Hi, Henshaw.
I’m not dead. Just at the start of a very active summer here in Beachtown. Some highlights.
This week, I am busybusybusy, pitching stories to magazines and radio shows and interviewing embalmers and such for The Book. It feels good to be so busy.
Much more fun.
I took a break from all this on Tuesday to drive all the way over the Chapel Hill to see X, one of my favorite bands ever, ever, ever. It was a reunion tour without that irritating reunion tour feel. Really, it was tight and energized and lurvely.
I don’t have any friends here in Beachtown who like X, so I went alone, but that fact actually felt like a perk. The drive was great and it was great too, to revel in my nerdy fandom rather than having to explain anything to anyone or worry about someone else’s good time. Instead, it was me and the rest of the crowd, mostly male, future versions of me: 50-ish dudes in black-rimmed glasses who had come alone, a few with girlfriends/wives, and at least one with a little girl who was probably eight or nine.
It was glorious. The goofy quirk being, of course, Billy Zoom, the band’s platinum blonde legendary guitarist. One of my favorite things about Billy Zoom is that, in reaction to the bullshit GuitarFace that a lot of '70s musicians were known for, he plays--these uniquely difficult and weird guitar parts--without ever looking at his hands, and just standing stock-still, grinning.
He's also known for turning this grin on individuals in the crowd. Staring, especially, at ladies. (And it's not just me.)
I’d somehow forgotten this. Maybe it was because last time I saw X I was clearly there with a boyfriend and this time around, I was clearly there sola.
I’d parked myself between Exene and John Doe, but Billy Zoom, down at the other end of the stage there at the Cradle, took a turn gazing into the eyes of every chica near the front of the stage, leering/grinning and grinning/leering. And part of me’s all like, you know: we were all standing there staring at him; why shouldn’t he have a turn? But then part of me feels fucking odd when I’m dancing my arse off like a fool and singing along with Exene and she’s got her eyes squeezed shut into her mic a foot in front of me, but Billy Zoom’s closer, leaning over the monitor singing straight back at me with a trace of that trademark mockery of his. I want to be like, Dude, Exene, do something about this. But even punk rock royalty can do nothing about other punk rock royalty.
And all worth it. And all worth it.
Tourist in your (Ghost)town.
Last weekend, Marshall visited so we decided to be tourists.
We went to the beach, something I never do here by myself, and we went on a walking ghost tour. The confusingly pirate-y dressed tour guide started off the tour by warning us that, in addition to ghost stories, there would also be some history. For this, she apologized. It was unavoidable.
This was especially funny because we had decided on the ghost tour mainly because we couldn’t afford any of the town’s fancy historical tours, most of which require eclectic transportation forms, like horse-drawn carriages, houseboats and double-decker busses. Mostly, I guess, because it’s old people who actually go for this sort of entertainment, not kids under 40 like me.
At any rate, learning about the history of Beachtown through half-bullshat stories was our only way.
Some fact-ishes we picked up: 1. A dueling ground here in town left disgruntled ghosts right and left and 2. Our wonder-of-1970s-archetecture library is also haunted by a racist asshole from the 1800s.
One awesome woman in our tour group (not me) kept things lively by frequently shouting things like, “I want to stay one night in that haunted house! I would pay them money!” Another awesome woman (not not me) kept things lively by remarking loudly, “That’s true!” when the pirate-guide announced that, in addition to housing a lively ghost, one particular house on the tour is also the home of a very friendly cat. This house was the house next door to the house where I started out here in Beachtown, see. So I knew.
Marshall said it sounded like maybe I was a plant on the tour. Oh, well. It was a nice cat. No lie.
I’m not dead. Just at the start of a very active summer here in Beachtown. Some highlights.
This week, I am busybusybusy, pitching stories to magazines and radio shows and interviewing embalmers and such for The Book. It feels good to be so busy.
Much more fun.
I took a break from all this on Tuesday to drive all the way over the Chapel Hill to see X, one of my favorite bands ever, ever, ever. It was a reunion tour without that irritating reunion tour feel. Really, it was tight and energized and lurvely.
I don’t have any friends here in Beachtown who like X, so I went alone, but that fact actually felt like a perk. The drive was great and it was great too, to revel in my nerdy fandom rather than having to explain anything to anyone or worry about someone else’s good time. Instead, it was me and the rest of the crowd, mostly male, future versions of me: 50-ish dudes in black-rimmed glasses who had come alone, a few with girlfriends/wives, and at least one with a little girl who was probably eight or nine.
It was glorious. The goofy quirk being, of course, Billy Zoom, the band’s platinum blonde legendary guitarist. One of my favorite things about Billy Zoom is that, in reaction to the bullshit GuitarFace that a lot of '70s musicians were known for, he plays--these uniquely difficult and weird guitar parts--without ever looking at his hands, and just standing stock-still, grinning.
He's also known for turning this grin on individuals in the crowd. Staring, especially, at ladies. (And it's not just me.)
I’d somehow forgotten this. Maybe it was because last time I saw X I was clearly there with a boyfriend and this time around, I was clearly there sola.
I’d parked myself between Exene and John Doe, but Billy Zoom, down at the other end of the stage there at the Cradle, took a turn gazing into the eyes of every chica near the front of the stage, leering/grinning and grinning/leering. And part of me’s all like, you know: we were all standing there staring at him; why shouldn’t he have a turn? But then part of me feels fucking odd when I’m dancing my arse off like a fool and singing along with Exene and she’s got her eyes squeezed shut into her mic a foot in front of me, but Billy Zoom’s closer, leaning over the monitor singing straight back at me with a trace of that trademark mockery of his. I want to be like, Dude, Exene, do something about this. But even punk rock royalty can do nothing about other punk rock royalty.
And all worth it. And all worth it.
Tourist in your (Ghost)town.
Last weekend, Marshall visited so we decided to be tourists.
We went to the beach, something I never do here by myself, and we went on a walking ghost tour. The confusingly pirate-y dressed tour guide started off the tour by warning us that, in addition to ghost stories, there would also be some history. For this, she apologized. It was unavoidable.
This was especially funny because we had decided on the ghost tour mainly because we couldn’t afford any of the town’s fancy historical tours, most of which require eclectic transportation forms, like horse-drawn carriages, houseboats and double-decker busses. Mostly, I guess, because it’s old people who actually go for this sort of entertainment, not kids under 40 like me.
At any rate, learning about the history of Beachtown through half-bullshat stories was our only way.
Some fact-ishes we picked up: 1. A dueling ground here in town left disgruntled ghosts right and left and 2. Our wonder-of-1970s-archetecture library is also haunted by a racist asshole from the 1800s.
One awesome woman in our tour group (not me) kept things lively by frequently shouting things like, “I want to stay one night in that haunted house! I would pay them money!” Another awesome woman (not not me) kept things lively by remarking loudly, “That’s true!” when the pirate-guide announced that, in addition to housing a lively ghost, one particular house on the tour is also the home of a very friendly cat. This house was the house next door to the house where I started out here in Beachtown, see. So I knew.
Marshall said it sounded like maybe I was a plant on the tour. Oh, well. It was a nice cat. No lie.
posted by Alice at 1:23 PM
1 Comments:
For what it's worth, the little boat trips from the end of Market Street on the Captain Moffett are only $11 and one of the best touristic things I ever did there (actually, I did it three times due to various visiting family members). The jokes are delightfully corny and the view from the river on a nice day is unbeatable.
Never did the ghost tour, but wanted to. I'm envious!
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