The only Boss I listen to

He's 59, and still doing backbends over microphone stands. It doesn't matter what it means to other people or whether it is significant enough to make them pop out of bed in the morning dancing to "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out" but for me it's going to be a big day of jumping to some rhythms through the Quad and smiling like I just found out I won the lottery, because in a way, I have. A few hundred songs and a permanent giddy feeling from one night of a front-row connection a few months ago is more than enough to make me feel rich and want to celebrate a lot longer than these 24 hours.


Happy Birthday, Bruuuuuuce!!

Never was a cloudy day !

It doesn't matter where we are or who may be around- when "September" starts playing, my mom and I can't help but dance. I know for sure that it's happened in department stores, numerous times in the car and a few weddings here and there, but it is and always will be the song that can make my day instantly better and my feet go crazy. It all started when I was younger; I inherited a great fandom of Earth, Wind & Fire, along with passion for all music, from my mother. She'd always turn up the stereo and dance with me and Kyle daily. We blew out the speakers in our '88 suburban from an afternoon of Hall and Oates. There's plenty of home videos of me using our backyard as a Broadway stage and a certain Kirk Whalum song is the reason my parents named my brother Kyle. Music's always been a big part of our family, from my Dad blaring jazz and Genesis every Sunday morning on our gigantic speaker system downstairs to Mimi playing her big band records so loud that she can't hear the phone ring to the obnoxiously giant subwoofer in Kyle's old blazer that could literally be heard 15 blocks away. This blessing of a family I've been given constantly provides a good soundtrack and for that I'm extremely thankful, but I digress.

The opening of "September" stops me in my tracks. There's the intro that starts out quieter and then it starts snapping and I am suddenly moving in my own conga line. The beat makes my hips swing and I can't stop my mouth from singing the words, "say, do you remember?". About a week ago I got a text message that said, "Just heard September....ba di yah. love, mom" and I grinned for a while after. I find it impossible to be in a bad mood when it's playing, and this theory has been tested numerous times. I swear that Jesus decided to intervene one morning when I heard it playing over the speakers before my 8 o'clock class- the horn part was better than a double shot of espresso at waking me up and I am positive that everyone sitting around me thought I was high as a kite or suffering from a really bad leg twitch. It sounds so cheesy to say that it even helps when I'm crying- but it does! I am forever grateful that Maurice White decided one night to write something miraculous and now almost thirty years later I'm still gettin' to feel the rhythm and place it into my own life's playlist. I can't imagine ever getting sick of Ronnie Law's saxophone solo, although my neighbors might as I’ve discovered it’s the reason the repeat button was invented. I can't put my finger on exactly what it is; I know the sound is infectious and downright funky but the way it changes my mood on dime is still ridiculous. The mystery remains as to why it affects me so much, but "September" is one song I can't avoid and the melody that my mom and I go crazy with, singing harmonies and dancing in Target while my Dad pushes the cart alongside, not thinking it's at all strange that we're taking up an entire aisle clapping and shimmying in unison to the trumpets when the chorus comes. Sometimes you don't need a scholarly musical reason to like a song, you know? "September" shakes me up in the best way. I always want it to last longer than the three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, I’m ecstatic and knocked out by the fact of its existence and should we be near each other when it plays, please give me and my hips some room. Thank you.

Do you remember the 21st night of September?!

My thoughts were so loud

Sometimes in the middle of a conversation when there's been silence for a while or time to process information, someone will ask me, "What are you thinking about?" I almost always tense up at this question because most likely I haven't been thinking at all- I've just been singing a song stuck in my head. There's always a big important discussion and then time where neither one of us is talking. Sure, during the silence I usually do review my thoughts but then my brain moves too fast and I'm in the middle of the 'doo-doo-doo-doo-bah-doo-doo-doo-doo' part in "Mama Told Me Not to Come" when my own soundtrack is interrupted by actual outside dialogue. Of course, then I have to snap back and remember the last couple of words we said and not blurt out the next lyric. I don't know if this is a good thing or not? Note to self, stay more focused.

Why do I feel like I'm getting younger every single day? Like there's so much I don't know how to do or communicate effectively? I mean, am I not supposed to feel old and on my own in college?! Maybe it'll come in time. Right now I feel about 6 years old. I just feel really young and like a lot of times I'm going through the motions but I really have no idea what I'm doing. It gets awful lonely sometimes walking around here, but the good days balance out the bad. I guess it's just this feeling that I've been dropped in the middle of this new story and I have no idea what I'm supposed to write. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The other thing with being here is that I have so much free time and I spend a lot of it thinking about my life, but not necessarily the future. I've dug up far too many old feelings and situations for my liking and pretty much run through certain memories in my head daily. I'm reading old letters and listening to old songs and it's almost an overkill of the past sometimes. This all sounds serious and bizarre written out, but I'm alright, really. This will take a while, I know, so I guess I'll just be testing my patience as much as possible and prioritizing on the now.

Wait, no.....I'm feeling at least 8 years old. That's more like it.



I like songs about drifters - books about the same.
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot.
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?

I know that starting over is not what life's about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.

"If music were a buffet, I'd be Luby's!"

I've been told that I like too much music for one genre heading, much less one person. Okay, you really wanna know why? I'll tell you. I like variety. I like having too much to choose from and getting it all at once. This obsession transfers into not only liking a lot of different styles and artists, but also loving different tones in a single song. That's why I like music that surprises you. I like so many sounds and instruments playing together that it feels like it all won't fit into your ears at once, but somehow it does. I like being able to listen to a song and hear something new every time. Horn sections drive me crazy in the best possible way, because they're so rare and they make my feet instantly start tappin'. A good harmonica riff can stick in my brain and suddenly make me ache in nostalgia about past relationships. There's a distinctive saxophone solo that I and thousands of other individuals cross our fingers for at a certain concert because the beauty and emotion in it is so very rich.

I love when there's momentum in a tune. I like when something builds; when the guitar starts out with some strain and then maybe the bass joins in slowly and before you know it there's drums and harmonica and trumpet out of nowhere! Suddenly all the noise just gets overwhelming and makes you almost jump back at how many melodies are happening at once, yet all satisfy the craving to hear MORE. This sounds incredibly cheesy, but to me, a song is like a journey. You have a start and an end and the beauty, like most travels, is in the time it takes in between both those points. I like a nontraditional trip- often the pattern of "verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorusx2" can get boring. I like when you hear something that's completely unexpected and the song takes a new direction that wasn't even audible at the beginning. I like when the end comes and you can't believe how you got there from the first few notes. It feels like it was a lot longer than a 4 minute-and-15-second journey, but then it's over and you either hit repeat, contemplate what all exactly you just heard or move on to the next musical excursion.

I adore harmony- I like cramming as many voices into one line as possible. Singing along is involuntary sometimes. Anything fresh that I haven't heard before always makes my ears perk up. I can't get over a new instrument- give me more ukelele, harp, hurdy-gurdy, violin, tambourine, sitar, xylophone, banjo, accordion, keytar, saxophone, timbrel, mandolin, washboard, kazoo, ANYTHING! I want to hear it and know how it can create a captivating refrain. I love words and the power they have, but sometimes even good lyrics fall by the wayside in comparison to a single sound that astounds you and leaves you, well, speechless. Originality seems to be key here, but there's something else. Just because something sounds like something you've heard before doesn't mean you'll like it and just because it's original or new-sounding doesn't mean that it's gold. No matter what song, new or old, there has to be some sort of emotion placed carefully underneath all those notes- something that rings true with you and makes you feel something bigger than just rests and rhythm. Maybe it's stupid to think that you can physically hear emotions and feelings, but I'd be willing to place money on the fact that you can, and this fact has shaped a whole lot of decisions in my life.


Almost every time that I get to the end of my spastic thoughts I don't even know if they make sense. Maybe I'll get more confident in time. Music Journalism undergraduate, here I come ?



P.S. Oh yeah, about that. College so far is.....interesting. Everything's new and still takes time to get used to, but I love this town. Sundance Records and a handful of friends that are blessings in my life make the days better. Sometimes I feel small, though. For example, let's just say that you'd rather sip an iced chai latte and read Klosterman instead of filling or your lungs with smoke. This is considered out-of-place. Or maybe you'd rather have a dance party versus a frat party....yeah, you're in the minority. We'll see, though.
I know I'm here for a reason, but I don't know if that reason may ever become known, and right now at this moment I'm okay with that. Currently I'm attempting to figure out how to make this dorm room bed seem bigger. No ideas yet.

We never did too much talkin' anyway

I don't even know how to start to explain exactly what I'm feeling right now. The only way I know how to describe it is just this nervous weirdness. I've never done this before- I've never seen almost everything I own packed up in cardboard boxes. I've never not come home. I'm not too worried, but my thoughts just keep racing. There's so much I can't express right now because my mind is going too fast. I keep replaying memories in my head and looking back way too much for my own good. I'm remembering faces and times I don't know how to live without yet, but it's gonna be okay. It has to be okay, right? If anything, I should feel exhilarated at all the newness and fresh scenery and people and go confidently knowing that I am in no way trying to make relationships that replace the ones I currently have. I want to meet new people but never forget or lose touch with the old and I really don't want "staying in touch" to become a cliche phrase. I will honestly miss my bed, my parents and Maggie more than I can think about right now. I'll miss home tangibly and the home that I've made nestled in between a few fantastic friends that truly redefine the word "blessing".

It's 3 AM and of course I can't sleep. I've done this off-to-college-farewell twice before, but never exactly like this. The first time, I hugged two girls that adopted me like a sister sophomore year and promised myself I wouldn't cry until I got out of the car and into my room and I could listen to Ella to soothe me. The second time was, well, a memory that never seems to fade of a couple dozen forehead kisses and running out into the rain early the next morning to get a present left for me bittersweetly. But, you know, I don't think there will be a cd on my windshield and a rainy emotional breakdown-scene happening like the last time. This time it's me leaving and it's not poignant, really, it's just straining and too much and almost uncomfortable at times, like I wish it was just over already. But, on the other hand, I'm a sucker for holding on just a little bit longer. I wish the word "goodbye" took a lot longer to say out loud than it did many times earlier today.


It's going to be alright.
It's going to be better than alright.
It's going to be good.
It's going to be wonderful?
...That last one's a pretty strong adjective. We'll have to wait and see.


You know, I'm not the world's biggest Bob Dylan fan. I understand why he was important and how he revolutionized music and I strongly believe he was essential in a sense. But I find myself struggling to really dig into his music and actually feel something. But for some reason, one of these tracks just cuts into me, you know? It makes sense why it does- it's thick with emotion and this sense that he's looking over his shoulder, but he's leaving regardless. I'd heard it before it was given to me on a cd, but it affected me a whole lot more once I heard it in a certain order. It was probably intentional and the lyrics are blunt enough to burn and stick with me for quite a long time after the harmonica solo. It makes sense that I'd come back to it right about now, this exact same time, whether it's healthy to hold onto it or not. Ha, and I though Dylan could hardly make me feel something, much less tear up? Wrong again.

But, I do like the baby-sized converse

I wish I liked babies more.

I really do!

It was my New Year's Resolution to like babies more, actually.

It's not that I dislike them or think they're horrible or anything but they just make me extremely nervous. They're always moving and gurgling and taking in the world and I'm afraid I could screw some of that up. I don't mind looking at baby pictures- I mean, that part I like and I can handle. A baby of any species is adorable- giraffe, hippo, duck, etc. They're precious in pictures, yes, but it always happens that I end up being asked to hold one. Some cute mother is holding her bundle of joy and bouncing it so perfectly and then they ask, "Do you want to hold her/him?". Of course, I never know what to say after they ask and are staring back, waiting for an answer and batting their eyelashes and looking at you as if to say "compliment my child's cuteness or I will kill you". Sometimes I oblige and then I'm just panic-striken. I trust myself holding things, but I just don't want to screw anything up. I don't want this little person to be at all uncomfortable and I know I can't do that little rocking-bouncing-mom-arm thing so I lose confidence. And then there's the other thing- the staring. Children can win any starting contest and they just look at you with those big innocent eyes and I, A). Feel like they're secretely judging me or B). Think there is a camera installed in that tiny retina. It's unnerving. I'm not saying BABY-PANIC-MODE happens daily but when it does, I feel part-idiot and part-inept. I just don't want to screw up, you know? I don't want to teach the wrong thing or do something that would cause the little sunshiney face to start to cry. Paranoid much?

You know....I have no honest clue why I am even writing about this at all.

Train table up and seatback in the full upright position

Okay, true story from a few weeks ago.*

(*Actually some of it might be, well, "embellished", but I mean, I promise I would never just lie. Sometimes everyday life just needs a little excitement added. A few well-chosen adjectives never killed anyone.)

I think I like sitting in the airport terminal just as much as I like flying. There's something kind of exhilarating about being somewhere where you're surrounded by strangers and no one quite knows who you are. You're another face in the crowd-- another passenger like them. You could be the ridiculous girl who is wearing sunglasses inside and four-inch heels while going towards baggage claim. You could be the dad with those three screaming kids who just spilled their carry-on snacks on the floor. You might even be the guy with his macbook, paying $24.94 for wireless internet just to entertain himself. I mean, people can see your outward appearance, but they can't discover YOU. Your personality, how you cry everytime you watch Bambi, the most played album in your music collection-- no one really learns that just by looking at you. Unfortunately, appearances aren't always all they're cracked up to be.

He was wearing a fedora. Not one of those oddly-colored ill-fitting ones that you see teenage girls sporting, but a real one. It was brown tweed and he looked like Frank Sinatra. I thought I might melt then and there. I've watched too many old movies, but I swear that a man with a blazer and a hat can do anything and girls will stick to him like velcro. He was sitting in the chair next to mine at Terminal E7 and I was slyly trying to keep looking his way while acting like I was skimming through a magazine. He reached for his bag and took out Nine Stories and I nearly screamed. This man with a hat that for some reason intrigued me was now reading one of my favorite books! It may be my overactive imagination but at that moment I imagined our whole life from his marriage proposal to me at that big tree in Animal Kingdom at DisneyWorld to us having wheelchair races together in the nursing home. I was subconsciously fixing my hair and trying to casually turn his way when it happened. His phone rang and he answered it. No, that's not the crisis- it's what's next. He opened his mouth and spoke.

"OMG no way! You've gotta be JK-ing with me! LOL! XOXO!"

My ears were crying. Not only did he use AIM abbreviations in real life, but he said them in such a way that made it seem like this was just a normal speech pattern. My daydream of DisneyWorld and old people suddenly vanished. How could this happen? He was supposed to be a dapper, suave, literary fellow who ordered champagne and spent summers at the Lourve. Instead, I was sharing my personal space with a twelve year old girl with too much caffeine and text messages. I wanted to say something to him, but the "convo" he was involved in seemed important, so I just said "g2g" with my body language and went to distract myself in the Hudson News stand.

So what did I learn today? Hats are deceiving. Srsly.

Hope is here in a plastic box

There are so many things we spend our existence trying to get people to notice. Outward appearance is so meticulous, with so much of time spent on hair and clothing and the right facial expressions to make at the right place we want to be seen at. Posture and smiles and gazes are all analyzed on a daily basis and apparently seem to reveal so much about a particular individual. If a picture is bad, we delete it; after all, we wouldn't want something tarnishing the way we want to be seen. Someone will wear a certain band's logo or a certain designer label as if to let it speak for them; to say "hi, this is me" without ever becoming audible. Sometimes it's like habits seem perfected by people, as if to appear better on the outside. I've said it multiple times before, but I hate perfection. There's beauty in the breakdown. I thrive truth, good or bad, because it's REAL. It's not a fairy tale or a false facade someone puts on to impress, but it's the gritty reality. And sometimes reality can be beautiful in a way if you look hard enough.

I think the things that speak the most aren't the most obvious, the ones we haven't spent time on, but are just so genuine and unique that you know they had to be natural. The way the last letter of your signature always dips the same amount below the signing line. The way your nail polish is always chipped on one hand more than the other. The way you grip your steering wheel on the turns but the rest of the time use it as a percussion instrument along with the beat of the song that's playing. The way you always pray over your meal, closing your eyes in reverence while we're about to eat fast food, even if no one else does. The way your voice takes this serious tone if you sense that anyone isn't feeling well and you truly want to help them. The way your room looks messy but you can locate everything perfectly. The way you mark your silverware with pink nail polish on the handles so that when we use it at enormous family-reunion dinners, you get yours back. The way you always let that person cut in front of you when driving and you never say anything negative, you just let them. The way you tuck in someone's tag when it's showing. The way that you will leave little notes of encouragement everywhere for people to find. All these things- they're not obnoxious, they're extremely interesting. There's so many more movements that reveal so much to me, I think, and I don't feel "creepy" for noticing. What seem like little gestures are so much more; small impulsive actions really do speak louder than words. Practiced life is so mundane- I'd much rather learn from observation. Perfection is pointless- real life is much more interesting and practical than a happily ever after.



You know, it's funny, but the only thing that's made me feel at all like I am getting older- no, not college, moving out, turning 18, looking the part or taking on responsibilities-- it's the fact that I'm drinking my coffee nearly black now.