According to my sources (and I have many of them), there ought to have been a new U2 album out about now. The U2s have been fairly punctual about getting a solid album out every four years or so, with a tour following about six months later. I know this, because at this point my little biological rhythms have adjusted to expect these things at regular intervals.
But for reasons known only to God and Bono, they've decided to delay their album until next spring, so I'm trying to make do until then. In the meantime, let's have us a playlist! In lieu of any new material, I present a list of little-known gems you've (likely) never heard before, unless you've taken an extensive amount of road trips with me in the past eight years or so.
Since the vernerable playlist-sharing site muxtape.com seems to be well and truly gone, I'm happy to do this the old-fashioned way and send a copy to anyone who wants one. Yay mail! Let the geek-out begin:
1. Big Girls are Best: A product of the Pop sessions, this is a dancey little number with saucy lyrics about why real women have curves.
2. Lady with the Spinning Head: I'm pretty sure that this was a prototype of "The Fly" from Achtung Baby (the guitar solo is a giveaway), but it stands on its own.
3. Walk On ("America: A Tribute to Heroes"): You've probably heard the original single from All That You Can't Leave Behind, but this version was part of a telethon to raise money for survivors of 9/11. Recorded live 10 days after the attacks, Bono and company turn a self-empowerment song into an ode to their adopted city of New York, and wrench a million guts in the process. Fun fact: Aussie pop star Natalie Imbruglia on backing vocals!
4. Dancing Barefoot: Sexy little cover of a Patti Smith song, originally featured as a B-side to Rattle and Hum's "When Love Comes to Town."
5. If God Will Send His Angels (Single Version): An overlooked track on the undeservedly maligned Pop album. The trouble with Pop is that is was finished a bit too quickly, but there was some good stuff there. This single version is a bit more polished than the album version, and is really lovely. It builds slow, but give it time. You'll be glad you did.
6. Always: Clearly a precursor to "Beautiful Day," but with some nice Bono aphorisms. He's good at those.
7. Sunday Bloody Sunday (Live from Sarajevo): So here's the story: It's 1997, and the city of Sarajevo has spent the better part of the previous four years getting the shit kicked out of it during the Bosnian war. The war is over, but the people are still reeling. U2 bring their PopMart extravaganza to town in September, providing the people of Sarajevo with their first excuse to party in years (U2 would repeat this form of rock therapy during their epic post-9/11 shows in NYC, but that's a blog in itself...). In the middle of the show, Edge steps out on stage and does a lovely, fragile, stripped-down version of their classic anti-war anthem all by his lonesome. Not a dry eye in the house.
8. Slow Dancing: U2 and Willie Nelson! And it really, really works!
9. Stand By Me (with Bruce Springsteen): Oookaaaay...so it goes off the rails a bit during the ad-libbing towards the end, and the sound quality is more than a little dodgy, but it's freakin' Springsteen and freakin' Bono, doin' what Springsteen and Bono do. I think this is from a 1987 show in Philly, but don't quote me on that.
10.The Ground Beneath Her Feet: This appeared as the last track on All That You Can't Leave Behind everywhere...except the U.S. It's based on a Salman Rushdie novel and was featured in the little-seen Wim Wenders movie Million Dollar Hotel, co-written by Bono, and starring Mel Gibson (yes, you read that right, check it). But despite that confusing pedigree, it's quite a pretty little love song. Phew! I haven't had a good U2 geek-out like that in some time. That should hold me until tickets go on sale.
Robyn
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Vegas and LA
I just got back from a long weekend out in Las Vegas and Los Angeles. I don't get out that way much, and with all due respect to my west coast friends, LA is not really my bag. The side venture to Vegas was kind of my present to myself for having to go out to LaLaLand for my cousin's wedding. I'm a Northeast Corridor chick. It can't be helped.
Which isn't to say that there's nothing of merit out there. Counterintuitive though it seems, a quick dose of Vegas can be good for the soul. It's one of the last places where everything is designed to make you feel really damn good about yourself, if only for long enough to convince you that there is no better way to pass the time than to wantonly throw away cash. I've got five minutes before the airport shuttle comes? Whatever shall I...oh hel-LO $5 roulette! God forbid I stand by idly for three seconds! This makes perfect sense! Whee!
Enjoy it while you can -- the hotel staff are super nice to you, everybody wants to give you booze or sex or both, and all the casinos pump out cheesy power pop that makes you feel like you're in a montage of some good-time 80s movie. If you haven't ever strutted down the Strip while you're all dolled up even though you have nowhere to be (though nobody knows that), while EMF's "Unbelievable" blasts out of the Monte Carlo, I highly recommend it. It's good for the ego. And if you've just won a big, bad $21 during 75 minutes of cheap roulette, all the better. Strut like it's $21,000, baby. Just strut.
The trick is to get out quickly. You don't need to spend more than a night or two there before the beer goggles come off, and you need to think about getting the hell out of Dodge. Vegas is a one-night stand of a town, and I love that about it. Wham-Bam-Thank ya, MGM Grand. Off to LA.
We met up with Mama and Dadoo Shep, who seemed to think that it was a good idea to immediately rent a car upon landing at 6pm, and drive across the desert to LA. We weren't driving, so this seemed okay to us. I was a little bummed that I couldn't see Death Valley in the daylight, as it really is like nowhere else in the country, but it's still pretty striking at night. It's all imposing mountains that come right down to the road, and loooooong expanses of nuthin' punctuated by scrub and Joshua trees. I liked the Joshua trees a lot. Even when they're just silhouetted they look like something from another planet. Really, the whole drive is like being on the moon.
It took five hours to get to the Simi Valley, just outside LA. For all my bitching about the City of Angels, Simi Valley is gorgeous country. The Parents Shep really did well here, as they found a lovely $60/night hotel with a beautiful pool surrounded by gardens and hummingbirds, and hosting a surprising number of guests who liked to have very loud intercourse. Which is all well and good, except when it's seven AM, and they feel compelled to do so several times in a row. That's when it stops being impressive and starts being annoying.
Even my cousin's wedding was lovely. My cousin Stephanie is what some may call a "free spirit," and others may call a "damn hippie," and I'm pretty sure she'd be delighted to be called either. She and her friends basically arranged the whole show, which was held at a yoga/Kabbalah retreat in the mountains, and the wedding featured a standard bearer and fire dancers. If that sounds awful, I don't blame you, but you'd be dead wrong. They pulled it off beautifully, and you could really feel that these kids were ecstatic to help marry off two of their own. Feel the love.
So I softened a bit on the west coast this time out. I'd still choose NYC over LA any day of the week, no question, but it was a great little visit. I even caught up on my reading. I usually tend to read things by folks who have been dead for a minimum of 100 years or so (what can I say, I'm a sucker for a good governess story), but this trip I upped my hip quotient by finally reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson and Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman, both of who write like I wish I could. I then negated my hip points by tearing through most of Watership Down on the trip back because, well, because I like bunnies, dammit.
One last note: It bears mentioning that the MGM Grand is known for having photos of movie stars all over the place, including the suites. Which sounds harmless, until you realize that we had the most ghoulish picture of Star Trek's Patrick Stewart leering directly at our bed. You try getting your sexy on under the pervy gaze of Captain Picard. Go on, try. Just print this sucker out and have at. Not so easy, is it?
Which isn't to say that there's nothing of merit out there. Counterintuitive though it seems, a quick dose of Vegas can be good for the soul. It's one of the last places where everything is designed to make you feel really damn good about yourself, if only for long enough to convince you that there is no better way to pass the time than to wantonly throw away cash. I've got five minutes before the airport shuttle comes? Whatever shall I...oh hel-LO $5 roulette! God forbid I stand by idly for three seconds! This makes perfect sense! Whee!
Enjoy it while you can -- the hotel staff are super nice to you, everybody wants to give you booze or sex or both, and all the casinos pump out cheesy power pop that makes you feel like you're in a montage of some good-time 80s movie. If you haven't ever strutted down the Strip while you're all dolled up even though you have nowhere to be (though nobody knows that), while EMF's "Unbelievable" blasts out of the Monte Carlo, I highly recommend it. It's good for the ego. And if you've just won a big, bad $21 during 75 minutes of cheap roulette, all the better. Strut like it's $21,000, baby. Just strut.
The trick is to get out quickly. You don't need to spend more than a night or two there before the beer goggles come off, and you need to think about getting the hell out of Dodge. Vegas is a one-night stand of a town, and I love that about it. Wham-Bam-Thank ya, MGM Grand. Off to LA.
We met up with Mama and Dadoo Shep, who seemed to think that it was a good idea to immediately rent a car upon landing at 6pm, and drive across the desert to LA. We weren't driving, so this seemed okay to us. I was a little bummed that I couldn't see Death Valley in the daylight, as it really is like nowhere else in the country, but it's still pretty striking at night. It's all imposing mountains that come right down to the road, and loooooong expanses of nuthin' punctuated by scrub and Joshua trees. I liked the Joshua trees a lot. Even when they're just silhouetted they look like something from another planet. Really, the whole drive is like being on the moon.
It took five hours to get to the Simi Valley, just outside LA. For all my bitching about the City of Angels, Simi Valley is gorgeous country. The Parents Shep really did well here, as they found a lovely $60/night hotel with a beautiful pool surrounded by gardens and hummingbirds, and hosting a surprising number of guests who liked to have very loud intercourse. Which is all well and good, except when it's seven AM, and they feel compelled to do so several times in a row. That's when it stops being impressive and starts being annoying.
Even my cousin's wedding was lovely. My cousin Stephanie is what some may call a "free spirit," and others may call a "damn hippie," and I'm pretty sure she'd be delighted to be called either. She and her friends basically arranged the whole show, which was held at a yoga/Kabbalah retreat in the mountains, and the wedding featured a standard bearer and fire dancers. If that sounds awful, I don't blame you, but you'd be dead wrong. They pulled it off beautifully, and you could really feel that these kids were ecstatic to help marry off two of their own. Feel the love.
So I softened a bit on the west coast this time out. I'd still choose NYC over LA any day of the week, no question, but it was a great little visit. I even caught up on my reading. I usually tend to read things by folks who have been dead for a minimum of 100 years or so (what can I say, I'm a sucker for a good governess story), but this trip I upped my hip quotient by finally reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson and Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman, both of who write like I wish I could. I then negated my hip points by tearing through most of Watership Down on the trip back because, well, because I like bunnies, dammit.
One last note: It bears mentioning that the MGM Grand is known for having photos of movie stars all over the place, including the suites. Which sounds harmless, until you realize that we had the most ghoulish picture of Star Trek's Patrick Stewart leering directly at our bed. You try getting your sexy on under the pervy gaze of Captain Picard. Go on, try. Just print this sucker out and have at. Not so easy, is it?
Friday, October 10, 2008
New Kids on the Block
While it's true that you can never really recapture the innocence of youth, last week I discovered that for $38, plus service fees, you can at least rent it for about 2 hours and 15 minutes. On October 2 I bore witness to the bizarre time capsule of a spectacle that was the New Kids on the Block reunion concert.
I will get right to the point. My expectations were very low. But in the end, I was genuinely, giddily, happily entertained.
Like a lot of girls my age, when I was 9 years old I was stupid over NKOTB (as we called them then, even at age 9 I had a love of acronyms). Unlike most girls, I remained a New Kids fan well after it was socially acceptable to do so. I think somewhere between the summer and fall of 1990, they went from being the hottest thing in the world to being elementary school pariahs. The fall was swift and merciless, and little 9-year-old Robyn's undying affection for Jordan Knight (and sometimes Joe McIntyre) just could not be renounced at the whims of Richboro Elementary's social code. I hung on for about two more years, guarding my forbidden love with absolute devotion, until I went gaga over Leonardo DiCaprio on Growing Pains, and that was the end of that.
But before it was all over, I did manage to attend one concert. I remember the date: December 9, 1990. I remember screaming my bloody head off in the upper reaches of the Philadelphia Spectrum. I remember my dad sitting in his seat, possibly comparing the ordeals he endured in his 20 years of military service to the task of sitting through an entire New Kids concert. I remember it as being the best night of my life at the time.
So when they announced a reunion tour 18 years later, my head said no, but my heart -- well, honestly my heart was like, "Seriously?" And then when we saw the ticket prices, my spleen decided to chime in and said "You must be joking." And when I saw slightly reduced prices, my descending colon was all "Whatever, dude." So my like-minded friend Lisa and I forked over the cash and eagerly began a five-month wait for the show. After buying the tickets, we caught NKOTB's big comeback appearance on the Today show. It was dreadful. Lisa and I began to have serious doubts about what we had done.
But we decided to have good amount of girlie cocktails, and at least have a laugh at it. It might be painful. It might be embarassing. But we would be drunk. So it would be fine. Bring the pain.
It turned out not to be painful at all, really. The Verizon Center was not quite sold out, but shockingly full. I saw one guy the whole evening, and most of the women were our age, many sporting the same T-shirts and massive buttons they had held on to for the better part of two decades. While everyone was in a jolly mood, these women were not being ironic or cynical about any of this. They came to hang tough, dammit, and so would we.
And the show was honestly really good, and a lot of fun. The guys apparently got their shit together since the Today show, and they sounded good, they (mostly) nailed their little dance routines, and seemed bemused but geniunely pleased that an arena full of crazy-ass women would materialize to see dudes in their late 30s singing about cover girls. I was shocked at how all of the lyrics came back to me, so it was like a huge singalong all night. Granted, these are NKOTB songs, and you can't polish a terd and call it a diamond, but they worked the hell out of the material they had. And, yes, they looked good. They've aged very well, thank you, and I'm almost certain Jordan's abs are better now than they were 20 years ago.
Of course there were a few weird moments. There was a Rod Stewart-esque number of costume changes, and one bizarre interlude where they had a montage of random celebrities who have died over the past 15 years since NKOTB were on the scene, like what they have during award shows. I'm sure Kurt Cobain, Frank Sinatra, and Tupac appreciate the recognition, but I'm not sure this was the venue for it. But even the wack parts were endearing. Like the piano that appeared on stage for no other reason than to have a lady in tight pants dance on top of it. Or the guitar that Donnie slung around his neck at the beginning of "Cover Girl," and then never touched again. Hey, at least they were actually singing. Overall, it was a great evening, and I was weirdly proud of my little crushes of yesteryear for pulling off something that by all rights should have been a train wreck. Well played, lads. Well played.
Robyn
I will get right to the point. My expectations were very low. But in the end, I was genuinely, giddily, happily entertained.
Like a lot of girls my age, when I was 9 years old I was stupid over NKOTB (as we called them then, even at age 9 I had a love of acronyms). Unlike most girls, I remained a New Kids fan well after it was socially acceptable to do so. I think somewhere between the summer and fall of 1990, they went from being the hottest thing in the world to being elementary school pariahs. The fall was swift and merciless, and little 9-year-old Robyn's undying affection for Jordan Knight (and sometimes Joe McIntyre) just could not be renounced at the whims of Richboro Elementary's social code. I hung on for about two more years, guarding my forbidden love with absolute devotion, until I went gaga over Leonardo DiCaprio on Growing Pains, and that was the end of that.
But before it was all over, I did manage to attend one concert. I remember the date: December 9, 1990. I remember screaming my bloody head off in the upper reaches of the Philadelphia Spectrum. I remember my dad sitting in his seat, possibly comparing the ordeals he endured in his 20 years of military service to the task of sitting through an entire New Kids concert. I remember it as being the best night of my life at the time.
So when they announced a reunion tour 18 years later, my head said no, but my heart -- well, honestly my heart was like, "Seriously?" And then when we saw the ticket prices, my spleen decided to chime in and said "You must be joking." And when I saw slightly reduced prices, my descending colon was all "Whatever, dude." So my like-minded friend Lisa and I forked over the cash and eagerly began a five-month wait for the show. After buying the tickets, we caught NKOTB's big comeback appearance on the Today show. It was dreadful. Lisa and I began to have serious doubts about what we had done.
But we decided to have good amount of girlie cocktails, and at least have a laugh at it. It might be painful. It might be embarassing. But we would be drunk. So it would be fine. Bring the pain.
It turned out not to be painful at all, really. The Verizon Center was not quite sold out, but shockingly full. I saw one guy the whole evening, and most of the women were our age, many sporting the same T-shirts and massive buttons they had held on to for the better part of two decades. While everyone was in a jolly mood, these women were not being ironic or cynical about any of this. They came to hang tough, dammit, and so would we.
And the show was honestly really good, and a lot of fun. The guys apparently got their shit together since the Today show, and they sounded good, they (mostly) nailed their little dance routines, and seemed bemused but geniunely pleased that an arena full of crazy-ass women would materialize to see dudes in their late 30s singing about cover girls. I was shocked at how all of the lyrics came back to me, so it was like a huge singalong all night. Granted, these are NKOTB songs, and you can't polish a terd and call it a diamond, but they worked the hell out of the material they had. And, yes, they looked good. They've aged very well, thank you, and I'm almost certain Jordan's abs are better now than they were 20 years ago.
Of course there were a few weird moments. There was a Rod Stewart-esque number of costume changes, and one bizarre interlude where they had a montage of random celebrities who have died over the past 15 years since NKOTB were on the scene, like what they have during award shows. I'm sure Kurt Cobain, Frank Sinatra, and Tupac appreciate the recognition, but I'm not sure this was the venue for it. But even the wack parts were endearing. Like the piano that appeared on stage for no other reason than to have a lady in tight pants dance on top of it. Or the guitar that Donnie slung around his neck at the beginning of "Cover Girl," and then never touched again. Hey, at least they were actually singing. Overall, it was a great evening, and I was weirdly proud of my little crushes of yesteryear for pulling off something that by all rights should have been a train wreck. Well played, lads. Well played.
Robyn
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Good Day at Work
Most of the time I spare you guys a lot of work-talk on the blog. But I just got back from a business trip to NYC where we took part in something fairly cool, so I thought I'd share.
For those who don't know, my job involves working with the media to promote my organization's issues, which include microcredit, foreign aid reform, domestic poverty and healthcare, global education, and a special campaign devoted to raising awareness and resources for fighting tuberculosis. Still with me? Fabulous. Anyway, you can imagine that a lot of the time this involves a lot of calls to journalists who would love to cover our stories, but golly gee, just can't get their editors on board. Especially in a down market. It's kind of like getting turned down for the prom over and over.
Which isn't to say we can't turn it out when we have to. Every now and again we get the odd New York Times piece or editorial, or they run an op-ed we wrote. But recently we got to take part in something a bit more special than that.
Each year, a bunch of smarty-pants entrepreneurs, artists, and other assorted luminaries get together for something called the TED conference, and they award a prize to three individuals of $100,000 to "make a wish to change the world." Last year, one of the winners was a renowned war photographer named James Nachtwey, and his wish was to use the winnings to travel the world and document an underreported health story. Wouldn't you know it, he chose extensively drug-resistant tuberculosis.
A bit of background: A lot of folks think TB was wiped out 100 years ago, but it's still a major problem. 1.7 million people die from it every year, and 9 million people are infected. It's particularly bad for people with HIV/AIDS, and is actually the leading killer of people with AIDS. It's totally curable, often for as little as $20 if you catch it early, but because there's been so little investment, patients in the world's poorest countries often don't receive proper treatment, and their TB mutates into more drug-resistant forms. Extremely drug-resistant TB (or XDR-TB) is the worst kind of all. It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to treat, often involving surgery, and can kill the patient before they're diagnosed, but not before they've passed it on. So for people in poor countries, it's a virtual death sentence. Scary stuff.
So the nice people at TED told us about this, and they had grand plans to project James' pictures in huge displays on the sides of buildings in all seven continents (seriously, they worked something out with a science base in Antarctica. It's nice to have a budget). But, darn the luck, they needed someone to help them with the wonky aspects of the presentation, and to give people something to do if they wanted to take action after seeing the pictures. Naturally, we were delighted to help.
So we've been working with these folks for a few weeks to get media attention, and to fact-check the presentations. There was a big unveiling in NYC on Friday night with a gala reception featuring people like Paul Simon and Anthony Edwards (the bald doctor from ER, or, as he's known in our household, Goose from Top Gun). For the curious, I did not get to meet Mr. Simon, though I stood next to him, and he is alarmingly Robyn-sized. I did meet Goose, and got his autograph, and can affirm that he is wicked chill. I'm very pro-Goose at the moment.
But from a professional standpoint, it was awesome, and kind of surreal, to see a cocktail party full of the NYC society types discussing the talking points of an issue you've been working pretty hard on for the better part of a year. We had a table set up for people to sign letters to Obama and McCain asking them to annouce a presidential TB initiative, and got a lot of signatures (including Mr. Simon and Mr. Edwards). Obama and McCain also each e-mailed our staff statements supporting the campaign in general. The pictures, and slides that we helped wordsmith, were broadcast on the Reuters screen in Times Square just before the reception, so I hoofed it 20 blocks up and back (in heels, thanks), to take pictures. There were actually some photography nerds there waiting for the presentation, because they saw the press release. I almost kissed them. And I'll tell you what, if you haven't seen something you helped write broadcast a couple of stories high at the crossroads of the world, I highly recommend it. Does wonders for morale.
So our obscure little health issue had a hell of a day last week. You can see the slideshow at xdrtb.org, and I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you to check out our site action.org for info on the issue. We also got news hits on USA Today, AFP, and Time magazine. It's pretty heavy duty stuff, but hopefully we've helped get the word out about it a little bit. Here are some pictures from the events:
Paul Simon signs our letter:
For those who don't know, my job involves working with the media to promote my organization's issues, which include microcredit, foreign aid reform, domestic poverty and healthcare, global education, and a special campaign devoted to raising awareness and resources for fighting tuberculosis. Still with me? Fabulous. Anyway, you can imagine that a lot of the time this involves a lot of calls to journalists who would love to cover our stories, but golly gee, just can't get their editors on board. Especially in a down market. It's kind of like getting turned down for the prom over and over.
Which isn't to say we can't turn it out when we have to. Every now and again we get the odd New York Times piece or editorial, or they run an op-ed we wrote. But recently we got to take part in something a bit more special than that.
Each year, a bunch of smarty-pants entrepreneurs, artists, and other assorted luminaries get together for something called the TED conference, and they award a prize to three individuals of $100,000 to "make a wish to change the world." Last year, one of the winners was a renowned war photographer named James Nachtwey, and his wish was to use the winnings to travel the world and document an underreported health story. Wouldn't you know it, he chose extensively drug-resistant tuberculosis.
A bit of background: A lot of folks think TB was wiped out 100 years ago, but it's still a major problem. 1.7 million people die from it every year, and 9 million people are infected. It's particularly bad for people with HIV/AIDS, and is actually the leading killer of people with AIDS. It's totally curable, often for as little as $20 if you catch it early, but because there's been so little investment, patients in the world's poorest countries often don't receive proper treatment, and their TB mutates into more drug-resistant forms. Extremely drug-resistant TB (or XDR-TB) is the worst kind of all. It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to treat, often involving surgery, and can kill the patient before they're diagnosed, but not before they've passed it on. So for people in poor countries, it's a virtual death sentence. Scary stuff.
So the nice people at TED told us about this, and they had grand plans to project James' pictures in huge displays on the sides of buildings in all seven continents (seriously, they worked something out with a science base in Antarctica. It's nice to have a budget). But, darn the luck, they needed someone to help them with the wonky aspects of the presentation, and to give people something to do if they wanted to take action after seeing the pictures. Naturally, we were delighted to help.
So we've been working with these folks for a few weeks to get media attention, and to fact-check the presentations. There was a big unveiling in NYC on Friday night with a gala reception featuring people like Paul Simon and Anthony Edwards (the bald doctor from ER, or, as he's known in our household, Goose from Top Gun). For the curious, I did not get to meet Mr. Simon, though I stood next to him, and he is alarmingly Robyn-sized. I did meet Goose, and got his autograph, and can affirm that he is wicked chill. I'm very pro-Goose at the moment.
But from a professional standpoint, it was awesome, and kind of surreal, to see a cocktail party full of the NYC society types discussing the talking points of an issue you've been working pretty hard on for the better part of a year. We had a table set up for people to sign letters to Obama and McCain asking them to annouce a presidential TB initiative, and got a lot of signatures (including Mr. Simon and Mr. Edwards). Obama and McCain also each e-mailed our staff statements supporting the campaign in general. The pictures, and slides that we helped wordsmith, were broadcast on the Reuters screen in Times Square just before the reception, so I hoofed it 20 blocks up and back (in heels, thanks), to take pictures. There were actually some photography nerds there waiting for the presentation, because they saw the press release. I almost kissed them. And I'll tell you what, if you haven't seen something you helped write broadcast a couple of stories high at the crossroads of the world, I highly recommend it. Does wonders for morale.
So our obscure little health issue had a hell of a day last week. You can see the slideshow at xdrtb.org, and I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you to check out our site action.org for info on the issue. We also got news hits on USA Today, AFP, and Time magazine. It's pretty heavy duty stuff, but hopefully we've helped get the word out about it a little bit. Here are some pictures from the events:
Paul Simon signs our letter:
Anthony Edwards with my boss, Joanne:
Hello! Wanna sign our letter?
In Times Square:
We helped write the text
Back to Updates
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Jazz Hands of Atonement
The other day I got an e-mail from the cantor at my synagogue. This doesn't happen every day, so I figure I'm either being asked to do something very special, or I'm in a world of trouble.
It turns out, she had good news for me. She asked me to take part in the Yom Kippur service. This is a very big deal, and quite an honor. It was also a little bit stupefying, as I'm still pretty remedial in the liturgical department. I only just got bat mitzvahed and went to my first High Holy Days service last year, and am still getting a grasp on all the basics, so being asked to sing part of the service during the holiest day of the year was a little daunting. Especially considering that for the High Holy Days, our temple borrows the massive Metropolitan Memorial Methodist Church, and packs it to the gills. Still, I was flattered.
At least I thought they wanted me to sing. I dusted off my old notes on chanting, and headed to practice feeling, I thought, well-prepared. There were about a half-dozen people sitting in a circle in the sanctuary, and the cantor started laying out the plans.
I've never attended a Yom Kippur service with my temple, but apparently each year features some creative component, usually involving some kind of performance by a local dance company. So far, so good. We are, it should be noted, a liberal reform congregation, so a bit of the artistic element wouldn't be terribly out of place. The choreographer was on hand to talk about what her company would be doing, which sounded lovely, and then she went on to say how we would help lead the congregation in an interpretive dance that we would be developing that night.
Wait...what?
I wasn't going to be singing at all. Rather, they had asked the congregation to submit thoughts on forgiveness, and we were going to select the best ones, devise motions to symbolize them, and then lead everybody while we performed them repeatedly for this portion of the service.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with this in theory. It's just that it's not necessarily the kind of thing I would have readily volunteered to do. Let me put it this way: At the tender age of six, I didn't know much about myself as a person, but I knew enough that the dance classes that all the neighborhood girls took after school just weren't for me. When it was time for the bunk talent show in summer camp, which always involved some choreographed nonsense to something like Taylor Dayne or some crap like that, I was always the kid who was asking if I could hold a sign, or be a tree, or anything that didn't involve group dancing. I'd act, sing, do your PR, anything, as long as I didn't have to dance. It's not really my thing.
But when you're surrounded by your cantor and a some very earnest members of your congregation that are genuinely excited that a youngster like yourself would (seemingly) volunteer to help out...well...strike a pose, I guess.
It's not the end of the world. I've been meaning to get more involved in the 'gogue anyway, and it's a crazy supportive environment. I'll go take one for the mishpuchah. And since videotaping services is prohibited, it's not like any of you guys will see it.
No, I will not either.
Oh, for the love...fine. I hope you particularly like the part where it looks like I'm doing the Cabbage Patch. Apologies for the skewed view. I think it adds to the artistic integrity. Plus, I really don't feel like re-shooting it.
Robyn
It turns out, she had good news for me. She asked me to take part in the Yom Kippur service. This is a very big deal, and quite an honor. It was also a little bit stupefying, as I'm still pretty remedial in the liturgical department. I only just got bat mitzvahed and went to my first High Holy Days service last year, and am still getting a grasp on all the basics, so being asked to sing part of the service during the holiest day of the year was a little daunting. Especially considering that for the High Holy Days, our temple borrows the massive Metropolitan Memorial Methodist Church, and packs it to the gills. Still, I was flattered.
At least I thought they wanted me to sing. I dusted off my old notes on chanting, and headed to practice feeling, I thought, well-prepared. There were about a half-dozen people sitting in a circle in the sanctuary, and the cantor started laying out the plans.
I've never attended a Yom Kippur service with my temple, but apparently each year features some creative component, usually involving some kind of performance by a local dance company. So far, so good. We are, it should be noted, a liberal reform congregation, so a bit of the artistic element wouldn't be terribly out of place. The choreographer was on hand to talk about what her company would be doing, which sounded lovely, and then she went on to say how we would help lead the congregation in an interpretive dance that we would be developing that night.
Wait...what?
I wasn't going to be singing at all. Rather, they had asked the congregation to submit thoughts on forgiveness, and we were going to select the best ones, devise motions to symbolize them, and then lead everybody while we performed them repeatedly for this portion of the service.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with this in theory. It's just that it's not necessarily the kind of thing I would have readily volunteered to do. Let me put it this way: At the tender age of six, I didn't know much about myself as a person, but I knew enough that the dance classes that all the neighborhood girls took after school just weren't for me. When it was time for the bunk talent show in summer camp, which always involved some choreographed nonsense to something like Taylor Dayne or some crap like that, I was always the kid who was asking if I could hold a sign, or be a tree, or anything that didn't involve group dancing. I'd act, sing, do your PR, anything, as long as I didn't have to dance. It's not really my thing.
But when you're surrounded by your cantor and a some very earnest members of your congregation that are genuinely excited that a youngster like yourself would (seemingly) volunteer to help out...well...strike a pose, I guess.
It's not the end of the world. I've been meaning to get more involved in the 'gogue anyway, and it's a crazy supportive environment. I'll go take one for the mishpuchah. And since videotaping services is prohibited, it's not like any of you guys will see it.
No, I will not either.
Oh, for the love...fine. I hope you particularly like the part where it looks like I'm doing the Cabbage Patch. Apologies for the skewed view. I think it adds to the artistic integrity. Plus, I really don't feel like re-shooting it.
Robyn
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What Would Robyn Twitter? Monday Night Football Edition
Last night the cable went out halfway through the first quarter of the Eagles-Cowboys game, prompting an unexpected adventure. Alas, the bar I finally found was below street level at the Marriott, and the cell phone reception sucked. But if I could twitter, this is what it would have looked like:
All showered, chores are done, time to settle in and get ready for some football!
Wha happa to the TV? Whaddya mean cable's out for the whole building?
This is unacceptable. Somebody fetch me my pants.
Damn the makeup, screw the wet hair, time to run like the wind!
That's enough running. My knees are for crap.
Don't bother welcoming me to the effing Marriott, Skippy. Just show me the way to the bar and get me a Yuengling.
Okay, when I left the apartment 10 minutes ago the score was 7-6. Now it's 21-20. Clearly, I stepped into a wormhole somewhere around New York Avenue.
I hear that T.O. eats his own poo. And babies. Pass it on.
I love DeSean Jackson so bad!
I'm-a kick DeSean Jackson's ass so bad his granddaddy'll feel it.
Another Yuengling? I really shouldn't. Okay!
I don't feel so good.
Sometimes, a little puke goes a long way. Now I'm hungry again. Bring me your finest quesadilla!
Don't tell me there's no such thing as wormholes, because the score just went up about a zillion points while I was barfing. A zillion.
Hit me, Yuengling, one more time.
Brian Westbrook is god.
Brian Westbrook kills me. Or maybe it's Donovan. Whatever, I hate you guys.
Y'know what, Cowboys fans? You got freakin' lucky. Maybe the Eagles lost, but they fought. They fought hard. They fought like warrior poets. Dear god, I'm drunk.
What's that, strange man? You wanna pay for my Yuengling and quesadilla? Hey, I might be drunk, but I ain't stupid. Go right ahead.
Skins fans are weirdly nice to you when you're playing the Cowboys.
Dude...did I get wasted last night and send some embarrassing text messages about keeping hope alive? With really improper grammar and questionable syntax? I'm sorry...I'm not usually like that...
Robyn
All showered, chores are done, time to settle in and get ready for some football!
Wha happa to the TV? Whaddya mean cable's out for the whole building?
This is unacceptable. Somebody fetch me my pants.
Damn the makeup, screw the wet hair, time to run like the wind!
That's enough running. My knees are for crap.
Don't bother welcoming me to the effing Marriott, Skippy. Just show me the way to the bar and get me a Yuengling.
Okay, when I left the apartment 10 minutes ago the score was 7-6. Now it's 21-20. Clearly, I stepped into a wormhole somewhere around New York Avenue.
I hear that T.O. eats his own poo. And babies. Pass it on.
I love DeSean Jackson so bad!
I'm-a kick DeSean Jackson's ass so bad his granddaddy'll feel it.
Another Yuengling? I really shouldn't. Okay!
I don't feel so good.
Sometimes, a little puke goes a long way. Now I'm hungry again. Bring me your finest quesadilla!
Don't tell me there's no such thing as wormholes, because the score just went up about a zillion points while I was barfing. A zillion.
Hit me, Yuengling, one more time.
Brian Westbrook is god.
Brian Westbrook kills me. Or maybe it's Donovan. Whatever, I hate you guys.
Y'know what, Cowboys fans? You got freakin' lucky. Maybe the Eagles lost, but they fought. They fought hard. They fought like warrior poets. Dear god, I'm drunk.
What's that, strange man? You wanna pay for my Yuengling and quesadilla? Hey, I might be drunk, but I ain't stupid. Go right ahead.
Skins fans are weirdly nice to you when you're playing the Cowboys.
Dude...did I get wasted last night and send some embarrassing text messages about keeping hope alive? With really improper grammar and questionable syntax? I'm sorry...I'm not usually like that...
Robyn
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Labor Day Weekend: The Agony and the Ecstasy
I'm coming off a pretty action-packed Labor Day weekend. No lollygagging about watching Top Model marathons this year. And I even have a brand new entertaining injury to show for it. That's the true mark of a weekend well spent.
It started, as all good weekends should start, with an early departure from work on Friday and multi-colored margaritas at Austin Grill with Beth, resulting in a stumble-filled walk home at the ripe hour of 3:00 pm. Off and running. The next morning, Mark and I headed north for my first proper visit home in four months. The main attractions back in beautiful Bucks County were barbecued hot dogs at Chez Shep, followed by a trip to New Hope to see Johnny C. and Jack Firneno play with Crow vs. Lion at John n' Peter's. It had been a few years since I'd hung out in New Hope. I used to go all the time when I was in high school and college, but before I could drink. It was a nice place to go if you were underage and wanted to pretend that you were doing something worthwhile with your time other than taking up space at the food court at the mall. I really ought to make a habit of coming back around more often, as it's even more entertaining when you can actually order more than mozzarella sticks at the bars. The boys played great, but we had to call it an early night (and inadvertantly miss a Ween sighting) in order to prepare for Phase II of the operation.
Phase II involved righting a long-standing wrong. Although I lived in New York City for three years, and fancy myself something of an expert, I had never been to Coney Island. I know it's not exactly Disneyland, but when I heard that they were scheduled to tear down Astroland after the summer, I figured it was time to correct this blemish on my record. So Mark, Bob, fresh-from-the-gig John and I took the 10 am train out of Hamilton up to NYC.
It takes a good hour to get out to Coney Island from Midtown, but it was a gorgeous day for it, and I got to see a lot of Brooklyn that had been hitherto unexplored. We were met at the subway station by Brooklyn's own Koz, who was delighted to play tour guide since he lived 15 minutes away. First order of business was to procure some genuine Coney Island hot dogs from Nathan's, which taste remarkably like the hot dogs at any other Nathan's, but still must be ingested. Mark got fried clams, which we all agreed was very wrong and annoyingly contrarian, even if his line did move a hell of a lot faster and the clams were admittedly tasty.
We visited the freak show, which was hosted by a nice gentleman who called himself Donny Vomit and during which the flame-eater seemed to light her eyeball on fire, which I'm pretty sure was a mistake. We paused by the main entrance to Astroland, wondering if we should go on the smaller rides first, but I was there on a mission, and that mission had to be executed.
I'm not a fan of roller coasters. In fact, I really, really hate them. If I turn out to be a bad person and am sentenced to an eternity in Hell, I know part of the deal will entail having that weird dropping feeling in your stomach for all time. The other part of the deal would probably involve moths and blue cheese, but that's another blog. Despite my aversion to coasters, I had resolved to go on the iconic Cyclone. It's a freakin' institution. And it's a gazillion years old. How bad could it possibly be? It didn't look that scary from the subway, so Bob and I paid the separate $8 fee to ride it, while the others, howyousay?, pussed out.
And then things went horribly wrong.
It started out so promisingly. It's like a log flume, I said to myself. No big. One big drop, and that's basically it. Scream it out. It will be fine. I was cool all the way up the big hill, and when we paused at the top, I warned Bob that I'd very likely yell.
The drop hit, and my butt left the seat, and before I could process the bad tummy-feeling, I was slammed back down and then thrown about on the most godawful, rickety, unstable ride imaginable. It's not that I was afraid, or felt unsafe. It was just that the entire ride consisted of very, very painful; vertebrae-crushing; neck-snapping; leg-smashing twists, turns and drops. It was like being in a car accident over and over and over for two minutes, and it left me bruised, battered, and with a hell of a pinched nerve in my neck that left me unable to turn my head for a day and a half.
Evidently, it also caused me to involuntarily unleash with the most profane tirade of expletives ever uttered. I knew I let out the odd m-f'er, but according to Bob the f-bombs started on the first drop and just kept coming -- at enormous volume. He also agreed that when I screamed, it wasn't a girly, whee-this-is-fun scream, but an unsettlingly manly, descending-into-the-vortex-of-death, type of noise. I asked him to re-enact it for my benefit, but he said it would make him blush to do so. And we're from a Navy family. AND we're Eagles fans. If only we had it on video, it would be YouTube gold.
Alas, we did not, and we were pretty much ruined for the rest of Coney Island. Despite the pain, we pressed on with the day, because even severe neck trauma is not justification for cutting short a trip to New York. We sought solace in soup dumplings in Chinatown...and ice cream a block away...and rice pudding in Little Italy...before we ran out of ideas and time and went home at sunset.
It's been two days, and my neck is way better. I still need the odd aspirin, but at least the mobility has returned. In spite of everything, I'm glad I went on it. I would have kicked myself for not trying it, and I can be proud of the fact that I overcame my fear and seized the moment. Sure, I was rewarded for it with deep, deep hurting, but I think I'm a better person for it in the long run.
As a postscript, last night I took an Oxycodone left over from when I had kidney stones, intending to help myself drift off to sleep pain-free. I zonked out on the couch, having left the water trickling in the sink to let the cat have a drink, and awoke to a very Zen-like splashing sound as the sink had been stopped up and water rushed all over the place with kitties frolicking in the puddles. Mark returned from an outing to find his drugged-out, stiff-necked girlfriend flitting about the apartment in her skivvies brandishing a wet vac and insisting that she's "got this." The parquet floor is hella warped, but we haven't had any complaints from the unit downstairs, so I think we're good. Don't do drugs, kids. And don't ride the Cyclone.
I was too rattled after getting off the ride to purchase a picture of Bob and I hurtling downhill, but here's a little drawing, rendered under the influence of narcotics, just like the masters:
It started, as all good weekends should start, with an early departure from work on Friday and multi-colored margaritas at Austin Grill with Beth, resulting in a stumble-filled walk home at the ripe hour of 3:00 pm. Off and running. The next morning, Mark and I headed north for my first proper visit home in four months. The main attractions back in beautiful Bucks County were barbecued hot dogs at Chez Shep, followed by a trip to New Hope to see Johnny C. and Jack Firneno play with Crow vs. Lion at John n' Peter's. It had been a few years since I'd hung out in New Hope. I used to go all the time when I was in high school and college, but before I could drink. It was a nice place to go if you were underage and wanted to pretend that you were doing something worthwhile with your time other than taking up space at the food court at the mall. I really ought to make a habit of coming back around more often, as it's even more entertaining when you can actually order more than mozzarella sticks at the bars. The boys played great, but we had to call it an early night (and inadvertantly miss a Ween sighting) in order to prepare for Phase II of the operation.
Phase II involved righting a long-standing wrong. Although I lived in New York City for three years, and fancy myself something of an expert, I had never been to Coney Island. I know it's not exactly Disneyland, but when I heard that they were scheduled to tear down Astroland after the summer, I figured it was time to correct this blemish on my record. So Mark, Bob, fresh-from-the-gig John and I took the 10 am train out of Hamilton up to NYC.
It takes a good hour to get out to Coney Island from Midtown, but it was a gorgeous day for it, and I got to see a lot of Brooklyn that had been hitherto unexplored. We were met at the subway station by Brooklyn's own Koz, who was delighted to play tour guide since he lived 15 minutes away. First order of business was to procure some genuine Coney Island hot dogs from Nathan's, which taste remarkably like the hot dogs at any other Nathan's, but still must be ingested. Mark got fried clams, which we all agreed was very wrong and annoyingly contrarian, even if his line did move a hell of a lot faster and the clams were admittedly tasty.
We visited the freak show, which was hosted by a nice gentleman who called himself Donny Vomit and during which the flame-eater seemed to light her eyeball on fire, which I'm pretty sure was a mistake. We paused by the main entrance to Astroland, wondering if we should go on the smaller rides first, but I was there on a mission, and that mission had to be executed.
I'm not a fan of roller coasters. In fact, I really, really hate them. If I turn out to be a bad person and am sentenced to an eternity in Hell, I know part of the deal will entail having that weird dropping feeling in your stomach for all time. The other part of the deal would probably involve moths and blue cheese, but that's another blog. Despite my aversion to coasters, I had resolved to go on the iconic Cyclone. It's a freakin' institution. And it's a gazillion years old. How bad could it possibly be? It didn't look that scary from the subway, so Bob and I paid the separate $8 fee to ride it, while the others, howyousay?, pussed out.
And then things went horribly wrong.
It started out so promisingly. It's like a log flume, I said to myself. No big. One big drop, and that's basically it. Scream it out. It will be fine. I was cool all the way up the big hill, and when we paused at the top, I warned Bob that I'd very likely yell.
The drop hit, and my butt left the seat, and before I could process the bad tummy-feeling, I was slammed back down and then thrown about on the most godawful, rickety, unstable ride imaginable. It's not that I was afraid, or felt unsafe. It was just that the entire ride consisted of very, very painful; vertebrae-crushing; neck-snapping; leg-smashing twists, turns and drops. It was like being in a car accident over and over and over for two minutes, and it left me bruised, battered, and with a hell of a pinched nerve in my neck that left me unable to turn my head for a day and a half.
Evidently, it also caused me to involuntarily unleash with the most profane tirade of expletives ever uttered. I knew I let out the odd m-f'er, but according to Bob the f-bombs started on the first drop and just kept coming -- at enormous volume. He also agreed that when I screamed, it wasn't a girly, whee-this-is-fun scream, but an unsettlingly manly, descending-into-the-vortex-of-death, type of noise. I asked him to re-enact it for my benefit, but he said it would make him blush to do so. And we're from a Navy family. AND we're Eagles fans. If only we had it on video, it would be YouTube gold.
Alas, we did not, and we were pretty much ruined for the rest of Coney Island. Despite the pain, we pressed on with the day, because even severe neck trauma is not justification for cutting short a trip to New York. We sought solace in soup dumplings in Chinatown...and ice cream a block away...and rice pudding in Little Italy...before we ran out of ideas and time and went home at sunset.
It's been two days, and my neck is way better. I still need the odd aspirin, but at least the mobility has returned. In spite of everything, I'm glad I went on it. I would have kicked myself for not trying it, and I can be proud of the fact that I overcame my fear and seized the moment. Sure, I was rewarded for it with deep, deep hurting, but I think I'm a better person for it in the long run.
As a postscript, last night I took an Oxycodone left over from when I had kidney stones, intending to help myself drift off to sleep pain-free. I zonked out on the couch, having left the water trickling in the sink to let the cat have a drink, and awoke to a very Zen-like splashing sound as the sink had been stopped up and water rushed all over the place with kitties frolicking in the puddles. Mark returned from an outing to find his drugged-out, stiff-necked girlfriend flitting about the apartment in her skivvies brandishing a wet vac and insisting that she's "got this." The parquet floor is hella warped, but we haven't had any complaints from the unit downstairs, so I think we're good. Don't do drugs, kids. And don't ride the Cyclone.
I was too rattled after getting off the ride to purchase a picture of Bob and I hurtling downhill, but here's a little drawing, rendered under the influence of narcotics, just like the masters:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
