When Sarah set up this site, and eventually gave me the password to post, one thing we both vowed not to do was have a back and forth between us on any subject matter. If there is anything more boring than watching a couple bicker (notice how James Carville and Mary Matalin's tiring act has worn thin) it's reading them do it on a blog. But in a post yesterday she went too far and I could not look at myself in the mirror if I didn't respond.
SHE HATED A BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERT!!!!!!!!
While you're at it, why not despise motherhood and apple pie as well? The man gave us everything he had while playing for THREE hours. He played songs from every album he ever recorded with the E Street Band, took requests (even having Max Weinberg sing a song) and did it with so much joy and energy you felt like you were at the party at "Mary's Place."
Well apparently that wasn't good enough for Sarah. Was the mix too loud and a little muddy? Perhaps, but this was a rock and roll concert, not a chamber music recital. Did he sing everyone's favorite song? If you're not a lifelong fan of "The Boss" (and even if you are) there are going to be some unfamiliar songs as he has compiled a huge catalog over the last 30 years, but that's what you get at a Springsteen concert. IT WAS A GREAT SHOW. The only downside for me (outside of knowing my wife was wandering around the arena cursing me underneath her breath) was seeing Clarence Clemons moving around the stage like a 67-year-old man, while the rest of the band acted as if they had turned back the clock.
As for Sarah and myself, I currently am brushing up on my Italian, grand jetes and salchows because as penitence for the transgression of bringing her to this incredible concert, I have been informed that I must accompany my wife to an opera, ballet and figure skating show.
It could have been much worse. For awhile she was insisting that we take Elijah to the circus, even though he has no interest in animals and I can't stand clowns. So instead of ten midgets in greasepaint cramming into a VW bug, I'll be watching Sasha Cohen glide across the ice.
And, most importantly, I got to see Bruce sing Rosalita live one more time.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Not afraid to badmouth the Boss
So, last night I attended my first indoor rock concert in 13 years -- the final night of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band's Magic tour.
According to my newspaper's rock critic, whose review you can read here, the Boss "played nearly 30 songs and delivered many moments of joy and transcendence, including an encore for the ages."
This is why I am not a rock critic.
I like Springsteen, I really do. His music was a big part of the soundtrack for my high school and college years, although I must admit I sort of lost track of his career for several years until I married Jeff, who, like about half of the male baby boomer population of America, is a walking Springsteen encyclopedia. Over the 12 years of our marriage, I have become (not always voluntarily) re-acquainted with the Boss, so I was actually kind of looking forward to this concert.
Let me apologize right here to the three co-workers whose schedules were upended -- including one who came in on his day off -- so that I could attend this concert on a night I was supposed to be at work.
I hated it. Hated, hated HATED IT.
For starters, it got under way nearly an hour and a half late, on a Sunday night at that. Note to Bruce's manager and Kansas City's Sprint Center: Many people actually have real jobs that require them to be somewhere fairly early on Monday mornings. The acoustics at the less-than-year-old, supposedly state-of-the-art venue were atrocious. Second note to Bruce's manager and the Sprint Center: Many people actually have relatively acute hearing and don't particularly care for the eardrum-splitting pain that accompanied last night's "moments of joy and transcendence."
To save my ears and my sanity, I was reduced to roaming the concourses for much of the three-hour show, while Jeff and his baby-boomer cohorts (all of whose hearing was destroyed somewhere between Woodstock and We are the World) screamed and stomped and sang their hearts out.
You may not be aware of this, but a lot of drama takes place in the concourses of arenas during concerts. I witnessed at least one tearful breakup, one medical emergency and countless pitched disputes involving couples who apparently disagreed on the merits of attending a Springsteen show. Plus, I ran into a co-worker and spent 45 minutes or so getting caught up on industry-related gossip, so it was not a total loss (although, as an aside, I'm afraid my industry IS a total loss).
I even took a stroll outside the building for a while -- an excursion that was apparently so unprecedented that it took three arena security staffers to OK my exit with a promise that I show my ticket at the exact same door, to the exact same person, when I wanted to return. They simply couldn't understand why I wanted to leave, unless it was to smoke, so they tried to point me toward the gated-in area where the puffing pariahs were corralled. (I was reminded of an old Far Side cartoon in which a family is visiting the zoo and looking at an exhibit of shirtless, tattooed, overweight people puffing away on cigarettes in their cage. The sign on the cage: "Riff-raff.")
My little stroll brings me to another note to the Springsteen road crew and managers: Do you really need to have all seven of your motorcoach buses idling outside the concert venues for hour after hour while the show goes on, spewing greenhouse gases and pollutants into the atmosphere? Didn't I read somewhere that Bruce, who is rumored to be the opening act for Barack Obama at this week's Democratic convention, is concerned about environmental issues? Perhaps I was just hallucinating.
Lest you think I am a square, sheltered, overly sensitive middle-aged suburban mom who just can't handle a fun night out (well, OK, that's exactly what I am, but that's not the point here), please read some of the comments posted on the review I linked to above. I am far from the only one upset about last night's experience. And Jeff reported to me at 7 a.m. this morning (when my ears will still ringing), that one of our local Web sites for moms also was abuzz with some pretty unpleasant comments about the whole situation. (And no, I have no idea why Jeff reads our local mom site, at 7 a.m., no less.)
In looking back on it, I'm really not sure what annoyed me more: The late start, the horrible sound, or the money we ended up shelling out for the experience. You may recall from an earlier post that Jeff won the tickets, but once you calculate the nearly $100 we spent on baby-sitting ($12 an hour is what our sitter charges) and the money I will be docked on my paycheck for taking a vacation day that I haven't technically earned yet (my shift to part-time hours is the culprit here), it was a very expensive evening at a time when our financial situation is not the greatest.
I have to admit, though, that the one thing that bothers me most is simply this: Why did I wake up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a truck, while Bruce Springsteen -- who, let's face it, is almost old enough to be my father -- apparently feels ecstatically good up there on stage night after night, city after city, all over the world, expending more energy in one concert that I do in any given six-month span??! How is this possible?
Maybe I just answered my own question -- I need to expend more energy. I'll never have what Bruce has in that department, but it probably wouldn't hurt me to hit the gym more than twice a week and walk Elijah to school more often.
Because if an aging rock-n-roller can leave me flat-out exhausted after a concert that I only halfway attended, something's wrong.
So thanks, Bruce. My eardrums may still be quiviring, but the rest of me is going to be better for this experience. It'll be Magic.
According to my newspaper's rock critic, whose review you can read here, the Boss "played nearly 30 songs and delivered many moments of joy and transcendence, including an encore for the ages."
This is why I am not a rock critic.
I like Springsteen, I really do. His music was a big part of the soundtrack for my high school and college years, although I must admit I sort of lost track of his career for several years until I married Jeff, who, like about half of the male baby boomer population of America, is a walking Springsteen encyclopedia. Over the 12 years of our marriage, I have become (not always voluntarily) re-acquainted with the Boss, so I was actually kind of looking forward to this concert.
Let me apologize right here to the three co-workers whose schedules were upended -- including one who came in on his day off -- so that I could attend this concert on a night I was supposed to be at work.
I hated it. Hated, hated HATED IT.
For starters, it got under way nearly an hour and a half late, on a Sunday night at that. Note to Bruce's manager and Kansas City's Sprint Center: Many people actually have real jobs that require them to be somewhere fairly early on Monday mornings. The acoustics at the less-than-year-old, supposedly state-of-the-art venue were atrocious. Second note to Bruce's manager and the Sprint Center: Many people actually have relatively acute hearing and don't particularly care for the eardrum-splitting pain that accompanied last night's "moments of joy and transcendence."
To save my ears and my sanity, I was reduced to roaming the concourses for much of the three-hour show, while Jeff and his baby-boomer cohorts (all of whose hearing was destroyed somewhere between Woodstock and We are the World) screamed and stomped and sang their hearts out.
You may not be aware of this, but a lot of drama takes place in the concourses of arenas during concerts. I witnessed at least one tearful breakup, one medical emergency and countless pitched disputes involving couples who apparently disagreed on the merits of attending a Springsteen show. Plus, I ran into a co-worker and spent 45 minutes or so getting caught up on industry-related gossip, so it was not a total loss (although, as an aside, I'm afraid my industry IS a total loss).
I even took a stroll outside the building for a while -- an excursion that was apparently so unprecedented that it took three arena security staffers to OK my exit with a promise that I show my ticket at the exact same door, to the exact same person, when I wanted to return. They simply couldn't understand why I wanted to leave, unless it was to smoke, so they tried to point me toward the gated-in area where the puffing pariahs were corralled. (I was reminded of an old Far Side cartoon in which a family is visiting the zoo and looking at an exhibit of shirtless, tattooed, overweight people puffing away on cigarettes in their cage. The sign on the cage: "Riff-raff.")
My little stroll brings me to another note to the Springsteen road crew and managers: Do you really need to have all seven of your motorcoach buses idling outside the concert venues for hour after hour while the show goes on, spewing greenhouse gases and pollutants into the atmosphere? Didn't I read somewhere that Bruce, who is rumored to be the opening act for Barack Obama at this week's Democratic convention, is concerned about environmental issues? Perhaps I was just hallucinating.
Lest you think I am a square, sheltered, overly sensitive middle-aged suburban mom who just can't handle a fun night out (well, OK, that's exactly what I am, but that's not the point here), please read some of the comments posted on the review I linked to above. I am far from the only one upset about last night's experience. And Jeff reported to me at 7 a.m. this morning (when my ears will still ringing), that one of our local Web sites for moms also was abuzz with some pretty unpleasant comments about the whole situation. (And no, I have no idea why Jeff reads our local mom site, at 7 a.m., no less.)
In looking back on it, I'm really not sure what annoyed me more: The late start, the horrible sound, or the money we ended up shelling out for the experience. You may recall from an earlier post that Jeff won the tickets, but once you calculate the nearly $100 we spent on baby-sitting ($12 an hour is what our sitter charges) and the money I will be docked on my paycheck for taking a vacation day that I haven't technically earned yet (my shift to part-time hours is the culprit here), it was a very expensive evening at a time when our financial situation is not the greatest.
I have to admit, though, that the one thing that bothers me most is simply this: Why did I wake up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a truck, while Bruce Springsteen -- who, let's face it, is almost old enough to be my father -- apparently feels ecstatically good up there on stage night after night, city after city, all over the world, expending more energy in one concert that I do in any given six-month span??! How is this possible?
Maybe I just answered my own question -- I need to expend more energy. I'll never have what Bruce has in that department, but it probably wouldn't hurt me to hit the gym more than twice a week and walk Elijah to school more often.
Because if an aging rock-n-roller can leave me flat-out exhausted after a concert that I only halfway attended, something's wrong.
So thanks, Bruce. My eardrums may still be quiviring, but the rest of me is going to be better for this experience. It'll be Magic.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The plot thickens
Once again, my job situation is precarious.
Those of you keeping score at home may recall that my company, which has been hemorrhaging red ink in much the same way all other companies in my industry are (when's the last time YOU sat down to savor a newspaper in print form?), had a round of layoffs a mere eight weeks ago.
Round Two (or is it Round 3? I've lost track.) is upon us, and my job category is widely suspected to be squarely in the middle of the chopping block -- just as I had finally arranged for hours that would keep me sane, give me sleep and keep at least a small paycheck coming in.
We received notice this morning that we are to meet with our executive editor at 5 p.m. Monday. Needless to say, this will make it somewhat challenging to devote our usual diligence to our jobs throughout the weekend. So I'm damn glad I'm going to the Springsteen concert Sunday night, rather than doing my usual Sunday night gig of presiding over the production of a newspaper whose staff morale is sinking fast and could hit bottom on Monday at about, oh, 5:03 p.m.
So, Bruce, I'm counting on you. Bring out all those angsty songs that you churned out with such fervor in the 1970s, before you made your first gazillion dollars, when your audience could still believe you knew what it was like to be in that darkness on the edge of town.
Those of you keeping score at home may recall that my company, which has been hemorrhaging red ink in much the same way all other companies in my industry are (when's the last time YOU sat down to savor a newspaper in print form?), had a round of layoffs a mere eight weeks ago.
Round Two (or is it Round 3? I've lost track.) is upon us, and my job category is widely suspected to be squarely in the middle of the chopping block -- just as I had finally arranged for hours that would keep me sane, give me sleep and keep at least a small paycheck coming in.
We received notice this morning that we are to meet with our executive editor at 5 p.m. Monday. Needless to say, this will make it somewhat challenging to devote our usual diligence to our jobs throughout the weekend. So I'm damn glad I'm going to the Springsteen concert Sunday night, rather than doing my usual Sunday night gig of presiding over the production of a newspaper whose staff morale is sinking fast and could hit bottom on Monday at about, oh, 5:03 p.m.
So, Bruce, I'm counting on you. Bring out all those angsty songs that you churned out with such fervor in the 1970s, before you made your first gazillion dollars, when your audience could still believe you knew what it was like to be in that darkness on the edge of town.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Why we can't live without the Internet
Because we have too much time on our hands, that's why! Ever wondered how many people in the U.S. have your same name? From now on, any time someone asks me why I changed my name when I got married, I'll direct them to this site:
Just for the record, there are 7,791 people in the U.S. named Sarah Smith, and I can tell you from my early attempts at qualifying for credit cards that some of them have very, very bad credit (this was way back when bad credit actually kept you from getting more cards). Also, they apparently hang out at bars a lot and give strange men their names but not their phone numbers, leading these strange men to look through the phone book the next day and start placing pathetic calls asking "Is this the Sarah Smith I met at the club last night?" Uh, no.
And so when Jeff and I married, I went WAY outside my belief system and decided to become Sarah Nessel. And it worked! Apparently, there is only one person (yours truly!) named Sarah Nessel.
But if you're thinking of addressing any formal invitations to me (granted, this is unlikely!) please note that there is NO person named "Mrs. Jeffrey Nessel." Don't even get me started!
Just for the record, there are 7,791 people in the U.S. named Sarah Smith, and I can tell you from my early attempts at qualifying for credit cards that some of them have very, very bad credit (this was way back when bad credit actually kept you from getting more cards). Also, they apparently hang out at bars a lot and give strange men their names but not their phone numbers, leading these strange men to look through the phone book the next day and start placing pathetic calls asking "Is this the Sarah Smith I met at the club last night?" Uh, no.
And so when Jeff and I married, I went WAY outside my belief system and decided to become Sarah Nessel. And it worked! Apparently, there is only one person (yours truly!) named Sarah Nessel.
But if you're thinking of addressing any formal invitations to me (granted, this is unlikely!) please note that there is NO person named "Mrs. Jeffrey Nessel." Don't even get me started!
Monday, August 18, 2008
A fish out of water
We're back into the swing of daily life and a new school year, just after completing what may be our last "vacation" for a long time (if three days away from home in a small-town Best Western counts as a vacation). Finances and the pending loss of all paid days off have conspired to kill pretty much all non-essential travel for the next year or two. Or three. Or more.
We journeyed to the Ozarks, where I grew up, for a river-rafting trip. I'll try to post some photos in the next few days, although they may only be photos of us preparing to launch our watercraft (a big thanks to my sister and her boyfriend, who, as the only remotely outdoorsy people in either of our extended families, lent us their great raft and saved us $100!). It turns out that I, in my zest to rid our life of unnecessary clutter, threw out the disc that came with the cheap little waterproof digital camera I purchased for the trip, and the software download that was sent to us by the kindly manufacturer isn't going smoothly. But before setting out, we did get a few photos of the river and the raft, along with (of course) Elijah.
For those of you who are just dying to know how the little guy liked his afternoon on a remote river surrounded by miles of national forest with hardly a single man-made structure in sight, I'll just say that his limited repertoire of questions has grown exponentially: "Where's the hotel?" "Where's the car?" "What happened to the streets?" "Where's McDonald's?"
In short, he's his father's son.
We journeyed to the Ozarks, where I grew up, for a river-rafting trip. I'll try to post some photos in the next few days, although they may only be photos of us preparing to launch our watercraft (a big thanks to my sister and her boyfriend, who, as the only remotely outdoorsy people in either of our extended families, lent us their great raft and saved us $100!). It turns out that I, in my zest to rid our life of unnecessary clutter, threw out the disc that came with the cheap little waterproof digital camera I purchased for the trip, and the software download that was sent to us by the kindly manufacturer isn't going smoothly. But before setting out, we did get a few photos of the river and the raft, along with (of course) Elijah.
For those of you who are just dying to know how the little guy liked his afternoon on a remote river surrounded by miles of national forest with hardly a single man-made structure in sight, I'll just say that his limited repertoire of questions has grown exponentially: "Where's the hotel?" "Where's the car?" "What happened to the streets?" "Where's McDonald's?"
In short, he's his father's son.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Fair fun
I guess I'm just a country girl at heart.
OK, so I hate most country music. I'm not crazy about animals. I don't drink beer and I don't drive a pickup and I don't have tattoos and despite growing up in a small, remote Midwestern farm town, I barely know a wheatfield from a pigpen. (We lived "in town," meaning we had a paved road and neighbors on either side -- as opposed to how the phrase "in town" is used in L.A., where it apparently means on the West Side rather than in the San Fernando Valley).
But despite my lack of agricultural knowledge, I love fairs. I love the swirling lights of the carnivals and the stickiness of the cotton candy and those earthy aromas of horses and cows and corn dogs and fried food. (Official culinary motto of all American fairs: If it can be put on a stick, it can be fried.)
And so, given my heritage, of course it is incumbent on me to pass on my all-American heartland fairgoing legacy to Elijah. Because L.A.-born-and-bred Jeff, who doesn't even know the difference between a horse show and a rodeo, sure as heck isn't going to do it. (Official recreational motto of Jeff: The outdoors is evil, unless a golf course is involved.)
But while he may not be much of an outdoorsman, he's a heck of a daddy. And so at last he agreed to accompany us - camera in hand, soaked in bug spray and praying for a tornado to sweep the entire fairgrounds away before we got there.
Bottom line: The bugs stayed away, the storms stayed away and the camera clicked away. Elijah had a great time, Mommy had more or less a great time (see Ferris wheel photo), and Daddy got another Horizon-Expanding Life Experience under his belt.
This little roller coaster ride was my idea. It was while we were on it that Elijah spotted the Ferris wheel and got so excited he practically climbed out mid-ride.
Please forgive my unlady-like sitting posture. You must understand that I am terrified of heights, and my focus was on stabilizing the seat while Elijah gleefully kicked his feet and threw his arms into the air and tried to rock us.
Finally, back on terra firma, Mommy got to take a break while Elijah tried out an old favorite, the carousel.
All in all, it was a great evening. It's really too bad that Jeff was behind the camera the whole time. If I had been shooting photos, I'd probably even have gotten one of him smiling.
OK, so I hate most country music. I'm not crazy about animals. I don't drink beer and I don't drive a pickup and I don't have tattoos and despite growing up in a small, remote Midwestern farm town, I barely know a wheatfield from a pigpen. (We lived "in town," meaning we had a paved road and neighbors on either side -- as opposed to how the phrase "in town" is used in L.A., where it apparently means on the West Side rather than in the San Fernando Valley).
But despite my lack of agricultural knowledge, I love fairs. I love the swirling lights of the carnivals and the stickiness of the cotton candy and those earthy aromas of horses and cows and corn dogs and fried food. (Official culinary motto of all American fairs: If it can be put on a stick, it can be fried.)
And so, given my heritage, of course it is incumbent on me to pass on my all-American heartland fairgoing legacy to Elijah. Because L.A.-born-and-bred Jeff, who doesn't even know the difference between a horse show and a rodeo, sure as heck isn't going to do it. (Official recreational motto of Jeff: The outdoors is evil, unless a golf course is involved.)
But while he may not be much of an outdoorsman, he's a heck of a daddy. And so at last he agreed to accompany us - camera in hand, soaked in bug spray and praying for a tornado to sweep the entire fairgrounds away before we got there.
Bottom line: The bugs stayed away, the storms stayed away and the camera clicked away. Elijah had a great time, Mommy had more or less a great time (see Ferris wheel photo), and Daddy got another Horizon-Expanding Life Experience under his belt.
This little roller coaster ride was my idea. It was while we were on it that Elijah spotted the Ferris wheel and got so excited he practically climbed out mid-ride.
Please forgive my unlady-like sitting posture. You must understand that I am terrified of heights, and my focus was on stabilizing the seat while Elijah gleefully kicked his feet and threw his arms into the air and tried to rock us.
Finally, back on terra firma, Mommy got to take a break while Elijah tried out an old favorite, the carousel.
All in all, it was a great evening. It's really too bad that Jeff was behind the camera the whole time. If I had been shooting photos, I'd probably even have gotten one of him smiling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
