I don't particularly believe in favorites; they are fleeting. But it would be hard to believe The Counting Crows are not my favorite band. Amanda Davis Harrier, a high school buddy, once accused me of having "friends of the week." I probably wouldn't remember her comment except that she said it to a college buddy who agreed. I didn't realize at the time that I had the tendency to meet someone interesting, hang out with them constantly until I knew them fairly well, and then suddenly without reason or warning just never talk to them again. I liken this to my taste in music. I might listen to nothing but Franz Ferdinand for a month, but the next month the phase is fairly forgotten and I have moved on to Interpol. By contrast, I have listened to The Counting Crows regularly since around 94. PBS just aired one of their concerts, and I am so happy to have stumbled upon it at 1:30 in the morning.
Here are some of my random thoughts about the Counting Crows...
I would never ever take a road trip without at least 2 of their albums with me.
I like the way Adam dances. It is fun.
Miranda Hirons in 1994 told me that he was her #1 husband. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but I understand now.
How sad is it, that they have produced basically a soundtrack to my life and they will never know me...
And there really isn't any clear "they" to know me, "they" have changed members pretty regularly.
I was a little sad when Charlie left because I like the name Charlie and he is mentioned on Across the Wire.
Friends of the week are fairly responsible for my addiction to the Counting Crows.
Desiree Peel introduced me to Across the Wire.
Ryan Crider introduced me to This Desert Life.
I don't know how many people have basically rolled their eyes to my liking of this band.
Have they given the band a chance? Do they see theatrics and judge? or have they actually listened and are just that different from me?
I judge people's music way to often, too. I am such a snob.
Justin Odom or Chris Veatch (I can't remember who as I was visiting them both) once mentioned their fans had turned on them for selling out.
I don't really understand what selling out means.
Alan LastNameUnknown gave me Counting Crow tickets as a wedding present.
Timothy Jay used to email me a quote from a song, and I was supposed to guess the song and the singer. One time it was the Rain King and in tip of the tongue fashion could not remember the song. I was annoyed with myself.
I have made my mom listen to several of their songs on more than one occasion.
I convinced my mom dance with me to at least Mr Jones and Me, Anna Begins, and Angels of the Silences.
If I wouldn't wake the baby up, if my cd player and basement hadn't gotten ruined in the flood, I would go downstairs and dance it out, feel better, and go to sleep.
Good night all. I know this was a ridiculous post but it was something I wanted to do.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Insomnia Post 1: December 18th
So...
Ivy is no longer waking up 3 times a night. But I still am and I have started enjoying the strange bit of quiet time when everyone is asleep. I have found time to read, but I haven't read anything lovely yet. It seems most books are truly terrible. I say that as someone who would love to write a book, but who never will. Billy Lettes's Made In the U.S.A. was quite promising, but it's early forgivable faults manifested into a forced plot and ridiculous happy ending that didn't fit the harsh reality that was so vivid in the beginning. It seems most books have either fantastic beginnings or endings. I wonder why it is so hard to maintain a good story. Similarly, the sleeplessness is enjoyable but I am starting to worry about its ending. There is no real satisfying conclusion. I am a like my own little horror show and it is getting worse. A zombie in the day; a ghost at night. And lazy. Sadie (my adorable fat kitty) just knocked over a glass of milk I left on the end table, and I am in no hurry to clean the mess. I will take care of it before I attempt to slumber again, but only from shame.
My mother has always been an advocate of a good nights sleep. She would say if you can't sleep you can at least rest. I now know that she had no idea what she was talking about. Like everything else in my life, I can't sleep because deep down I don't want to. But if I could manage to sleep tonight, when would I ever have time to write to you, my dear friends--my long lost friends? When would I be able to read the books I do not enjoy? Or secretly eat hidden M&M's simply to pretend to have a secret? I am my own downfall. I lie in bed and think. Not of wants or worries. (Though that may be how it began.) But of what I don't want. And on the top of that list is to lay quietly in bed awaiting a slumber that will not come.
I am in no way blaming Ivy for this. When she woke up several times at night, I would go straight back to sleep. Besides, I don't want to blame my downfalls on Ivy. It isn't fair, though I can easily see how simple it is to blame children. Children alter you. I am not who I was or who I thought I would be. I am simply, "Mom of Ivy". Everything else is secondary.
Ivy is no longer waking up 3 times a night. But I still am and I have started enjoying the strange bit of quiet time when everyone is asleep. I have found time to read, but I haven't read anything lovely yet. It seems most books are truly terrible. I say that as someone who would love to write a book, but who never will. Billy Lettes's Made In the U.S.A. was quite promising, but it's early forgivable faults manifested into a forced plot and ridiculous happy ending that didn't fit the harsh reality that was so vivid in the beginning. It seems most books have either fantastic beginnings or endings. I wonder why it is so hard to maintain a good story. Similarly, the sleeplessness is enjoyable but I am starting to worry about its ending. There is no real satisfying conclusion. I am a like my own little horror show and it is getting worse. A zombie in the day; a ghost at night. And lazy. Sadie (my adorable fat kitty) just knocked over a glass of milk I left on the end table, and I am in no hurry to clean the mess. I will take care of it before I attempt to slumber again, but only from shame.
My mother has always been an advocate of a good nights sleep. She would say if you can't sleep you can at least rest. I now know that she had no idea what she was talking about. Like everything else in my life, I can't sleep because deep down I don't want to. But if I could manage to sleep tonight, when would I ever have time to write to you, my dear friends--my long lost friends? When would I be able to read the books I do not enjoy? Or secretly eat hidden M&M's simply to pretend to have a secret? I am my own downfall. I lie in bed and think. Not of wants or worries. (Though that may be how it began.) But of what I don't want. And on the top of that list is to lay quietly in bed awaiting a slumber that will not come.
I am in no way blaming Ivy for this. When she woke up several times at night, I would go straight back to sleep. Besides, I don't want to blame my downfalls on Ivy. It isn't fair, though I can easily see how simple it is to blame children. Children alter you. I am not who I was or who I thought I would be. I am simply, "Mom of Ivy". Everything else is secondary.
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