Inaugurate This

Washington, DC and I generally have not gotten on well in the past six years. Sure, I've gotten a decent career out of it, and I have a pretty slammin' apartment (which I'm thisclose to not being able to afford, but whatevs), but I've never really taken to it. It's like a bad arranged marriage. "Don't worry, it will provide for you, and you'll learn to love it." Wrong, wrong, wrong. Unlike when I lived in NYC, and London to a degree, I never really woke up and said "Holy crap, I LIVE here, and it's awesome, and I really wouldn't rather be anywhere else."

Until this weekend. For the first time in six years, I'm really REALLY glad I was in DC for the past few days.

Yes, I'm a card-carrying Democrat, and my politics fall generally to the left of center, but I really believe that over the past few days, it was hard for anybody not to get caught up in the generally good mood that's been enveloping our nation's capital. Everybody's partying, all the tourists are excited, and I can't even hate them for standing on the left side of the Metro escalator. Much. With all the parties, the whole city's felt like a suburban neighborhood on prom night. All week long.

Witness what happened this past Sunday during the concert at the Lincoln Memorial. Despite my usually stellar logistical prowess, I wound up stranded and on my lonesome among half a million people by the reflecting pool. I had arranged to meet my friends at a very clear location, and I even had a big rainbow-colored umbrella to mark my location. A RAINBOW-COLORED UMBRELLA. DAMMIT, I'M GOOD. But I did not count on security sealing off the entrance before they could arrive. And there was little to no cell phone reception, so I was pretty much screwed. There really was only one solution...

Find the nearest group of Jamaicans, and freakin' party. A nice family let me and my stupid umbrella stand with them so I could see the Jumbotron, and they were psyched. We danced to Stevie Wonder and Springsteen and U2, and had a blast. My camera battery died, but somewhere in Kingston there are many pictures of a happy little white girl in a McNabb jersey and green and silver eye makeup losing her mind to Bono. I take a certain comfort in that. The most equalizing moment: Garth Brooks' cover of "Shout." A middle-aged country singer covered a Motown staple for a mostly young, very diverse, crowd, and owned it. And it was cool. One love...

I dashed away after Obama's speech to catch the second half of the NFC Championship, but really, the less said about that, the better. Go Steelers.

And then there was Inauguration Day. I live 20 minutes walking distance from the Mall, and I'm not afraid of getting up early, so I figured I had this locked down. But, again, if there's anything that can trump Shepherd Logistics, it's the most unprecedented show of security ever seen in Washington, DC. Despite setting out before 8 am, my friend Linda, her pal Merry and I unwittingly began a 3-hour odyssey in 20-degree temperatures just to get on the freakin' Mall. We waited 2 hours in security just to be told we actually shouldn't have gone through security, and were trapped on the parade route. We had to head back the way we came, and tried to stay one numbered street ahead of the Metropolitan Police before they kept arbitrarily closing them. By 11 am, we succeeded.

Much like the concert, the crowd here was very friendly, very diverse, and very excited. They were, it must be said, also very partisan, but for the most part, they were very polite. We watched the guests arrive on the big screen, and everybody was very respectful when John McCain came on screen. It was only when Joe Lieberman came on screen, that the first boos started. Eff that guy, apparently. And, of course, they were very vocal when Bush came on screen. Unfortunate, yes. Disrespectful? Arguably. Surprising? Dude, come on.

When Obama finished taking the oath, it was like Times Square on New Year's Eve. Strangers were hugging, couples were making out, dudes were high-fiving, people were crying...look, I don't know what you think of the guy, but if you weren't moved by that, your heart is officially two sizes too small. Or you're my ex. Same diff.

It did take a while for us to beat a retreat, and we saw the helicopter taking the Bushes away from Washington fly over our heads. Would you like to imagine what THAT ride was like? I'd like to imagine it was a bit like the last scene in The Graduate. George and Laura...sitting awkwardly next to each other in silence...not really looking at each other...Simon and Garfunkel coming over the soundtrack...Hello darkness, my old friend... I'd like to think that, so I will.

So that's how it went here. AND I got quoted in USA Today and the Bucks County Courier Times! I've done better networking on my days off than I have in months of work! Yes, I can!

I took some video, too. A word or two on the video: I had had three hours of sleep, hence the horrifying dark circles under my eyes. At times my voice sounds like I'm on the verge of tears. I am not. It was just ridiculously cold. I also seem to report some major discrepancies in the time that elapsed. For the record: Left the house at 7:50, arrived at the 14th Street gate at 8:00 am, waited in security for over an hour, was told to turn back at 9:15 (not "a quarter of nine" as reported...it was cold, man), reached the Mall around 10:00 am, found a decent spot to stand close to 11:00 am. Three hours.

But this doesn't mean DC and I are getting back together. This was just a breakup fling. One for the road. Because after all, this place is trying to kill me, and that's not grounds for a stable relationship.

Gato Shepherd: 1995-2009

Oh god, not an overly sentimental online tribute to a departed pet. Really, do you think so little of me? Would I do that to you? I know your time spent dicking around online is at a premium, so you'll not find any namby-pamby, rainbow bridge crap here.

What you will find is a proper tribute to an animal that was more than a housepet, he was a force of nature. Gato literally walked into our lives 14 years ago as a flea-infested stray that we just couldn't bear to surrender to the Bucks County ASPCA. He was a sweet little kitten, and then we cut his balls off, and all hell broke loose. To this day, I'm not sure what went awry during the procedure, which should have mellowed him, but in the end I really can't blame him.

Gato was only ever about eight pounds, jet black, and had a pathetic stump of a tail which I'm convinced was the result of wild inbreeding. He was not an emotionally stable animal. Despite his small size, he took on cats, and people, exponentially larger than himself. The neighborhood kids gave him a wide berth, and he sent 250-pound men scrambling in fear. Vet visits required multiple attendants, and an impressive array of kitty jujitsu. Our first vet suggested we put him to sleep immediately, but then I think he was the sloppy ball-whacker, so maybe he was just trying to cover his tracks. Gato is also the principal force behind an episode in 2004 known as "The Very Bloody Thanksgiving," from which I still have a scar from a Mike Tyson-esque puncture wound in my right ear. Gato's antics earned him a place on Meankitty.com back in 2002. He's bona fide. If he could talk, I always imagined he'd sound like Tony Montana in Scarface.

So why did we put up with this for so long? Because we liked the little bastard. The going rule was don't mess with Gato, Gato won't mess with you. If you let him cuddle up to you of his own accord, he was perfectly fine. The Family Shep learned to co-exist with him, and he was very much part of the family. A crazy-ass, volatile, cuddly part of the family. He spent a lot of time outside, and I was always afraid he'd wind up splattered all over Redwood Drive, or killed by an animal, or a disgruntled neighbor. As it was, he passed away peacefully at the vet's, with Mama and Dadoo Shep by his side.

Gato took quite a shine to one particular stuffed animal back when he was a kitten, and they remained in a monogamous relationship for the duration of his life. It was a toy husky named Diefenbaker, or Dief, for short (don't even ask). To our eternal shame and entertainment, Gato enjoyed being intimate with Dief constantly. Especially in front of company. He'd even make an announcement if we weren't paying attention. It was weird as hell, and absolutely hilarious. So I'd like to leave you with Gato as I'd like to remember him: screwing a stuffed animal on the living room floor while the family goes about its business. Play on, playa.

How to Turn 28

My past couple of birthdays have consisted of me waiting around for someone to plan something, and inevitably being disappointed. So this year, I decided to be a right pain in the ass about dictating what we should do. And, boy, am I glad I did.

The first stage of the birthday weekend kinda happened by accident, with the sudden announcement that my high school pal Shwa was going to play his first ever gig at the 9:30 Club. A big act cancelled, and the bookers scrambled to fill the bill with four local(-ish) bands. The 9:30 Club is one of my favorite places to see music. It's not much to look at, but it's got a big spacious floor, a generous balcony, and pretty friendly staff. I've seen everyone from Crowded House to Cyndi Lauper to Joan Jett to Moby there. So when my buddy, who can very clearly recall singing Aerosmith songs at the 1994 Holland Junior High Beach Day picnic, got booked, I made sure that a group of Council Rock alumni, and some good-spirited DC-area friends, were there.

While it would be too much to expect that the place would be packed, given the circumstances, Shwa mustered a more than respectable turnout, and pretty much killed it. We had unusually free rein of the place, and were running around backstage and in the dressing rooms like kids. Shwa's drummer got engaged, so everyone got a little silly. Maybe a bit too silly, as the end of the night saw a complete breakdown in logistics, and Shwa sent most everyone off to start the post-show celebrations, ensuring that he's "got this." Everyone, that is, except two former junior high classmates who saw where this was going, and knew enough to know that when anyone says they've "got this," they usually don't.

So the evening ended with me, my pal Meredith, and Shwa stumbling down a frigid U Street at 2 am schlepping guitars and trash bags full of merchandise, trying to find his friend's house so we could dump our stuff ("Where we headed?" "I thiiiiiink...12th Street!" "12th and what, babe?" "...craaaap..."). I think we passed the headliner's limo on our way out, while we looked like we were freaking robbing the place. From rockstar to hobos in one evening. It was a ridiculous, and weirdly perfect, way to end the night.

The next day brought three hours of conference calls (meh) followed by four hours of Britpop dance party (meh!). I've been dying to go to this particular party for months, but circumstances prevented it. These same circumstances pretty much prevented any dancing of any kind for the better part of two years. I do not miss these circumstances. The highlight of the evening included an exuberant young lad who I suspect was faking an English accent, encouraging us to "Let's disco!" He asked how old I was, and when I told him 28, he replied "But you're so beautiful!" Thanks, uh, Nigel.

Top the weekend off with an Eagles win to go on to the NFC Championship, and a three-piece dinner from Popeye's, and I'd say that's a hell of a weekend right there. Now all I have to look forward to is another major football game, a free concert with Springsteen and Bono, and a new president next weekend. Bor. Ing.

I've got a good feeling about 2009. Let's let Shwa play us out, yes?

Robyn

That's the Anthem, Get Your Damn Hands Up

Hey.

So without going into details, some rather seismic shifts are taking place in my world right now. Some of them are sad, some will be okay in the long run, and some of them required some very, very difficult choices. But suffice to say that all relevant parties have been briefed, a considerable amount of coffee and bourbon was consumed in the process, and I'm taking care of what I need to. While I felt it was necessary to acknowledge the sea change in some manner, I feel like blogs that go out of their way to air the author's dirty laundry are obnoxious at best.

So I'll do something even more obnoxious: I'll let a band that almost no one's heard of speak for me. You can slap me upside the head next time you see me if you want. Though lately, you might have to take a number.

On the brightside, this has the makings of an epic playlist.

"Sultan" by What Made Milwaukee Famous

I've had less than my fair share of lucky breaks
And enough of this fooling around.
I've got one last chance to get rid of my past
And bury it deep in the ground.
And no matter what you try, man,
You're never gonna tear me down.

When the only blame you cast is your own.
And your only guarantee is your fear of the unknown.
If you don't cut your losses before you get lost,
They're never going to leave you alone.

My best bits of advice I'll repeat only twice
After that you can fend for yourself.
If you think that your shoes couldn't find better use
Or fit just about anyone else,
You need to face up and fold
Or deal with the hand you're dealt.

Make up your mind
Are you in are you out?
I've no patience for your impetuous doubt.

When the only blame you cast is your own,
And your only guarantee is your fear of the unknown.
If you don't cut your losses before you get lost,
They're never going to leave you alone

I've had less than my fair share of lucky breaks
And enough of this fooling around.
I've got one last chance to get rid of my past
And bury it deep in the ground.

Make up your mind
Are you in are you out?
You'd be better served as a face in the crowd.

If you never want the truth to be told,
And all your major concerns are out of your control.
If you don't pick your feet up to come back around
You get stuck in my way and get rolled.

When the only blame you cast is your own,
And your only guarantee is your fear of the unknown
If you don't cut your losses before you get lost,
They're never going to leave you alone
Leave you alone

The Best U2 Songs You've Never Heard

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

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?

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