sidenote: I realize I'll never be without the dog hair tumbleweeds and I'm alright with that. But the idea of a living room that doesn't have pieces of clothing laying around it- baseball hat, pair of socks, tie, pair of shorts- in The Hubba's continual "live and let undress wherever the feeling strikes you" attitude-, half-drunk mugs of tea on every smooth surface (mine) or a huge corner of knit-gear (also mine)- that is an exciting prospect.

Back to our story. Stay with B & B. We walked in (late) Saturday afternoon and this warm, welcoming, prior-to-jail Martha Stewart task force descended. Barbara had lunch ready, Bill had already printed a map of the local MARTA station (with neatly written directions across the bottom of it), Barbara had a quilt for us to sit on, Bill informed us they'd be dropping us off within blocks of the concert, Barbara (on discovering we'd sailed into town with no cash and planned to find an ATM once we were in the concert park) thrust bills into my hands, and Bill told us to call when we reached MARTA on the way home as they'd come pick us up. Exactly the sort of parents we all thought we should have, the drop-you-where-you-want, pick-you-up-when-you're-ready, here's-some-cash, don't-worry-about-calling-we're-on-your-schedule-type parents. I had to risk the urge to ask to stay and did I really have to go to school on Monday?

Due to the Green concert, traffic was a dream and B & B were able to drop us within a few blocks of Piedmont Park's front gates. And off we set.

Now The Hubba and I couldn't fathom what a 50,000 people concert would look like. We'd bandied about some ideas, prided ourselves on being UT-football-graduates who could easily maneuver a crowd of 106,000, and held up our thinking-head-blanket (thanks Barbara!) with pride. This concert would be easy-peasey.




The Hubba and I, sometimes, can be a little stupid.

I won't try to describe the chaos of a general admission concert, a pull-up-a-piece-of-grass-watch-that-beer-can concert, an only 150 Porta-Potties for 50,000 people concert. Simply put, it was chaos.

We did find a piece of grass that gave us a good view of the stage (or at least the two jumbo-trons on each side of the stage) and were able to spread out and sit comfortably. Which was fantastic, especially as more people piled in and grass (the green, ground kind at least) quickly disappeared.

Life was pretty tame during the Allman Brothers. People were randomly paying attention, clustered in groups on blankets, drinking, or standing around talking, and drinking, and occasionally shouting song lyrics at the stage, sort of a "how's that job coming- great, great, I'm taking a new yoga- I'VE GOT ONE MORE SILVER DOLLAR- yeah, kids are great.."

The Hubba and I stayed on our blanket- drink free- and watched those around slowly, and sometimes quickly, getting very, very drunk.

Sidenote: I don't know how they did. You remember "only 150 Porta-Potties for 50,000 people"? I got up once, walked past several food and drinks stands that were packed with people and, after much searching (immediate hint bathrooms would be a problem), found two. Approximately 100 people were in line. Turned right around, went back to the blanket (able to locate The Hubba quickly and easily due to his baseball cap- thank God for UT orange!) sat down and told him, "We cannot eat or drink a thing while we are here. Trust me on this one."

Where were we, in this Rambling Man post? Ah. Allman Brothers. They went off and as soon as it was dark, DMB came on. And if you thought a lawn of 50,000 people was interesting in the day, you should have seen it at night. Now there were lots of lights on stage and lights being directed at the stage. But when you're very, very, (and by now) very drunk, bits of colorful light here and there only makes a thing more difficult.

As our neighbors soon discovered. And here's where I thought, instead of going on and on about the music (which can't be interesting unless you're a DMB fan and if you're a DMB fan you, along with us and 49,997 other people were probably there) I'd go on and on about the happenings around us.

So.

As the Allman Brothers play: Everyone around us drinks. Hard. People smoke, some substances legal, some not. A group of six adults to our left, all about my parents' age and looking like nice, well-to-do folks, probably stockbrokers and CEO's in their spare time, are really drinking.

As Dave comes on: some fella behind us curls up on his blanket, and falls asleep. Another way to say this would be "passes out." His party, realizing he's still breathing, put a hat on him, stick a cigarette in his mouth, take pictures, then remove it all and start cheering as the band comes out on stage.

As the band opens up with One Sweet World: The Hubba and I grin foolishly at the (also totally sober) couple next to us, all of us glad to be there.

Two songs in: one of the fellows from the CEO group, two new beers in his hand, wanders straight past his group. I catch his attention and direct him back to his party, who are all dancing, except for one guy sitting on the blanket, who falls over.

Five songs in: "Don't Drink the Water" starts. Next to us, a small, wiry guy in glasses starts doing Tai Chi. Seriously.

Seven songs in: Passed-out-guy-on-blanket wakes up. His friends laugh at him some more. Someone gives him food.

Ten songs in: Greg Allman comes out and plays "Melissa" with the band. It. Is. Awesome. A couple in the CEO crowd start to shag-dance and, being fairly sober now, dance very well.

Eleven songs in: Tai Chi guy, clearly stoned out of his mind, has managed to dance his way into the crowd, comes back and walks straight past his friends. His girlfriend calls him back and he thanks her as though they've just completed a transaction at a bank teller.

Twelve songs in: They play "Dreaming Tree," a real rarity. We sit and listen and notice formerly passed-out-behind-us-guy is now in front of us and has a beer in hand.

Thirteen songs in: Another CEO couple decide they too want to dance. They are easily the most intoxicated of the group. Wild arm flailing and vague jumping around commences. The Hubba and I take to moving, too, to avoid being struck in the face or knocked over from their exuberance.

Last song of the set: Large groups of people start to lurch away, either wanting to be the first to MARTA or else too drunk to realize the encore has yet to happen.

Encore: Awesome ending, including "Watchtower." The drunk dancing around us reaches a new frenzy, where recently-incapacitated guy is now hurling himself around amongst his buddies, Bud sloshing everywhere, while too-drunk-too-coordinate couple are jumping around so enthusiastically he repeatedly sends her spinning off into the crowd, only to dance by himself while she makes her way back.

Concert ends. It was a great one. The thirty-five thousand people still left spill out into the streets of Atlanta. It appears we are marching for something, but what that would be I don't know. More Dave Matthews? Cheaper Miller Lite? Who knows. As long as everyone was having a pleasant evening (and we were) the purpose of the concert was served. We followed the crowd and hoped there were enough remaining brain cells among them to lead us to the subway.

While I'm happy to say, Dave concerts are rarely this wild, it was fun to witness one. Once.

And for anyone wondering, Bill's MARTA instructions were perfect. We took the correct trains and when we arrived at our final station, B & B were waiting to pick us up.

And UT beat Southern Miss.

What a day.

Don't Worry 'Bout a Thing... A Mixed-Up, Jumbled Recollection of Two Great Concerts (Part One)

A Concert for Virginia Tech, Thursday, 9.06.07
I can think of a few times I've been really wrong in life. Predicting Titanic would be a huge flop springs to mind. On the heels of that would be thinking this concert, planned suddenly, mid-tour, would be less than impressive, disorganized, too crowded, full of college kids who didn't care and adults who didn't know. (I'm not proud of these thoughts, by the way, but they are what they are.)

Not so much. Not even a little. I might say, at this moment, THIS was our best concert of the year.

A few aspects or moments that made up the incredible whole in no particular order?

John Mayer, as the last of the opening acts. (If you're interested in some great white guy blues, play "Gravity" on this page- probably the best thing he's done.) He especially thrilled this DMB's fans heart, when he brought out LeRoi Moore to play with him on said song.

The many, many times throughout the night, when the kids around us started chanting "Let's Go Hokies." Chant isn't the right word. It was a rally cry, one half the crowd calling out "Let's go" and the other half responding "Ho-kies." They would start it, between artists, between songs, leaving the stadium. The word for that spirit, I think, would be "indomitable."

I've only recently grown fond of Mr. Mayer, but, in true Knitter fashion, when I fall, I fall hard and I'm crazy about him these days. So imagine my delight when Dave leaned up to the microphone and rasped, "I'm gonna ask John Mayer to come and join us for a song " and out came out John Mayer, again, to play with the band. And even better when The Hubba, call it intuition, call it second-sight, call it movie-gut, leaned up and said, '"It's #41. He's gonna play on #41." #41 happens to fight for top spot as my favorite DMB song. It's the pinnacle song to hear live (for me) and I've only had it one time this year. Until Thursday. I've now seen it played twice, once featuring John Mayer. And it was awesome, as in "extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear." At the end of the song, John Mayer held up his guitar to Dave, then laid it on the stage in front of him and walked off. My God, I love musicians.

Best of the night came towards the end, in a tune DMB has said was totally impromptu. David Ryan Harris, a friend of Dave's and John Mayer's and an amazing guitarist in his own right, came out and played on "Jimi Thing." Mr. Harris, having been given complete control of the song, led the band into Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds." Dave, looking delighted, started to sing the lyrics. It's such a short, funny little song that packs a punch. It's probably my favorite Bob Marley tune. It's the song I put on when anxiety wants to take over my brain and I can't find a better thought. It's probably one of the most uplifting songs ever written.

As Dave sang, people started to sing the refrain along with him and then, after the band stopped playing, the crowd kept singing. For several minutes, all the voices of the people of Virginia Tech and the few, such as The Hubba and I, who lucked our way in, were raised. Don't worry. 'Bout a thing. 'Cause every little thing. Is gonna be alright.

You know those moments when you think your skin and bones just have to fall off, there's no way a body can possibly contain so much emotion? The feeling that your whole physical presence might disappear in the face of so much joy? I've found those moments all over the place, from the teeny-tiniest seconds of driving a car on a sunny, spring day to the news of a friend's new baby- the scope for such times is incredible.

And the Concert for Virginia Tech was one of those nights. Moment after moment, wave after wave of ineffable joy, culminating in 40,000 people singing: Don't worry. 'Bout a thing. 'Cause every little thing. Is gonna be alright.

Dave turned to the other band members and, on the jumbo-screen television, you could see him say, "this is bad-ass." He might not be eloquent, but he's accurate.

At the end of the night, all seven members of the band came out, put their arms around each others shoulders, and bowed, something I've never seen them do. The crowd, in return, chanted, "Thank you Dave."

Thank you Dave. And thank you Virginia Tech. And, especially, thank you Hubba. It was the ideal birthday gift.

Part Two coming soon... Hotlanta, the Hubba and I, Or, Good News, The Allman Brothers Are Still Alive!

Sugar High

Talk about birthday festivities. When I think it can't get any better "it just keeps gettin' betta" to quote the man himself.

My birthday kicked off last weekend with the most spectacular birthday cake brought by Mum Knitter. It was such a thing of beauty that, as the digital camera was not on hand, I had to catch a shot of it with my camera phone.



This cake isn't just stunning; it holds a special place in the hearts of the Knitter household. This cake, in fact, is the exact same cake we had at our wedding almost five years ago. Though, of course, considerably smaller. I realize, as far as wedding cake goes, no one gets too jazzed. All that white overly-sugared icing with bland dry white cake. Au contraire, mi amigos, not so with this cake. Remember when Coke wanted to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony and subsequently buy everyone in the world a particular soft drink? Well, if I could send a piece of this cake to every person who reads this blog, I'd think my duty to my fellow man fulfilled. That is how delicious this cake is. It's a strawberry short cake-cake, with chunks of real strawberries and buttercream icing. FAWWWW. The bakery is in Knoxville, Magpies and if you've got a few minutes to look at Cake as Art you should check out their site.

As far as gifts my knitter parents went out of their way. In an attempt to help the dogs "get theirs" so to speak, Pops and Suz Knitter and Mum Knitter all clubbed together with money towards a fence. The dogs, they thank you.

On top of which, Mum Knitter created the most stunning teapot, her first teapot potting attempt ever. I give you two gorgeous tea pots:




But wait! There's'Ginzu Knives.

The Hubba was out of town for my birthday and so insisted on holding off on his gifts until this weekend. Having just opened the cards, I say this now: if he only gave me the cards, it would have been enough.

We have Optimus Prime, wishing me all the best:




Note in the left-hand corner where The Hubba doctored the "ultra-cool 4 year old" to call me "an ultra-cool 27 year old." Thoughtful!

And in this card was a gift certificate for KnitPicks. Ha!

But perhaps the best of the two came from the dogs.




Is there anything better than muppets mixed with tattoos? I think not.

And inside the muppets card came this:



The big finale, the coup d'état, the last "we're definitely coming home with a restraining order against us" hurrah- tickets to see Dave Matthews Band (along with John Mayer and some other folks) do a tribute performance at Virginia Tech this Thursday night. I assure you, we are beyond redemption.

Coincidentally, "Redemption Song" is a Bob Marley tune Dave covered a few times. I'm just sayin'.

Day 3, 4, & 5, With Some Light Espionage

After our exciting first few days, I expected more adventure. Instead, we had several sunny, easy, lazy days.


I had been dozing, opened my eyes to see this guy and before I could consider the stupidity of my words, I asked The Hubba: "Does he have a vacuum?"


Does Jack Sparrow look worryingly close to those swimmers?


Surly pigeons or seagulls or whatever these seabirds were. They were fearless, with the attitude of a waddling Tony Soprano and they went wherever the hell they wanted. The woman next to us hurling Cheetos at them didn't help.





Some spectacular sand castles and designs.


Two happy, slightly sunburned people who slept in an actual hotel last night. Hooray!

And then- DMB Concert, Part Two.

The most exciting part of Concert Two (besides the amazing concert itself) is that we have pictures of it! Yes we do, though cameras are strictly prohibited at any Dave concert. The fact it says "No Cameras or Videos" smack dab in the middle of the ticket makes it harder to prove ignorance if caught with said contraband.

Not that this stopped us. No siree, I hid the camera in one of the zippered pockets of my bag and on to the show we went.

I'm pathetic when it comes to rule breaking. A Nervous Nelly it might be said, terrified of the long hand of the law and were there anyway to hide the camera on The Hubba, I would have. Sadly, security does a pretty thorough pat down prior to admittance and there was no way, regardless of Hubba's insistence they might think it was "part of my muscular calves" security could mistake the camera in his pockets for something innocent. So into my bag it went.

At the gates of the concert, I noticed this security was not the lax crew of three nights ago. They were patting and they were searching. In the first line I saw, the woman checking bags was up to her elbow's in some girl's purse. My zippered pocket ruse was not clever enough to pass such rigorous inspection.

Into another line I went, this time picking a young man who, when I got up to him, blanched at the idea of patting me down and instead only asked me to open my bag. Which I did, happily opening the unimportant pockets wide and letting him freely root around.

And then I was in. That was it. One second, outside the concert gates, a regular citizen, the next minute, inside the pavilion with the smoky mystique of an undercover agent. Its Bond. Jane Bond.


On the big TVs, left to right, you see: Toots Hibbert, a special guest from the opening act; Dave Matthews; and our good friend, Boyd Tinsley.


Hello LeRoi Moore!


Thank you to the woman who risked life, limb, and, worst of all, being kicked out of the show to take our picture! Much appreciation.


Without the TVs, it's teeny-tiny Dave.


I luff this band.