the rest of the bottle of wine
two cigarettes (one too shaky)
a wide open window blowing the curtain against my bare legs
californication
my secrets, my secrets, my secrets.

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instead i dreamed of being pulled out of the bar
by my hair
by your girl
who has every right, of course

i slapped her onto the pavement
and wondered if this was how my friend felt
slamming into the screen door on wurts ave
his hands covered in blood
the cops circling that dive we all loved
its sale only confirms that the town's soul is changing

my bedside table is sticky with sweet wine
my best friend in los angeles is worried

instead i dreamed of a different you
trying to protect me from what you think i can't take
this glass heart has long since been replaced with album titles
let it be. separation sunday. broken social scene s/t.
the woods. 69 love songs (part 1). shine a light.
black candy.
some of these are you
some of these are the others i need to get through
no matter how much i reach out
it's not that i want to keep you
i can't keep anyone
anyone who tries to keep me will find hidden scraps of paper
and averted eyes
and missed phone calls
and have the feeling that i'm hiding something
i always need to keep it like a secret.

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a year ago i dreamed
of kisses and hand-holding at any given number of shows
skinny jeans a black tank top
dinosaur jr t-shirt and diesels
black converse for two
i thought this was enough to mean that
you would be mine
i would be yours
i thought this was enough
to kill that restless, endless "get after it"
i thought i saw a road leading to you
i thought you left me naked in the middle of it
holding your favorite record
you smiling as you walked away and left me

irish bars in astoria
gin and tonics in scarred booths
my best friend's brother and i talk about emotions
"i don't have anything but good feelings now"
i steal his cigarettes and wipe my nose
girls bang on the bathroom door
the green bay packers are winning

the old men in the bodega on 28th ave and 41st look up
MUST BE 21 TO PLAY QUICK DRAW AND SITTING BEER
i give up and drink sweet wine in my underwear
if you don't cry just happened
you're my only home is happening
(crazy for you but) not that crazy will happen

i hope i fall asleep dreaming of michael jackson, diana ross, and nothing else.

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last night i went to a concert at south street seaport with a good friend and could afford $6 beer and had this fantastic view of the lights ... but i didn't feel that glimmer of being okay with living new york until we took the cab on that bridge (which one i still don't know) and saw the brooklyn bridge lights and we seemed like we were floating: teresa (my old friend), tyler (teresa's high school friend who has always been one of my favorite acquaintances), tyler's MIT math buddy, and a kid named peter from the ukraine with a crush on me or teresa or both or maybe that's just how he interacts with girls.

also, i used to tell my old roommate scottie i hated the knife, but it felt perfect last night and i don't hate them anymore.

even battles were perfect at south street seaport ... much more fulfilling than the pretentious noise-fest i expected. i mean, it was just that, but it worked.

oh god, i think understand new york city hipsters now. products of their environment, only some are more susceptible than others.

sometimes i miss the essence of people or our particular situation which can never be repeated. it's not that i want them to happen again. i just get really curious and wish i could feel how i felt then again, for just one moment, without consequences -- to just take stock of my emotions and give today's more of a context.

always looking ahead or behind. always missing the way it was or jonesing for what would be. i should have no friends and just travel.

Rather Ripped

Sonic Youth

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all i know is that i like it.

    "I think a more accurate name would be 'Everyone-Looks-the-Same Fest,'" I say to Patty. Patty is my only friend crazy enough to drive across three states with me in a Hyundai to attend the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago.
      We're at Union Park, in a section of the city that smacks of Brooklyn before the hipsters took over. And yet, history repeats itself. I push back my side-swept bangs and survey the sauntering, designer beer-swigging mass of kids in Converse sneakers.
    Earlier, on the Green Line, we smirked as hordes of these kids got on at every stop. The locals were visibly confused. As a New Yorker, I had been terrified earlier in the day by the sheer volume of strangers who had talked to me on the street. Where I'm from, people tend to pay more attention to their iPods than strangers on the train. I winced when an older man leaned over and asked me, "Where all these people comin' from?"   
I don't blame him for asking. Union Park and Central Park resemble each other only in name. This is not a likely site for an event whose biggest sponsors consist of hipper-than-thou indie record labels and Whole Foods.
    Welcome to the Pitchfork Fest, two days of obscure and somewhat obscure live bands presented by The Indie Rock Magazine itself. I'd driven for two days, and I was not going to miss a second of it.
    On the main stage, toward the back of the park, John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats sings of childhood dance parties and lost loves in New Jersey, with a nasal twang sacred only in the world of indie rock. So enamored am I of this performance that I fail to notice the mass quantities of sweat pouring down my back, and the fact that I have only visited the high-class bathroom facilities once since my arrival.  My post-show bliss is quickly replaced with a mind-numbing headache and an overwhelming urge to be horizontal.
    Patty hadn't signed up for this. I am sprawled in the grass near the first aid tent, alternately trying to get up and watch Art Brut's set and collapsing in groans and threats of suicide. The cheap-ass in me can't comprehend the concept of giving up half of a two-day pass because of some silly little dehydration episode. I attempt to stand up. I immediately regret this decision and become one with some cigarette butts and discarded flyers on the ground.     A disgruntled member of the "first aid staff' squints at me incredulously.
    "You been drinkin'?"
    I try to explain that while normally I'm quite a fan of cold beverages, I didn't think it was a wise decision to knock 'em back on the day of Chicago's highest heat index. I am grudgingly offered a free bottle of water, but I only succeed in swallowing a few drops and whining at Patty. She puts her face in her hands. Back to the Green Line. Stone fucking sober, I might add.
    But this was no afternoon train to salvation. I stare at the horizon. I think about John Darnielle. I try to sing "Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed" by the Silver Jews, but as soon as I open my mouth, I realize I am terrified about what may come out. I make a beeline for the metal doors as we screech to a halt.
    "Heidi, this isn't our stop."
    "NEED. . . A. . . BATHROOM."
    Cut to my head over a none-too-clean toilet in a Filene's basement bathroom. I am having performance anxiety. I have just run out of the most anticipated event of my summer and I am actually worried about that lady in the flowered dress in the next stall hearing me puke my guts out. Priorities.
    After several failed attempts at The Great Gastrointestinal Resurrection, I run out of the store and sit yoga-style on the filthy sidewalk. If I stand up and walk, I want to throw up and die. If I sit down, I want to heave and only mildly wound myself.
    I call my mother. This is not a good idea.  My mother is always convinced I'm dying of the plague when I cough during our phone conversations, and has in the past recommended various tea and herbal remedies before I have a chance to explain that I'm just choking on my coffee. All I get out of the conversation is something along the lines of "get thee to a hospital," so I gather my sorry self and manage to climb up the stairs of an L train stop.
    Ten stairs feel like a freaking Swiss Alp, and no, I don't live up to my namesake. Patty can't understand anything I'm muttering, other than "Paaaattttyyyyyy, fix it," and I slump down on the floor of the rickety structure, which shakes violently as each train passes through. I am convinced they are doing it on purpose.
    I don't remember giving the station attendant my name or address, but I stare lovingly into the eyes of a paramedic, who, in my altered state, vaguely resembles Jake Gyllenhaal. Despite my humiliating circumstances, I feel a little wave of self-importance wash over me as we lurch through the streets of Chicago. Patty stares at me, wide-eyed, and I hope her sense of worry for me is overpowering her desire to check the festival schedule to find out who she's missing. If it's the Walkmen, our friendship may be in jeopardy.
    I blink, and realize I'm in a wheelchair. I'm scanning the waiting room with droopy lids and an invisible anvil repeatedly falling on my head, and my delusions of grandeur fade. I may want to bash my face in, but from the sight of these other suckers, it looks like that wasn't a choice for some. Instead of compassion and worry, I'm filled with rage.
    Oh, and irresponsibility. It has now been three hours since my parents were informed that I was being transported to the hospital in a city 3,000 miles from home. For all they know, I have been kidnapped by thieves disguised as ambulance drivers and incorporated into the seediest of Chicago crime syndicates. Weakly, I fumble for my cell phone, and as Patty darts outside to call my father, I feel a sudden affinity for the bathroom. Staggering out of my wheelchair, I push past nurses and patients in hot pursuit of a porcelain goddess.
    Apparently, giving the nurse a graphic portrayal of what I'd eaten wasn't quite enough to knock anyone out of their spot in line, so I again retired to my wheelchair and angrily flung a thin blanket over my head. I threw it off again as Patty told me that my father graciously pardoned us from drinking at the concert.
     "WHY DOES EVERYONE ASSUME I'M DRUNK!?" I bellow.
    Some nosy Midwesterners turn and stare.
    "Look," I hiss to Patty. "If we were in New York, I could have an extra limb growing out of my head and no one would even notice."
    Patty shrugs and looks mildly pained, a familiar facial expression of one dealing with a lunatic. I decide I have no use for her and demand painkillers from a nurse, and not surprisingly, my belligerent ass is denied. It is safe to say I am an outraged concertgoer without much of a cause.
    When I am finally admitted into the emergency room, I'm too impressed to gripe.
    "Patty. Patty. We're totally on like, ER or something."
    The doctors are entirely too good-looking, entirely too young, and every nationality is equally represented. I'm rolled into a private curtained room and I stare up, wide-eyed, at the perfectly chiseled features of one of the three (count 'em) doctors who attend to me in my whirlwind tour of Chicago's finest hospital, or so they say. I explain that I've been at an outdoor festival, and that no, I haven't touched a drop, and yes, I may not have had enough water. I spare them my rage when asked The Drinking Question because I'm eyeing the IV bag that promises to heal all suffering.
    The needle goes in and I check out. I've been waiting for my head to clear for about five hours now, and I drift off, humming "How a Resurrection Really Feels," by The Hold Steady. They're not playing Pitchfork Fest, but I'll see them in October if I get out of this slick city alive.
    I awake to an unfamiliar feeling: a need to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. I shuffle to the bathroom in my fashionable hospital gown, dangling my IV bag, and Patty bites her lips to keep from laughing. Keep in mind, my metamorphosis from fresh-faced road trip buddy to needy grouch had robbed me of some charm and favor. When I return, a grandmotherly nurse informs me that I'm well enough to go home, and I blow that needle a kiss as she pulls it out.
    The Northeastern Memorial Hospital's lobby and main entrance resembles that of a swank hotel, complete with an abundance of unnecessary space and cathedral ceilings. The receptionist calls a cab with the touch of a button, and it arrives within minutes. I'm flooded with saline and feeling like a new girl. I look sideways at Patty as the cabs whisks us through the Chicago streets. We pass a Green Line stop and I bite my lip, thinking that the Silver Jews must be getting on stage right about now.
    "Wow ... it's only like, 11:30," I venture.
    "Don't even fucking think about it."
   
   
   

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i was skeptical. now i'm in love.

14 Let's Dance

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last night i realized, i am a cross between an old man and a preteen girl.

caitlin rielly turned 23 and we danced around to led zeppelin and save ferris and stole beer from her housemates' keg, which was gross, but after two tall boys of miller genuine draft i was happy. p.s. never drinking one of those again. bud tall boys remain superior. anyway, everyone started freaking out to one of those bands, like the killers or something and i just got all grumpy because i just really can't identify with that shit. but it's good to know that my friends will default to the foo fighters. sometimes i miss listening to the radio when i was like, 12.

today at work we were listening to xm radio all day and this one station was literally everything i listened to when i was in middle school/beginning of high school. it was like they'd dug into the vaults of WRRV 96.9 in poughkeepsie circa 1998. eqx, which is out of manchester MA i believe, is pretty much the same. i listen to that whenever i'm up in the albany area.

speaking of albany. craig finn told a really amazing story when i saw the hold steady there last week. i'll try to recreate it as well as i can. he went into the dunkin' donuts where lark st. crosses delaware ave., and this woman caught the attention of a cop and goes, "hey! hey, remember me?" the cops says "um, i don't think so ..." and the woman's like, "you arrested me a few months ago! you know, right over there, out there ..." and the cop says, "ohhh yeah, i think i remember you. how you doin'?" and the woman says "oh i'm all right, i had a baby." and the cop responds, "oh i was gonna say, you lost weight!" the crowd totally lost and just started yelling "THAT'S ALBANY!" and craig's like, "yeah, that's albany ... i love it." great shit.

anyway. i feel like i had something else to say ... oh, right. so last night after cait's, i wasn't exactly ready to head home, so i ran into my friend dana and this other girl in my class whose name is escaping me, and talked them into a couple drinks at snugs. i was pretty drunk, so i ended up pumping the jukebox full of money and playing equal parts the replacements' "tim" and the hold steady's "boys and girls in america." i just sat on a barstool listening to the music, drinking a pint of PBR and watching knicks replays on tv. i was really happy. i'm turning into an old man, and it feels fine, actually.

so when i woke up this morning i looked at my phone and computer ... i had changed my myspace and my away message to hold steady lyrics and fell asleep listening to built to spill's "you in reverse." i had called about seven people, but no one i was embarassed about, so maybe i'm getting more of a handle on drunk dialing. i think i talked to miles on the walk home, and maybe drew too. which was cool, i'd say.

i'm listening to chavez, another example of something tom whalen recommended to me eons ago and i've put off for inexplicable reasons. i'm trying to get better at that, because when i finally listened to broken social scene, i was a little late for the train, but it was so fucking good it didn't matter. so far i like this. not uplifting, but nice and big and guitar-heavy with a scratchy-voiced dude. noticing a trend?

top 5 artists as of late:
1. the hold steady
2. the replacements
3. the constantines
4. the posies (jon auer's giving me an interview, i'm pretty psyched)
5. lifter puller

also, a song by catfish haven is on heavy rotation: "crazy for leaving you." fucking love it. they opened for the hold steady in albany. down-home, guitar-heavy again, no distortion, repetitive but not lulling, whiskey-soaked again.

the hold steady are playing at the stone pony in asbury park, NJ. i felt dumb when kevin falahee informed me that was to bruce springsteen what cbgb's was to the ramones, 'cause i didn't know that. there are a lot of things i don't know about music. i'm going to spend a lot of this break just reading my face off about music. anyway, i'm pretty sure it's a ridiculously appropriate venue and i can't wait.

my professor, rolling stone editor holly george-warren, has finally told me which member of the replacements she kicked it with, and i was surprised.

here's the catfish haven song i can't stop listening to:

03-catfish_haven-crazy_for_leaving

Catfish Haven

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is follow bands around and write about them. i'm listening to the constantines right now and remembering how fucking good they were when they opened up for the hold steady.

i saw dinosaur jr. a couple weeks ago and i haven't gotten a chance to write about them yet even tho i was in there on a press pass. fuck school, honestly.

i can't write about the hold steady for a while, but i have an amazing reason. trust me.

The hold steady

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i keep writing in my livejournal about music. mistake. i've just been so busy and so full of the hold steady.

i'll transfer some writings soon. right now i'm reading every interview i can find with craig finn et al because i will be interviewing one or more members of THS very soon for tiny mix tapes.
oh-em-gee, etc.

here's my favorite thing that i've found so far:

JH--What is wrong with the indie music scene?

CF--Kids who sit on the floor during shows. I seriously will drop a beer bottle on your head if you do this. And I am a nice person. Anything that precludes fun or humor. Bands with matching outfits suck as a rule. Anything that puts style before substance. 80s new wave revival makes me embarrassed for the people taking part. Any good band has some element of danger in them. A band without a sense of danger is about the worst thing in the world. That said, danger comes a lot of different ways, and I see danger in Cat Power and Belle & Sebastian and not in the Hives/Vines/etc.

WORD UP.

that being said, listen to this album. it won't save you, but it'll help.

Boys and Girls in America

The Hold Steady

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1. big star - thirteen
2, guy chadwick - fall in love with me (david bowie cover)
3. belle & sebastian - like dylan in the movies
4. big star - the ballad of el goodo
5. billy joel - just the way you are
6. the hold steady - most people are djs
7. iggy pop & the stooges - penetration
8. jets to brazil - crown of the valley
9. joy division - something must break
10. lou reed - intro/sweet jane (rock'n'roll animal)
11. sleater-kinney - the fox
12. a silver mount zion - mountains made of steam
13. the magnetic fields - fido, your leash is too long
14. rod stewart - angel
15. mirah - we're both so sorry
16. mogwai - autorock
17. mott the hoople - all the young dudes
18. david bowie - soul love
19. the mountain goats - dance music
20. of montreal - kissing in the grass
21. opeth - the drapery falls
22. pavement - cut your hair
23. pink floyd - vera
24. the pixies - bone machine
25. placebo - without you i'm nothing
26. pulp - this is hardcore
27. radiohead - electioneering
28. new order - age of consent
29. nirvana - hairspray queen
30. smashing pumpkins - i am one
31. sonic youth - teenage riot
32. sufjan stevens - size too small
33. t-rex - metal guru
34. u.n.k.l.e. - nursery rhyme
35. upholstery - path train
36. the velvet underground - heroin
37. the walkmen - the rat
38. the white stripes - ball & biscuit
39. wilco - i'm the man who loves you
40. yo la tengo - pass the hatchet OR cherry chapstick
41. sunny day real estate - guitar and video games

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