Just doing my part to give the last Facebook holdouts one more reason to join

First up, a few updates, because giving you even more information about things you probably weren't riveted by the first time sounds like an excellent idea, no? Some people tell worthwhile, NEW stories! That is not how I roll.

So, shockingly, I have yet to hear anything from the charming Josh Ritter, despite how many times I included his name in that last post for the Google-bots to find. I did not even see any Ritter-related search activity in my referrals list this week. It seems I have overestimated the appeal that vanity-Googling holds for celebrities. Maybe stars really aren't just like us after all.

While Josh Ritter hasn't found his way to my blog in search of a new girlfriend, however, it seems other people think I may be some sort of authority on celebrity relationships. (Hint: I am not.) I do not know if Martin Zellar is still married, nor do I have any idea if Alanis Morissette and Jim Creegan have been romantically linked. (I do know they are both Canadian, but nobody is Googling that today.) I hope those particular searchers found what they were looking for, because I am certain they did not find it here.

In other news, I am pleased to report that the dead squirrel count, for now, still rests at two. I remain suspicious, however, as does my neighbor, who is just as baffled as I am why two squirrels would go belly-up within a ten-foot radius of one another in the same month. His first theory was that some plant in his yard might be poisoning them. This is not the first time he's proven to be a more rational thinker than I am, because my first theory was that my yard is, for some reason, the squirrel population's answer to Topper's House. Poor, down-on-their luck squirrels are coming from all corners of the neighborhood just to off themselves in my yard. Why? I cannot say. But in lieu of my sprinkling squirrel-sized portions of Prozac in the vicinity, I do hope they find an alternate suicide spot soon.

I realize this is an unlikely explanation, of course, but it is no more absurd than the one I came up with the following day. Looking out my kitchen window, I noticed that the rabbit who lives in my yard was eyeing a squirrel with more focused malevolence than seemed normal or warranted, and I decided perhaps Thumper (as the elderly woman next door calls him) was to blame for the squirrel carnage. It's probably ridiculous to theorize that a descendant of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog might be living in my backyard, but that explanation would help me feel a bit less guilty about occasionally wanting to pour cement into the two large holes he's dug in my lawn.

Next up, more about my yard. Or rather, the things growing in and near it. (Wait! Where are you going?? I need your help here!) Do you remember how excited I was when I saw little green balls of promise pop up on the tomato plants I bought? I should have known it would not be that easy. Given that nearly every plant that's ever been entrusted to me has at least half-withered under my care, it should have been obvious that my optimism about those tomatoes was entirely premature. Look at my sad tomato plants now! The leaves at the bottom keep turning yellow! The leaves at the top have all but disappeared! People, what has happened to my tomato-related hopes and dreams?!



I have asked my friend Google what causes yellowing of tomato plant leaves, and shockingly, Google was of exactly zero help. Yellow leaves could mean that I am overwatering or that I am underwatering. They could be a sign that the soil doesn't have enough nitrogen, or enough calcium, or that my poor plants have fallen to some insect or disease.

Surely several of you know more about gardening than I do. Tell me, how do I know which is to blame?!? With all of those options, I have no clue how to troubleshoot. I feel like Rick Moranis in Little Shop of Horrors, pleading in song for sickly little Audrey 2 to grow. (Come on, you remember that one: "I've tried you in levels of moisture from desert to mud! I've given you grow-lights and mineral supplements; what do you want from me, blood?!?") I do want results from these tomato plants, but at what price? I draw the line at opening a vein for them.

Of course, with that thought, it suddenly occurs to me that my tomato plants are actually rather close to where the last squirrel was attacked. Maybe these tomato plants ARE blood thirsty. That would solve two mysteries in one! My sometimes flimsy grasp on reality hasn't failed me entirely, however. So who has a more likely explanation for me?

And finally, on a happier, more pleasant note, I am a winner! A few weeks ago, I entered a contest that my favorite liquor store held on their Facebook page. Their fans were to each leave a comment saying what they love about the store, and there would later be a drawing to award someone a free case of Chardonnay. This afternoon, I received an email from the store. Hurrah; I WON! Whee! Ideally, the prize would be a case of Folie à Deux Menage a Trois Red rather than Finnegan's Lake Chardonnay, but winners can't be choosers, after all. (Wait. That's not how the saying goes...) So I will have to have a Chardonnay party. Or, perhaps, all of my friends will be getting Chardonnay for Christmas. Or, you know, I could just accept that it is summer and be a more frequent friend to whites. In any case, there is a lesson here: lead with your strengths and stick with what you know. My gardening attempts = epic fail. With liquor (and Facebook), I win!

And I thought the last one would have made a good imaginary "How we met" story...

People, I have a situation. It's not a pretty one. I am typing at the moment from a chair in my front yard, not because I enjoy putting myself on display for my neighborhood, all, "Hey, look at me! I am a single woman with nothing better to do on a Friday night than sit outside with a glass of wine and a laptop!" but because I am too horrified to tuck myself away unnoticed in my backyard.

It seems having a squirrel give up the ghost in my backyard wasn't a one-time thing. There must be some sort of anti-squirrel predator or force field in the area between my neighbor's fence and my back walkway, because another dead squirrel is now lying only about five feet away from where the previous one went belly up. This one is on my property, so I don't feel particularly right asking my neighbor to remove it for me. Unfortunately, it's also much more vile than the previous one. Suddenly I'm not sure why I was so terrified to deal with that first squirrel, because I realize now that I would have rather touched that one with my bare hands than scoop the scattered remains of this one up even with a ten-foot-long shovel. I'm really trying to spare you the graphic details. I'm failing, so I'd better just move on.

And oh, look at that. I left my post for five minutes to duck back in my house, and now there is a bug in my wine glass. Fantastic. Bugs in my wine, crows circling overhead, flies swarming in on a revolting target a mere 30 feet away... Perhaps outdoor blogging isn't as appealing as I thought it might be. Think I'll move this party back inside after all.

So then. Focusing on more pleasant thoughts. Last night Josh Ritter was in town, so Carrie and I went to the Varsity Theater to see one of our favorite (Carrie went so far as to say "the original") Boy Meets Guitar. Our pal Lisa was supposed to join us, but unfortunately she had a doctor's appointment earlier in the day that unexpectedly ended with a staple being deliberately put in her head (ouch), and I can't particularly blame her for not feeling up to a concert night after that. (Look at me; I have finally veered away from dead rodents and now I am talking about surgical staples. Aren't you glad you clicked this link in your feed reader today?)

ANYWAY, as usual, Josh did not disappoint. I've already told this story once, but it was two years ago, so allow me to tell you again what's so very special about this boy. The first time I saw him, it was amid a crowd of fewer than 40 people, many of whom had probably wandered into the club having no idea who they were going to see, taking the chance that their $5 cover charge would not be a bust. Lisa and I were there on Carrie's recommendation. She was living in Chicago at the time, and she emailed us to say that a dude worth seeing was coming to our town, and we should go to his show. So we went, and we liked what we heard, and after the show, Josh milled about selling CDs and handing out promotional postcards, so we talked to him for a bit. Despite the small crowd, Josh was thrilled that we were there. "Thank you SO MUCH for coming!" he gushed. "How did you hear about the show?" When we told him our friend in Chicago had recommended it, he wanted to sign a postcard for her. But he didn't just sign it; he thanked her for sending us, and he wrote, "Stefanie is gorgeous, and Lisa is the belle of the ball!" We were both smitten. "I've never been the belle of the ball before!" Lisa said. The boy was just a young pup at the time, but he knew how to charm the ladies.

Since then, I've seen Josh nearly every time he's come to town, and each time, the crowd is larger and more dedicated. He's now successful enough that there are Josh Ritter tribute bands (in Ireland, apparently), but he's still just as grateful someone's there to listen. That wide-eyed enthusiasm hasn't faded; the grin on his face has only grown wider. I suppose it's possible that underneath that stage presence, he is an insufferable diva, a volatile force I would never want to know in person, but I don't want to believe that is the case. As far as I am concerned, he is a nice boy from Idaho who says "Please" and "Thank you," who, despite his success, is still sort of awe-struck that people will actually pay money to come and hear him play, to see him do what presumably he loves best.

It's hard to watch him and not develop a bit of a crush, and Carrie and I are certainly not immune. Last night's show was at the same venue where I met the MPR reporter as a discussion panelist, so Carrie turned to me mid-set and said, "I think you should make a habit of picking up anyone you see on the stage at the Varsity."

It's a compelling suggestion, but somehow I think asking Josh Ritter out for a drink via email might be even less successful than asking an MPR reporter out turned out to be. Of course, I may not actually have to send such an email, as this is the information age, and I have had a blog and a Sitemeter account long enough to know that even on the smallest and least notable of web sites, any words you type about a celebrity do not go unnoticed. No, thanks to Google Alerts and Technorati, Josh Ritter's publicist, or perhaps even Josh Ritter himself, will likely read this within a few short days of my clicking that "Publish Post" button. I sure am glad I talked about inside-out squirrels and head staples in the same post as the lyrical genius of young Mr. Ritter. (Message to Josh: Hi there! Call me!) Sigh.

Weekend update on a Tuesday (but fully bullet-free!)

So it seems I'm on the one-post-a-week plan now, which I suppose would be fine, if I were spending those several days between posts mulling over amusing little anecdotes to share on my next login. Instead, in the intervening time it seems I not only forget I have a blog, but also forget how to write. Maybe it's not entirely my fault. I am still reading that damn Twilight series, after all, so maybe Stephenie Meyer is to blame. Maybe I could craft clever, poignant sentences, but thanks to Bella Swan, the only adjectives in my head are "impossibly beautiful" and "dazzling," and unless I am writing about eternally 17-year-old vampires or Julia Roberts's teeth, neither of those do me much good.

Fear not, however. I am a mere 200 pages away from saying goodbye to the Cullens for good, at which point I plan to cleanse my mental palate with something of substance. Or at least something more charged with the pointless, light-hearted frivolity we've come to expect around here. Maybe some Jane Austen, so I can have my light-hearted frivolity under the guise of heady literature. Win-win!

Meanwhile, I could at least try to tell you what I've been up to lately without resorting to the quick and lazy bullet-point form... Let's see. Last night, I listened to a Presidential address without heckling for the first time in eight years. The night before that, I scored a prime, two-feet-from-the-stage spot at a surprisingly sparse Rhett Miller show, putting me in clear, up-close view of one of my very favorite imaginary boyfriends and his not-so-imaginary shiny rock star hair and ever-bendy rock star hips. We were close enough for him to sweat on us (though if you've ever seen Rhett perform, you know that you could probably be a good fifteen feet from the stage and still make that same claim). It would have been even better if the very sloshed girl and her even more sloshed husband in front of us hadn't thought the fact that they got engaged at a Rhett show two years ago entitled them the right to command Rhett's attention for the duration of his set, but hey, there's one of those at every concert, is there not?

Working backwards, that brings us to Saturday. And what did I do Saturday? Oh, nothing special. Just watched a couple of dear friends get engaged in a snowy, candle-lit downtown park. In all seriousness, it was magical, which is only fitting given that the man who was doing the proposing is the one I long ago referred to as The Magical Boy. He wanted to propose to his lovely girlfriend at Peavey Plaza on Nicollet Mall, and he enlisted me and Carrie to set the scene for him while they were at dinner. We arranged ice luminaries around the frozen fountain and placed flickering candles inside, then queued up a stereo to play a love song from La Boheme when the couple arrived. She said yes, of course, after which Carrie and I (and The Buddhist, who, though he'd never met The Magical Boy, was happy to come along for the ride anyway) popped out of our hiding spots on the other end of the park and joined in an impromptu dance party on the skating rink.

If we are keeping track of checkmarks in The Buddhist's "plus" column, by the way, we can add two more to the list. First, that he was fully OK with changing our plans for the evening when I told him this very special task had come up, and second, that, after meeting The Magical Boy and his new fiance', he summed up his first impressions with, "It's hard to say which one of those two is cuter." My thoughts exactly. They truly are the most non-sickeningly adorable couple I know. So congrats, Aaron and Colleen. Can't wait to attend the undoubtedly fun, creative, and uniquely environmentally friendly and socially responsible party you're sure to throw when you tie that knot.

Live blogging my water heater repair

OK folks, the plumber this morning? Nothing to write home about (er, blog about). He was a perfectly nice man who was very sympathetic when he told me that the asbesto-lined vent that my old gas-powered water heater was connected to no longer complies with city code, and I would therefore need to purchase a more expensive and less efficient electric unit to replace it instead. He even hauled my old unit out to my alley for city pickup without charging me the $40 they usually require for removal. I am pretty sure that plumber was not my soul mate, however, and even if he were, the woman I overheard him talking to about their sprinkler system (a woman I can only assume was his wife) probably wouldn't be too thrilled with that news.

The electrician I had to pay an additional $399 to come and complete the job, though? Um, yeah. I think he came from the same agency that sent Noelle's unexpectedly hot plumber earlier this year. I quickly fired off an email to a coworker explaining there was a very attractive and handy man in my basement, and she quickly replied that I should offer him a drink and a little snack. He declined the "Can I get you a soda or some water?" question. (I didn't have the nerve to offer him a semi-recently-baked cookie as well.) So tell me: what else should I ask the guy?

I would love to hear who has the best pickup line for a hot electrician on my property. Mind you, I won't actually have the nerve to use it, but it would amuse me anyway...

I hear those Latins also made a mean martini

So am I the last person to hear about Zabasearch, or is this nifty little search tool new to you, too? A friend of mine introduced me to that site last weekend, and I quickly decided it's a fine and valuable supplement to Google for routine, recreational sleuthing. Want the last recorded address for any person you've ever known? Want a birth year along with that info as well? Zabasearch likely has it for you. Zabasearch even knows where I could stalk the "bird" half of The Bird and the Bee when she wraps up the tour she's now on. Incidentally, if her "people" are reading this, please know I'm just kidding. I promise I am not the stalking type. Had I not been listening to an archived in-studio performance on MPR's web site while I was Zabasearching (in preparation for the show I'm attending this week), it never even would have occurred to me to check that name. Since I did find her, however, I have to wonder how many other famous and semi-famous names might be on public record. Not that I tried to find any. Of course not. I have better things to do with my time. (Riiiiight. Moving on.)

I actually think it's much more fun to web-stalk non-famous people whom I know than famous people whom I don't, so naturally, I also asked Zaba about some long-lost names from my past, including my old friend Craig, on whom I had a recurring crush back in college. I've Googled Craig periodically over the years, just out of curiosity, wondering where he ended up, and I've never found any particularly informative results. Zabasearch knows where he is, though, and the Google link from that search actually led to a new, recent, relevant result: a wedding announcement from late last summer.

For some absurd reason, my heart actually sank a tiny bit when I read that announcement and saw the photo of my old friend with his smiling new bride. Did I think I was actually ever going to reconnect with him? Of course not. But there's something to be said for far-off silly fantasies tucked deep (or even not-so-deep) within your mind. They're harmless, if you ask me. Most of the time, anyway.

The last time I saw Craig was the weekend he graduated from college. I was in town visiting some friends (having graduated the previous year myself), and I ran into him on Water Street, the street-of-many-college-bars in my former college town. I hugged him, said "Happy Graduation," and asked what he was going to do next in life. "I'm gonna find you, and MARRY YOU!!" he slurred, with a dopey but charming smile on his face. Sigh. He was a drunken fool, but he was adorable. Unfortunately, that's not the sort of marriage proposal you can hold anyone to, so I just have to wish him and his little blond* wife well.

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* This has nothing to do with the rest of my post, but I have to ask it anyway. Am I the only one who apparently learned the word blond as blonde and still prefers to spell it that way? Dictionary.com and Merriam-Webster both indicate that blonde is an acceptable variant, but Firefox's red dotted lines disagree with me. But then, I am the girl who sometimes types her list parentheses backwards, so what the hell do I know, right? Still. Blond looks wrong to me. I much prefer the spelling with the "e."
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I don't think of Craig all that often, but it's funny the things that still always remind me of him. Someone utters the phrase "lactose intolerant," for instance, and I'll remember Craig trying to put a bad ass, powerful spin on a generally wussy-sounding affliction. "I will not TOLERATE lactose!" he once shouted with conviction, calling up the same spirit as political revolutionaries the world over.

And last week, when I was moving books from my tiny, old, inadequate particle board bookcases onto the larger, only slightly better quality ones I bought to replace them (as part of Operation Get Fucking Organized Already), I came across this, which was a gift from Craig on the occasion of my own college graduation (upon which I did not propose to him--either drunk or sober).



It looks like just an ordinary used book of Latin poetry--presumably a fine gift for a graduating English major. You have to check out the inscription inside, however, to see it was actually two, two gifts in one...



All right, so he couldn't remember how to spell my name, and I've known third graders with better penmanship. But let's look at page 115, as he requested, shall we?...



The dude made me my very own booksafe. And I have kept it, to this day.

Like I said, he was adorable. I only hope Blondy appreciates my almost-husband's fabulously dorky wit.

Weekend Update

Surely by now we're all familiar with the bullet-point weekend recap, aren't we? I mean, it's almost a meme, right? Right. Well here's another one.


Things I did NOT do this weekend:

• Get any Christmas shopping done. (Damn you, No Coast, with all your clever, pretty things that were calling MY name but not the names of any of my friends! It's back to proverbial Square One for me on gifts.)
  
  
• Get any grocery shopping done. (Do you ever end up with random non-perishable food that has been in your cupboard or freezer for so long, you do not actually remember purchasing it? Since it has already been so long since I went shopping, I suddenly have this twisted idea that maybe I should not go grocery shopping again until all of those items are gone. I am running out of food that does not fit into this category, and rather than shop, perhaps this is a good excuse to do some forced using-up of neglected food. Hell, who needs fresh produce when I have Lipton cup-a-soup from the late 90s and mini corn dogs that expired last summer? Surely not me!)
  
  
• Clean my bathroom.
  
  
• Clean my living room.
  
  
• Clean my ANYTHING in my house. (Seriously, do not come over until further notice. Even hobos might shake their heads at the filth and squalor I'm living in currently.)
  

Things I DID do this weekend:

• Get in a fight with H about the Catholic Church's view on birth control. (Kidding. It was not a fight at all, and I was actually sort of hoping H was right and my very Catholic mother was wrong. This site suggests otherwise, however. Incidentally, for some reason I thought it might be funny to pretend that H threatened to throw down with me over something so unlikely, but it now occurs to me that joking about religious warfare is maybe not so funny at all. In that case, you can go here for the much more accurate and complete recap of the overall delightful dinner that H and R and I had at Nye's Polonaise. H, can I still come over to play Guitar Hero sometime? Because playing Guitar Hero is on the list of things I did NOT do this weekend, too, and from what I hear, I need to remedy that.)
  
  
• Win the first game of Balderdash I've convinced anyone to play with me in the past five years. And now I would like to revise my answer to the very important question Malia posed recently and say that if I had to save the world from aliens or giant robots using only my prowess in one board game, I think I'd place the fate of the planet on Balderdash. Seriously, I could totally kick some robot/alien ass. In the event of a tie-breaker situation, however, Boggle remains my very close backup choice.
  
  
• Shovel my way out of the first big snowfall of the year (made a lot easier by my helpful neighbor, "Reed," snowblowing my driveway and front sidewalk again... seriously, I won the neighbor jackpot with that guy... I would like to ask that he please, please never move).
  
  
• Have dinner with Bob Schneider. OK, so he was at the next table eating dinner with other people, but he was a mere foot and a half away from me(!!)--close enough to actually see what he was eating and ask him to pass the salt, if I'd felt so inclined. My friend Lisa and I are big fans, but we managed not to bother him at all during his dinner--only caught his eye and said, "Hi, we're coming to your show tonight!" when he was getting up to leave. I was all proud of myself for maintaining my composure and not saying anything too ridiculous whilst talking to a bona fide famous person (particularly one I routinely refer to as one of my fake boyfriends). But then Bob kindly and graciously asked if we had any requests for the show, and I drew a complete blank and forgot the title to any and every of my favorite Bob songs. Because I am smooth like that. So instead of answering, "Sure! How about A Long Way to Get?" or "The Way Life is Supposed to Be" or "God is My Friend" or "Round and Round" or any number of songs I could have suggested I'd like, I said, "Well, Batman, of course" (which is pretty much like requesting Birdhouse in Your Soul at a TMBG show, I think--he's going to play it, but he's likely sick to death of it at this point), and followed that with, "and, um... you know, whatever; I like almost everything you do." Almost? Almost? And then, because I am insane and obviously self-centered, I spent the next two hours convinced that Bob was worrying his pretty little head over which of his songs I don't think were worth recording. You know, because the opinion of one random girl in Minnesota is obviously so important to him. Lord. I need help.
  
  I actually thought about posting the footage from Batman that I recorded for my own amusement during last night's show, but that would involve file compression or "multi-video upload" or some other fancy term I read about in You Tube's help files but have no idea at the moment how to accomplish. Besides that, recording at the show was probably illegal, and I think I've offended Bob enough for one week, don't you? So you'll just have to settle for someone else's video instead. Looks like there's plenty of it out there to choose from.
  
  

And that about wraps up my weekend. Tell me, what did you do with yours?

Ooh! It! Feels good to be free!*

Many of you have probably already heard about this fun little experiment called the Blog Share, which -R- organized as a way for all of us to air our dirty little secrets to the Internet anonymously. That means today's post here at Stefanie Says comes from an unnamed blogger, and I have an anonymous post floating around somewhere on the Internet as well.

My guest blogger has obviously familiarized herself with my blog, as she chose to let her post continue my alphabet theme. I assure you, however, her chosen subject is not my "L" entry in the Encyclopedia of Me. I may be a liberal with a love of lip balm and libraries, but that's about as far as I relate to this one.

And with that, take it away, anonymous poster!

_______________________________


"L" is for "Leonard."

Leonard, you say? What with the huh now?

I refer, of course, to Leonard Nimoy, otherwise known (to me, and those few select friends with whom I have previously shared this particular attraction) as the SEXIEST MAN ALIVE. (And let me just be clear--I do not have a crush on Mr. Spock. Okay, wait... I do, a little. But I have an even bigger crush on Leonard.)

I'm not kidding. I love him. I have a life-sized cutout of him (as Mr. Spock) in my living room. (Well, actually I have the top half of the cutout--he was cut off at the knees by an evil cat and her claws. Sorry, Lenny!) I used to write in his name in all the sexy man magazine polls. I don't know why he never won.

Seriously, watch this, and then tell me the man's not hot! (And dig those hip backup dancers. Groovy, baby!)

He's a true Renaissance man--actor, writer, director, singer, photographer, and poet. I actually purchased a book of his poetry on Ebay (for $1--what a deal!), and I will quote some of it for you now (with Leonard's own inimitable spacing): (Editor's note: Sorry, guest poster; I don't think Blogger likes the forced spacing. My apologies that this likely won't look as it's supposed to.

You mean so much
to me
I wish
I could be
A cushion following you
Wherever you go
To be there
In case you should fall.

I won't do that.

It would deprive you
Of your self-respect
But please,
If there is a bruise,
Let me help to heal it.


See? Deep. He wrote it just for me. Really. The name of the collection is "These Words Are For You." For ME. Swoon. He wants to heal MY bruises. (He might want to rethink that particular phrasing, actually, given how clumsy and accident-prone I am. He might not have time to do anything else but tend my bruises, and the world NEEDS his special talents.)

Okay, true confession time. His poetry is crap. (WHO SAID THAT?) But I stand by my declaration of love, nonetheless. Oh, Leonard... I hope you live long and prosper. (Call me!)

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll attempt a quick and dirty list of other "L" items that give or have given me pleasure.

• Lilies, stargazer (Want to woo me? This is how.)


• Lyle Lovett ('nuff said.)


• Lifetime TV movies (You watch 'em, too!)


• Lemons (Tart!)


• Limes (Tangy!)


• Lean Cuisines (The single gal's best friend.)


• Lipstick, lipgloss, lip balm (Say no to chapped lips!)


• Lapidary (Pretty, pretty stones.)


• Language (Duh.)


• Laughter (The best medicine.)


• Libraries (Books, books, books!)


• Limericks (There once was a man from Nantucket...)


• L'Engle, Madeleine (Rest in peace.)


• Lettuce (Something's got to hold the dressing.)


• Liturgy (Rites and rituals.)


• Lift-off tape (What, you've never made a mistake?)


• London (I see London, I see France...)


• Lucy (I Love.)


• Lipman, Elinor (Sometimes you just want a fun read.)


• Lamps (Say no to harsh overhead lighting.)


• Liberals (Lean to the left!)


• Loaves of bread (Take that, Dr. Atkins.)


• Linda Lovelace (Kidding! Wanted to see if you were still with me.)

Okay, now my brain hurts. So I'm going to get the "L" out of here (groan) before I start adding things like "La Brea Tar Pits," "Liberace" and "Loch Ness Monster."

_______________________________

Want to read more anonymous posts? Here's a list of all the participating blogs--one of which is hosting an anonymous post by yours truly. Think you know which one it is? (If so, don't spill it in the comments here! It's a secret. Got it? OK!)

Alyndabear
And You Know What Else
Bright Yellow World
Confessions of a Novice
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Face Down
Liz Land
Muse On Vacation
Nabbalicious
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Not What You Think It Is
Operation Pink Herring
Red Red Whine
Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills
Sass Attack
Stefanie Says
Thinking Some More

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* I doubt even my guest poster caught the reference in the subject line, but surely there are at least a few Rilo Kiley fans out there!
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It's late, and I'm title-less, and all I can think of is "Ritter-rific." I'm sorry.

Well, that poll didn't yield a lot of results, but that's OK. You'll get brain lint another time; right now I want to talk about Josh Ritter.

First though, I have a grievance to air. Mapquest? You are dead to me. DEAD, I say. Enough of you and your useless, confounding directions, your ridiculous attempts to draw the shortest distance between two points as a jagged diagonal line across side streets and small alleyways instead of taking me down well-known roads that create a more logical route. I know that missing piece of Interstate where a bridge used to be makes your job a bit more complicated these days, but do you really think the best way to get me to the West Bank is on tiny, poorly marked streets on a University campus that were never intended for through-traffic? Because if you ask me, that's just plain dumb, and I think the many pedestrians carelessly meandering about in the area would agree.

I can't hold myself to this, of course. I know I will continue to take the abuse, to circle near the river aimlessly, to be Mapquest's bitch. Why? Because when I use the alternative, my directions invariably begin three miles from the start point I've identified and/or include roads currently closed for major construction. I can't win, dammit. I'm forced to remain with Mapquest or resort to an old-school paper atlas. No thank you.

This rant is my way of getting to the fact that I did find my way to the Cedar Cultural Center on Wednesday night, no thanks to Mapquest and whatever useless and evil hamsters keep it running. And luckily, it was a show worth the frustrating and convoluted journey. Thank you, Josh, for that.

I first saw Josh Ritter back in 2003 (2002? 2004? Frankly, it's all just one big long year). I went over to Fine Line for his set on the recommendation of an out-of-town friend who said, "I'm a sucker for 'boy-plus-guitar,' and he's one of the best I've heard lately. He's coming to your city, and you should go." So my friend Lisa and I went, where we joined a lackluster smattering of attendees, many of whom had likely wandered in sight unseen with no clue what they were paying a cover for that night.

We each bought CDs and then stood in a rather short line to have them signed. And Josh Ritter was, hands-down, the friendliest, most grateful and enthusiastic musician I've spoken to before. That might mean more if I'd actually met more than a handful of musicians in post-show signings, but I think it holds true nonetheless. "Thank you so much for coming!" he gushed. "How did you hear about the show?" "Thank you for coming!!" he said again. He had promotional postcards for his album on hand, and we had him write one to the out-of-town friend who'd sent us there. "Stefanie is gorgeous," he wrote, "And Lisa is the belle of the ball."

"I've never been the belle of the ball before!" Lisa mused. Frankly, we were both smitten.

The next time I saw Josh play, it was in the same venue, but a year or two later. In that time, he'd become big enough abroad to inspire Irish tribute bands and apparently respected enough here to warrant drunk frat boys belting out lyrics on a significantly more crowded dance floor. But through all that, the man seems as enthusiastic about playing, as genuinely thrilled to have an audience, as self-deprecating in his amusing stories as he did in that sparsely attended show as an unknown. And for that, I have to sort of love the guy, in a "he's like your friend's adorable little brother" sort of way. The music industry has far too many jaded, self-important assholes. I refuse to believe Josh Ritter will ever be one of them.

Anyway, this is supposed to be a Friday Five, so I'd best be getting to the enumerating, I suppose. For lack of any "Five Fun Facts about Josh Ritter" or "Five Annoying Things about the Josh Ritter Show," I'm just going to go with five of my favorite lyrics from his songs. He is a soulful lyrical genius, after all--a Lyrical Gangsta, I suppose, if a nice boy from Idaho could ever qualify as a Gangsta in any way.

These are almost all from Hello Starling, simply because that's what I listened to on my way to work this morning, but you should check out all his other fine work as well. And you should see him live at your next opportunity. Guinness Girl agrees with me.

1. From Kathleen: "All the other girls here are stars--you are the Northern Lights." I've always loved this line, as well as another one from this same song: "Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied."
   
   
2. From You Don't Make It Easy Babe: "Trying hard to love you; you don't make it easy, babe." It's not so much this line I love, but the memory of the story Josh told to precede this song at the first show I saw. He'd been driving across the country, through the flatlands and miles and miles of boring landscape, and he told the crowd that at one point, somewhere in Nebraska (sorry, -R-), he couldn't help but start singing that line to the state. I think of it every time I hear this song. Incidentally, I also really like, "Oh the heart has no bones you say so it won't break, but the purpose of loving is the pounding it takes," which has nothing to do with Nebraska, but is poignant anyway.
   
   
3. From California: "I'm alone, but I'm not lonely." This is sort of my mantra... you know, along with that whole kayak thing.
   
   
4. From Snow Is Gone: "It's been a long time coming but now the snow is gone." My affinity for this one is more about the vibrancy and enthusiasm in this song than about the lyrics themselves. Anyone in Minnesota or Wisconsin surely appreciates the sentiment. "Play this song and you will really believe spring is upon us," one reviewer at Amazon wrote. True, sure, but I think it's also not just about snow clearing and spring coming. Dusting off the old and breaking way for the new goes beyond that, I think, in this case.
   
   
5. From Come and Find Me: "You don't know it's right until it's wrong; You don't know it's yours until it's gone; I didn't know that it was home 'til you up and left." I don't really have anything more to say about this; it just resonates in some way, I guess.
   

So. Josh Ritter. Check him out, particularly live. This isn't a music blog for a reason (namely, that I suck at describing music or musicians in any meaningful way), but I just thought I needed to share that with all of you.

Friday Five: Fantasy Edition

I had a Friday Five for today all picked out... started writing it last night and everything... and then I went to IMDB this morning and realized it is my fake boyfriend Paul Rudd's birthday today*. Happy birthday, Paul. Or rather, happy birthday, Josh, as I prefer to call you, since I've never particularly liked the name "Paul" and since it was as Josh in Clueless when I first fell for you a little bit. Since you are, after all, just my imaginary boyfriend, I feel it is entirely within my rights to change your name.

Thinking about Josh made me think about all my other imaginary boyfriends (which is something I was already thinking about recently, ever since Preppy Girl posted a list of her movie boyfriends). So in honor of Josh's birthday (and in the interest of continuing the discussion started over at Preppy Girl's Guide), here we are:

My Five Favorite Imaginary Boyfriends

1. Paul Rudd. Duh. It is his birthday, after all. It would be rude not to put him first in the list.
   
   


2. Ethan Hawke. The number one spot on every day that is not Paul Rudd's birthday. But then, he got his own post back on his birthday, so I can't imagine he should be too terribly offended.
   
   


3. Michael Vartan. I never watched Alias, but I have had a crush on Michael Vartan even since before Never Been Kissed... since way back when he played Richard's hot eye doctor son on Friends. I have a bizarrely accurate memory for bit-part co-stars, and when my friend Cary and I saw Never Been Kissed in the theater two years later, I actually said, "That's the guy Monica couldn't date because she had already gone out with his dad!" I am not particularly proud of this talent, mind you; I am sure there are much more useful things I could be storing in my brain, but in the days before IMDB, I still think this is a wee bit impressive.
   
   


4. Rhett Miller. Since I am going with the category of imaginary boyfriends rather than specifically movie boyfriends, I obviously need to include him on the list.
   
   


5. OK, for this last slot, I cannot decide between John Krasinski (too recent to assume that my love for him will undoubtedly endure), Viggo Mortenson (my imaginary boyfriend only as Aragorn and entirely unattractive to me in too many other roles), Justin Long (too young, really), or Jon Stewart. Instead, therefore, I will fill this slot with my imaginary girlfriend. If I can pretend any of these men are my boyfriend, I can pretend I'm a lesbian as well, can I not? In that case, how's it going, Tina Fey? That's right; I'm lookin' at you.

So. Who's your imaginary boyfriend/girlfriend? I'm sure I've forgotten more than a few someones who are undoubtedly quite worthy.


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* If you go to IMDB, you will see that it is also Zach Braff's birthday. Much as I appreciate Zach Braff, however, I am for some reason not smitten enough to consider him my movie boyfriend. Feel free to send your own birthday wishes to him, however.