On A Lighter Note

  I went to the Popped! Festival Saturday lineup at Drexel University. Thanks are due to Y-Rock On XPN, and the woman who emailed their contest before me, and then couldn't attend.

  I give the performers a score of 64 out of 73. Crystal Castles wasn't my cup of tea, but the acts were uniformly energetic and engaged with the crowd. They were mostly well-mixed too, with a minimum of vocals drowned out by instruments.

  I have to give the festival itself a less-impressive 18 out of 25. Although the stage set-up (taking over 33rd Street north of Market) was interesting and well thought-out, there were other details that were wanting.

  My biggest complaint was the policy barring re-entry. I understand that concession sales are necessary, but forcing us to stay in a two-square block radius for the planned eight-hour show, with three dollar water and eight dollar wraps as sustenance, was a tad frustrating. It was compounded by the fact that there was no notice of the policy. I didn't find out until after I'd gone in, and I was a little cheesed. After a few other people were similarly caught, they finally broke out the markers and scrap paper to make some handwritten signs, which would have been handier if they'd not been put up two hours after the gates opened.

  There also seemed to be some disconnect between the yellow-shirted event staff and the grey-clad volunteers. Questions asked sometimes got different answers depending on the color of shirt worn by the answer-giver. That kind of lack of uniformity always grates on me.

  Since I was there for free, I maintained a civil tongue. Through some clever wrangling, I managed to stay in the shade all day, whilst still being able to see the stage. All in all, it was a pretty good day, and I learned something valuable about myself.

  I should never go to concerts.

  I'm too self-conscious to dance, too spindly to mosh, and too concerned about hearing loss to get close enough to the stage to really connect with the performers. I wind up isolated in a crowd of people, feeling like I'm wearing the world's biggest pair of headphones. Instead of getting engaged by the music, I become hyper-aware of bumping into people, or sweating too much, or unexpectedly running into someone I know, and having to exchange awkward greetings over the din.

  So the takeaway message is this. The Popped! Festival was fun. I am not so fun. From now on, I think I'll stick to my public radio podcasts. Somehow, I doubt the scene kids will notice I'm gone.

Caffiend 6/10/2008

  I haven't been writing about my battles with caffeine (and empty calories) lately because there hasn't been anything to report. I'm sure a better writer could have made almost two weeks of nothing into something interesting. Maybe made a point about how mundane struggles and small, uninspiring moments eventually add up to a life story. If only I was one of those "talented" people you hear so much about.

  Like I said, it was a whole lot of nothing. There weren't any inspiring victories. I didn't manage to climb a mountain, cure Cancer, or completely kick the soda habit. I cut down a good deal, but it wasn't anybody's idea of cold turkey. My poultry products were lukewarm at best.

  Unfortunately (for narrative purposes, anyway), there also weren't any dramatic reversals. I didn't wake up in the doorway of an abandoned theater with an empty three-liter bottle of store brand cola jammed up my ass and a two day hole in my memory. I didn't knock over a delivery truck, drive it out onto the desert and snort soda syrup until I induced diabetes. I had a couple of cans here and there, but I didn't fall back into my old (two weeks ago) soda-drinkin' ways.

  Until yesterday.

  A few days of hot, swampy Philadelphia weather, a noisy window air conditioner and some stress-related aches and pains conspired to keep me from sleeping very well. I survived all weekend on grape juice and water, but coming back to work on Monday was the (really badass) straw that took out a 10 pound sledgehammer and pulverized the camel's spine. I fell off the wagon. Into a ravine. Where I promptly drowned in a river of high fructose corn syrup.

  As we speak, I am draining the last drops of a fountain soda that I got with my routine sandwich. The neglected sweet sensors in my tongue are buzzing with excitement, as I've kept them at speed for about 24 hours now. I have to convince myself that this is a temporary setback, rather than proof that I'm too weak to change even this small facet of my (shallow as a pond in a drought) character.

  Crap. I just realized that this actually is the most interesting thing happening in my brainpuddings right now. How sad.

Spotted On A Sweltering June Day:

  Two boys, alike enough to be brothers, approximately 10 and 12 years old, respectively. Both of them were built like a "before" picture on an ad for some fad diet. Big, round bellies had completely engulfed the waistlines of their shorts; slabs of boy-breast that would have failed the pencil test even if a small dog were substituted for a trusty #2.

  How does that happen? Is there not a single adult in their lives that thinks "maybe these boys shouldn't need training bras?"