Mountainstage came to the CAC Sunday night. As with last time, it was primarily a bluegrass show, and we had a great time.

Started out with the Old Crow Medicine Show, which made me think of Charles deLint. Oddly enough their sound did remind me a bit of the music he describes in some of his stories, although whether that’s his intention or not, I couldn’t say.

Diana Jones was next. She had what I heard someone on the way out describe as “an old time voice.” Very strong. I particularly liked her a cappella tune.

I really liked Jonathan Byrd and Dromedary. Dromedary played a strange variety of instruments, including a strange instrument that looked like a banjo with too many strings and a marvelous sound. I think that I would like one of their albums.

The biggest surprise to me Kris Delmhorst, who had fantastic voice. Once she started singing I remembered having heard her on Mountainstage previously, but she didn’t like old enough and careworn enough to have such an incredible voice.

Dwight Miller & John Morris (I hope I got those names correct) were the old time musicians of the evening. Two old men sitting on chairs playing banjo and fiddle and telling tales between songs. They looked like they belonged sitting on a porch, leaning back, fiddling and picking and telling tales. I was pleased and surprised by how much the audience appreciated them–they received a standing ovation when they were done. Absolutely lovely.

Finishing up the night was the Nashville Bluegrass Band. Very good, very polished group. Their a cappella tune was just amazing–what I liked best of what they did. Oddly enough, I think they were a bit too polished at what they did for me to really love them. Don’t get me wrong, they were good–even great–but something about them just didn’t seem right to men, and I can’t really put my finger on what precisely it was, other than it seemed perhaps too polished. But as I said, they were very very good.

If you were looking to buy me some music from the evening, I think I’d really like something from Old Crow Medicine Show or Dromedary. But everything was very good.

I finally got some good pictures of the latest acquisition from Jungle Jim’s, made when we were in Cincinnati for Andy and Heather’s wedding.

I’m not planning on eating it, but if anyone is interested: it’s sugar-free!

Hadn’t had much of a chance to go through any of the pictures I’d taken this fall.

Pictures taken at my grandmother’s house.

I also got a couple of senic pictures on the way home–the weather however didn’t really cooperate, so despite the beautiful fall color, I got few pictures.

Me: Michael?
Michael: What?
Where are you?
I’m in the basement.
What are you doing?
I’m looking for my eye.
Oh.
(pause)
Me: That reminds me, have you seen my big stick?
Michael: I can’t look for yout big stick until I find my eye!
(later)
Michael: AAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! (holds out eye)
(more…)

I wish someone would explain to me why in Windows XP, you still need to go to DOS to create a text file of a directory list. Stupid.

Meanwhile, here’s what I’ve been listening when I walk:
(more…)

One of the nice things about visiting Grandmom, is that we are usually the first two people wup, and so I get to spend time with her in the morning, just sitting and talking.

We don’t necessarily discuss anything of consequence, we just sit and chat.

It’s a long-standing tradition. Grandmom says that when I was quite small, we’d sit in the kitchen and make Play Doh creatures, or color. But when I got older, we’d sit and talk.

It’s that something about her kitchen that gives me a sense of contentment whenever I’m there. Just walking into her kitchen makes me feel better–and I’m rather fond of kitchens in general, as we’ve sat and talked in other kitchens: at my parent’s house when I was little, at the house where my parents currently live, even here at my house. But it’s not quite the same as being in her kitchen.

I’ve mentioned before that we live close to the stadium.

Sometimes there are advantages.

Plus, being stuck at home was a good excuse to make chocolate biscotti.

The only disapointment is that we’re not close enough to hear the band.

I’ve had the oddest dreams recently. Not that my dreams aren’t normally odd mind you, but still.

Earlier this week I woke up with the feeling that I had spent the entire night running away from people and things in different dreams. The only unifying theme was that I was constantly trying to get away.

The follwoing night I was late for everything, including a disturbing dream where I could not get to sleep. That was an unpleasant awakening let me tell you.

So the past several mornings I awakened feeling just as tired as when I’d gone to sleep. Not my favorite way to greet the day I assure you.

But this morning was the oddest yet. I woke up with the strange sensation that I had been having someone else’s dreams. I can’t recall what the dreams were about, only that I was convinced that they were not my dreams.

So now I’m left with the feeling that someone else spent the night dreaming my dreams, and I wonder what they were.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

–Dylan Thomas

When you see this, post poetry into your journal.

I went grocery shopping this morning at Giant Eagle. Picked up what I needed and then got in line behind a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman who was holding back somewhat in one of the two open lines. He had a bottle of Bushmill’s in his cart (I noticed because I’m partial to Bushmill’s myself) that was set aside as a separate purchase from the rest of the items in his cart. I realized that he was waiting for 9am, when liquor sales begin. Throughout the whole process of ringing up and paying, he chatted and joked with Edith at the register and was quite pleasant. Your typical middle-aged man who looked to be getting ready for a party.

After he left I was chatting to Edith when a man got in line behind me. Like the first man he was middle aged—probably in his 50s or 60s—but unlike the first, this man looked the worse for wear. He also looked as if he might not smell very good. His general demeanor was of a man to whom life had not been very kind. The only thing on the conveyor belt was a large bottle of cheap rum. As I glanced back, I noticed that although his hands were resting on the edge of the conveyer, both arms were visibly trembling.

As I said goodbye to Edith and pushed my cart away, I heard him ask, in a rough voice, for two packs of cheap cigarettes.

It was 9AM. They were just two middle-aged men buying liquor, but they could hardly have been more different.

We had a strange experience last night leaving the student recreation center. (We are going to the Rec center several evenings a week to use The Machines. I wasn’t satisfied with just being a wimp, I have to actually prove my wimpiness by lifting weights for a month, and then still struggling to use the machines on the lowest setting. But I’ll continue, for I know with perseverance that one day I’ll be able to move to setting two.)

Anyway, we were on our way out last night when Michael pointed at the multipurpose court we were walking by. “Look at that!”
“Where? At what?” I asked.
“They’re playing dodgeball!”
“WHAT?!”
I’ll be. They were playing dodgeball. Mixed groups, and although there were predominantly guys, there were females there—and a far greater proportion of females than play basketball.
We walked slowly towards the door, staring at the games as we went by—they were playing in not just one, but two of the courts. We stopped to watch the game that looked like it was winding up.
Michael stared intently at the court. “I wanna play! I wanna play!”
I looked at him incredulously. “You what?”
“I wanna play dodgeball!”
“You WHAT?!”
“I love dodgeball! I was good at it!”
“You were?!”
“Sure! I was small and quick and agile!”
“And now,” I said, “you aren’t.”
He ignored that comment and we watched the game end, as one of the four guys on the far side caught the ball thrown by the last guy on the near side.

I was surprised. It looked kind of fun.

But I am NOT interested in playing. I too may have been small and quick and agile when I was younger, but I also lacked hand eye coordination and was painfully clumsy. No, I won’t be playing dodgball, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind watching.

I bet it still stings when you get hit in the side of the face.

Martin Goldsmith is going to be coming to WVU!

Here’s the blurb:
October 28, 2004, 8:00 PM – 9:00 PM
Mr. Martin Goldsmith, former host of the National Public Radio’s Performance Today and author, will give a lecture titled “Inextinguishable Symphony: A True Story of Music and Love in Nazi Germany.”

I realized last night that the two TV shows (DS9 & Buffy) we have on DVD have something in common.

Rather odd, actually.