This morning, in a brief cognizant moment preparing to commute to work, I remember thinking, I better eat that Indian dish in the fridge for lunch today. It’s going to go bad soon. I packed it, a small bag of organic carrots, an organic apple… and headed for the door.

One of the morning’s other failures was I didn’t work out, but that’s because I stupidly tried to make my corporate laptop talk to my home networked hard drive, and ended up rendering it useless, so during my normal workout time, I was tethered to my desk waiting for my high priority trouble ticket to transform into someone from IT to arrive.

For whatever reason, I was oddly hungry today, eating the apple upon arrival, and the carrots before lunch. For lunch, I heated up my Indian spiced peas and mushrooms in the cafe microwave and joined my co-workers to eat. The dish had passed the sniff test at 6:30 in the morning, and once again gave no indication anything might be wrong. I often prepare dishes in bulk and eat them for the next week and a half or so, and can usually get away with it because there’s no decomposing animal flesh or liquids (congealed or otherwise) in it.

As you by now have surmised, something was wrong with something I ate. I have no insight into what exactly it was. You know how sometimes just thinking of a specific dish or ingredient after food poisoning makes you feel sick? I’m not getting that vibe off of anything. I can’t even point fingers with complete certainty. I tend to think “mushrooms,” but for all I know I got a rank bag of carrots grown downstream of the fecal river of an animal processing plant, who can say?

We ate at noon, and by 2 p.m., I had tried to make myself throw up several times in the company men’s room. I was under the impression this was an easy thing, just throw down a finger, no? I could get gagging just fine, but no payday. But no one’s ever accused me of being anorexic, if I am I’m wildly unsuccessful at it. Not to mention stopping and waiting for people to enter and leave so I could be the sole occupant of the room. Who ever knoew this many people brushed their teeth after lunch… and take so long doing it?

I kept looking at the time, and wondering if I could stick it out for a few more hours, and whether my symptoms would get better or worse. When they seemed to not get better, possibly helped along by my drinking orange juice to try and get myself sick enough to vomit (classy), I finally looked at the train times home. I figure I’d rather vomit on public transportation than in a packed, northbound employee bus. My other big thought was “Thank God I switched concerts, and my Police concert is now on Wednesday and not tonight, as originally booked,” although that was a pointless concern, since I wouldn’t have brought my lunch if I was seeing a concert that night, to lessen my backpack load at the show.

At around 2:20, I decided it wasn’t worth the money (I’ll make up the hours anyway) or discomfort to stay there, and I looked up train times. One was leaving shortly, and I had like 6 minutes to get to the light rail which would then take me to the SF-bound train. But my co-worker didn’t like the idea of my being sick and transferring trains on top of that, so he drove me to the train station. We barely made it in time, as the train pulled up the same time as we did, so I jumped on without paying. I figure I was dressed decently enough in business casual, so I was unlikely to be singled out for a ticket check (please, profiling is true), so unless they did the whole train, it was OK. And I figured I had a good story anyway, food poisoning and all, and I’m sure I was adequately pale and sweaty at this point to pull it off.

I tried to watch Sex & The City on my iPod, but I couldn’t be bothered. I thought it might be an appropriate time to listen to the Fleet Foxes new album I downloaded (legally), since they are described as mellow and pastoral, but even that was just blah. So, I just sat there, two seats away from the rest room, and counted down stop after stop, in what seemed like the longest train ride ever. Tried to throw up twice on the train, too, but no dice. Although, in hindsight, it’s good I didn’t since I was sort of standing and not right at the bowl (the squeamish may not want to read this whole blog… consider yourself warned).

I debate whether to bang off at Millbrae, and jump on BART, which according to the BART schedule on my iPod would only be a 6 minute wait and get me three blocks from home, unlike the train stop a good distance away. But, I figure, I’m already riding this for free, so if I grab a cab, I’m still ahead of the game money-wise and it’s curb service. And, if cabs are ever appropriate, I think this moment rises to the occasion even if I did pay to ride Caltrain.

I get off the train, jump in the first cab, and we’re headed home… I feel much worse than when I left work, and am pretty certain I’m going to best Lardass Hogan in the pie-eating contest as soon as I get home. After four blocks from my house, there’s a new bitter taste in my mouth, either gastric acid, bile, who can tell… and the sweat starts pouring off of me. I debate telling the cab I’ll get out there, figuring it’s where all the homeless sleep under the freeway anyway, and I’ve had to step over enough bodily fluids and such in my time, may as well contribute for a change. But I hold it together, although I seriously have my hand on the door handle, ready to open the door at any red light and unload (do they auto-lock the back doors in cabs? That could have been a bad scene if they do… vomiting on a cab door).

So, I get home, and realize my body just sent out its vomit signal and accompanying fluids and I suppressed them, so now I was on my own again, just with more acid in my esophagus than before. It was like that weight that goes up and down at carnivals when people hit the plunger below with a sledgehammer, trying to hit the bell at the top. It help going higher then lower, but I couldn’t get the bell to ring. And now that I was safely, albeit uncomfortably, home… I was more than happy to spew. Again, the finger down the throat just gagging me and gagging me, and some thick fluid and “particles” but still no show.

I decide I should probably drink water, because it will at least dilute the acid and, at best, it will give the stuff that wants out more volume to work with. It’s been four hours since I ate at this point, so I’m rather amazed my body has still not digested this stuff, it *really* didn’t want it to go through the rest of the system, I guess.

Within a few minutes of drinking two full glasses of water, there is a disturbance in the force. I head to the bathroom, hoping some big muscle queen is about to try his hand with the sledgehammer. And, to my luck, he is… and two big torrents of blech come out. I look to see if my body actually picked through it, and maybe there would be clearly all mushrooms or whatever the dodgy ingredient was, but no dice. Immediately, whatever fever I had goes away, and my body feels slightly better.

I shouldn’t be tired, but I still feel blah, so I try to force myself to nap, figuring it will lead to feeling even better when I wake up. When I sleep with the sweatshirt, I’m too hot; T-shirt, too cold; so Goldilocks went with no shirt, but my (fake) cashmere throw pulled over me.

I have no idea when I went to bed, but I wake up around 9 p.m. My first thought is, this will not be good for waking up for work tomorrow (although I work from home, so not as big a deal). My second thought, the more familiar one, is “I’m hungry.” (Although to be honest, how often am I really hungry? I never let things get that far… obviously)

I’m kind of suspicious of a lot of the food in the house, though. All of the healthy, whole-grainiess and spices of everything make me skittish, so I decide to walk up to Safeway and go get some supplies. Things that seem appropriate for my palate in its current state. Uncrustables (strawberry-filled PB&J sandwiches), because if I buy bread, peanut butter, and jelly, I’ll be eating that stuff long after I feel better and I’ve gained enough weight as it is, so 4 little Uncrustables is a much better option. Some soup. Some highly-processed, non-whole-grain, turns-to-mush-when-you-add-milk cereal. And a small watermelon. Applesauce, a usual staple for such a Safeway run, somehow eludes me at the time. Pity.

The cereal I bought is some Special K but a Cinnamon Pecan version, and I seem to recall cinnamon is a good digestive aid, so that seemed to be a good balance. Did they stop making Cinnamon Life? That was the intended purchase. I fill a bowl, douse it with non-fat vanilla soy milk and let it sit. No fiber, thanks, just mush is preferred.

After it sets for a while, I eat some cereal. Seems fine. It doesn’t take too long to realize that the cereal is not agreeing with whatever dormant acid pool had been festering. And we’re back where we were a few hours ago, with fingers throats gagging nothing. Learning from earlier, I hit the water again. (Skittish people, suffice it to say I’m feeling good now. You may not want to continue. You’ve been warned.)

I remember when I was younger, a term that is beginning to cover more and more ground anymore, I decided I could change my own oil to save money. We had the little ramps to drive the car onto, so I bought the right filter, oil, and went to work. I remember I put the drip pan directly under where you unscrew the filter or whatever else was under there, it’s been 13 years without a car now, so it’s becoming vaguer with time.

All I remember is my thought that the oil would be entirely vertical, so the pan was directly under what I was unscrewing and on the other side of the pan to catch the oil was my face. Of course, the oil completely overshot the pan, covered my face, and only then lost its velocity enough to use the pan.

Twenty plus years later, physics still eludes me and I decide that for round two, rather than kneeling down to be closer to the toilet, it’d be fine to just be over it. If you think about it, of course, the trajectory is coming up the throat, and banking off the upper palate, though, not just shooting out of where you happen to point your mouth. Of course, this sort of Monday morning quarterbacking is never difficult.

So, water plus Cinnamon Pecan Special K plus whatever acid and funkiness didn’t evacuate earlier start to indicate they’ve had enough and they are on their way out. I’m leaning but not kneeling over the toilet, with a wide stance to make Larry Craig proud and, as you may have surmised, almost nothing ends up in the bowl. Instead all of the vomit doesn’t project down as gravity might allow, because gravity is also impacted by velocity, so all of the fun shoots out of me, banks on my upper palate, redirects, and all shoots back at me. Onto my socks, the carpet, the floor, my legs… and seemingly goes for more of a wide horizontal coverage area that is wider than my widened stance, but less on the vertical axis. The top of the puddle, of course, being the very end of the toilet bowl. And, when you’re seriously vomiting, there is little chance to redirect, it’s sort of over before you can do anything about it.

So… I haven’t had anything else to eat after that. I’ve sort of lost my appetite at this point. So, there’s one plus. How was your day?

I also don’t really get star struck anymore, so despite being a huge fan of his work, there was never a moment where it was like: I’m chatting with David Sedaris?!

Give it a read if you want…

But, as I understood it, it had to be vocalized in proximity of the existing appliance for the misfortune to occur, no?

So, last night, I was at an after-party marking the end of the sold-out run of my friend Kirk’s one man show, and I was telling someone who just moved back to the Bay Area that I was considering moving to NYC in spring 2009. They were talking about how much they had to move when they left the Bay Area, and then how they got rid of a lot before moving back again.

And I mentioned that I’m already going through my stuff now to prepare for the move. There are piles of books, and some piles are clearly “You better read this, cuz it ain’t going to NYC.” And, as an aside, I said, I’m not even going to take my TV to NYC. Watching TV in NYC doesn’t seem necessary, I should be doing more interesting things.

In that moment, I remember thinking: “If you truly believe that, why do you have television now? Why not find more interesting things to do in SF?!”

My saying this took place a good mile away from my apartment, minimum.

Today, I mainly hung out, with a quick little Herbivore/gym/Rainbow grocery run in the middle. The plan today was to watch the Tony Awards, although the only nominated show I actually saw was Xanadu and I was rooting against it and supporting other things.

But the main goal in watching it was to see Robin De Jesus hopefully win an award for best featured performer in a musical for “In The Heights.” I’ve followed Robin since I first saw him in the cute movie Camp, through him being in Rent (never got to see him in it) and now In The Heights. On Oasis, I interviewed Robin about In The Heights twice now: a few hours before the show had its opening night off-Broadway and two weeks ago, to talk about his Tony nomination. The only other person I was pulling for this year was Harvey Fierstein, whom I consider a national treasure, but he wasn’t nominated for his book/performance in A Catered Affair.

So, the whole night was cleared to enjoy the Tonys. Only, my TV doesn’t turn on. Well, it turns on, but the bottom half of the screen is black, and the top half is folding in on itself like the picture was hung over a clothesline to dry, and you could see the upside down top half of the screen superimposed behind the bottom half of the screen, which is all taking place in the top half of the screen.

And after a while, the screen usually went completely black and it was audio-only. With any other show, I’d just go do something else and download it illegally online later. But, even I’m not optimistic enough to think there’s some gay, Broadway musical-loving nerd out there who is going to put this online. And, even if they do, it will probably be slow as ever to download since it’s not the geeky stuff that gets attention of the online piracy community. The musical numbers will likely end up on YouTube, so I’ll watch some stuff there.

So, I have to say, Broadway musicals aren’t as enjoyable as audio. I took to using my useless subscription-less TIVO to pause up to 30 minutes of the show at a time, and then the did the reverse of what most people would do. I skipped through the musical numbers to hear the awards. Or, I should say, to make sure I caught Best Featured Actor in a Musical.

Finally, it happened, and I paused the Tivo and turned the TV on and off a few times, seeing if it would cooperate with me. It didn’t. So, I hit play and listened. When I heard Robin’s name, my whole body filled with goosebumps and joy, even though this was tape-delayed and three-plus hours into the history books. When we did our interview, he still didn’t know what he was going to wear, and I still don’t know what he came up with, but he didn’t win. So, once I knew that, I just went online and read the results. That was really the only category/nomination I was interested in, although I was happy to hear Lin-Manuel win for best score, because he just seems to be so appreciative and full of life and spirit. I can’t wait to enjoy his show on the boards this year.

I’ve long thought about it, questioned it, wondered what it would be like, and it’s here. I don’t have television. I will officially try and confine anything I do watch to downloads that I convert to iPod video and watch at the gym. I mean, let’s face it, having a computer and knowing how to illegally download stuff (or, I suppose, legally downloading it through iTunes, heh) means you can watch as much TV as ever before. And, anyone local with spare TVs, don’t offer me one. I’m curious to put more attention on other things.

So here we are… I couldn’t get rid of it on my own. But I can certainly not replace it.

Job is good, but I’m still trying to sort out the commute. Here are the issues:

When I commute to San Jose, it is basically a 12-hour day. I leave to catch the corporate bus at 7:10 a.m., and I get home at 6:55ish p.m.

I try to write on the commute down, but it is in that gray zone where as soon as you get in a good zone and are really finding the groove, the commute ends. It was OK for editing the latest draft of the novel, and not bad for writing the latest gay youth letters project now, but I don’t think this is a viable solution for working on the new novel this fall. So, I’ll use the letters project to experiment to make sure I have this sorted before fall.

I keep trying to move the blocks of my day around to find a good fit. I’m not sure it exists. The bus ride might be best suited as sleep time so I can have more hours awake in San Francisco, rather than trying to shoehorn things into the commute. The answer might just be, do what needs to be done, and add caffeine to plaster over the gaps.

The gym has suffered. I just joined the corporate gym for the next quarter ($22.50 a month), so I’m paid through September. When the bus makes good time, it is fine to jump in before work. When we hit traffic, it seems too late to be starting a cardio session. The solution might be working during lunch when that happens, since that is a long time for me. (I bring my own prepared food, but co-worker(s) tend to get in line and buy stuff. By the time they order and get their food, I could honestly be finished and gone. I eat slower because I know I’m going to be there a while, but I think I might be better off going to the gym and either eating at my cube or at the very tail end of their lunch hour. The issue there is not wanting to get in my workout but be anti-social. But that’s the balance with everything.

The job’s fine. Will be interesting to see how it changes in August, when the two senior members of the team’s contracts expire and me and the guy who started the same day as me become the senior team members. That will happen rather soon.

I was reading on the bus ride at the end of the day, but it kept putting me to sleep, so I switched to e-mail replying, social networking, blogging, and the occasional iPod video watching. A major problem is that all of my preferred activities (writing, reading, etc.) require you to be in a state that is subdued and blissful, but if you don’t get enough sleep, you start nodding off.

On days when I don’t work out in San Jose, it messes things up to try and work out at night, because then I’m not getting to the gym until 8 or 9 p.m., spiking my energy levels, and then I’m up past the point at which I should be going to bed to get up early the next day. Again, it comes down to trying to move too many pieces around when the answer is probably doing less.

As per usual, I entertain the thought of moving my schedule around, so that when the bus comes back to San Francisco, I’m ready for bed, getting up around 4 a.m., working out and writing before the bus, and reading on the way down to San Jose. This works fine if I have no intention of seeing things that occur at night, ever dating someone, etc. Of course, I mention this schedule being bad for dating, but not being on this schedule hasn’t led to any dating either, heh.

I’ve always been one to try and organize life. It never works, but I persist. I’m never hungry before I eat, tired before I’m planning to sleep. Schedules would be nice, but they don’t work. There’s talk of a second bus going to/from work, which might present more options, at least for more easily fitting the workouts in on commute days.

My weekends tell me that my weekdays haven’t found a good path yet. When I don’t have definitive plans, and I debate between farmer’s markets, plays, movies, etc., more often than not, I just go back to bed and sleep for too much of the day. Plus, I’m not happy about the caffeine intake on commute days, my being awake is entirely dependent on chemicals.

Despite the above, I am pleased to report that no balls are being dropped. The gym has suffered, but I go. The writing isn’t as perfect as I’d like, but it happens. Work probably gets the best chunk of the day because, well, let’s face it, that’s the chunk attached to income, so that steers the ship.

I have to remind myself I took three years off from work, so this is now a major adjustment. From 0 to 40 hours (52, if you count the time required for the three commute days). So, given that, I think it is working out alright.

And I’ve still never abandoned the notion that nothing has an appropriate time of day. That if all of my plotting and planning leaves me tired with unchecked to-do items for the day, how much different would randomness be? Would Bikram yoga on a commute day be awful or energizing? What would happen if I gave up the caffeine and made my schedule adjust without chemicals? All of those are on the horizon.

Cooking experiments have dropped off a bit, too. Like today, I know I have split pea soup and chili in the fridge, but I had the chili for lunch already, and I’m not really in the mood for split pea. But I don’t think there’s much else ready. So, debating jumping off the bus one stop early and hitting Herbivore, or something else, which will only extend the time it takes me to have dinner, and make the dinner window extend and thus make the gym less likely to happen because the bus ran late this morning… so, yeah, that’s sort of how it goes lately.

Already a plan in the works for that, though. Part of tonight’s plan, actually. The return of the salad bags. See, I don’t like boring salad. But, being single, it’s hard to maintain non-boring salad, because you can’t really open up garbanzo beans, hearts of palm, artichoke hearts, frozen corn, grape tomatoes, baked tofu, peas, cucumbers, and whatever else I want to toss on a salad all at once. You open that many 15.5 oz cans, and then you have a lot of stuff racing the clock that I’m likely to be tossing in the trash. (Plus, if I have baked tofu laying around, that’s called snack, not protein for future salads) So, tonight, I will be making up freezer bags that contain one salad’s worth of a lot of the above ingredients. So, throw some lettuce in a bowl with some grape tomatoes, thaw a bag under running water, dump onto salad. Done. That will solve night like tonight, where I’m likely to eat out or drop in at Rainbow and grab dinner and, as we all know, the prepared foods are where they really nail you price-wise in the store.

So that’s the update. I’m really happy that the job is going well and that I’ve resisted the obvious notions of putting anything on hold until after I get the schedule sorted out, because that’s just an unpredictable window.

I am debating heading home for the summer. The job seems easy enough to do remotely (a cell phone and wireless access and I’m good to go, really), although my parents are out of town for the window around my birthday, the most obvious time to visit otherwise. July seems so soon to do it, and September I’m doing a long weekend (at minimum) in Texas, to visit my father/brother/sister.

So, we’ll see. I’m about to start abandoning the scheduling attempts. This Thursday night, I’m going to see a band, The Ting Tings, play at a club late at night — just crash late, wake up early, and deal with it. If scheduling and caffeine have me tired and wired and I’m not having fun, I may as well be tired and wired and have fun. If scheduling and trying to make things work out made me calm, rested, and accomplishing more, it would have made a better case for sticking around. So, we’ll try something new.

But that’s the update. Job’s going well, getting my bearings there. Draft of the novel is done right now, and can’t look at that for another 4-5 weeks. New writing project is proceeding. Gym is not as much as I’d like, but I still make it a few times a week. Social life, eh, needs some work (but let’s face it, this was the case before the new job, hehe). Gay pride in two(?) weeks and I’m not feeling it yet. Not being in the hood as much, I may not catch the fever this year. I’ll do Pink Saturday/Pride Sunday, though.

OK, this was my northbound commute today, so now you know where I’m at, and what I’ve been up to lately…

I got this draft down to 692 pages (from 760 or somesuch), and shaved about 30,000ish words off of it, so good progress. I am still rather amazed by the lazy notes in it, as though it was written in such a hurried, scattered pace as to not allow time for research, which I know was not true. There was lots of bold notation such as “Look up other obesity-related sleep disorders for this section,” so the question is always how I had time to write that, but not just Google the damn things and fix them then.

But, in any event, the current draft has no notations or placeholders. It is complete. Also, I should point out that the 692 pages is based on Courier, 14pt, so when that comes down to the 11pt world, it would probably shave some pages, as well.

Was interesting reading the ending today, which is not how the book will end in the next draft. It took me a while to realize the way the book now ends in my head was not going to happen in this draft. I didn’t change it up, though, because I wanted to preserve this draft as its own entity. While I think this ending is very satisfying, it ties everything up with pretty bows a bit too much, which I want to resist. I hate Hollywood for doing that all the time, so I can’t join them when I’m at the wheel.

Of course, I think my intended ending for the next draft is still satisfying, just a bit more open-ended. I like art that leaves itself open for discussion afterward, leaving people to wondering what will happen next for these characters after my text ends.

And, to celebrate finishing the novel, I’ll see Crowded House live at The Fillmore tonight and tomorrow night. Good timing on that, makes it more of a celebration now.

Really enjoyed the book this morning, which always seems strange, but I’ve definitely hit the part of the book that hasn’t been edited as much as the rest. See, I would always start at the beginning every time, so it was always dependent on when that cycle would trail off that determined how much of the book got edited.

I recently raised the stakes on the novel by sending out copies of a book to review. It’s actually the 150ish page book that my lead character writes as part of my novel. Didn’t really warn people, most just it show up unannounced in their mailbox.

Not sure what the review cycle on that will be. Or what the fate of that text ultimately is. I think it’ll be clearer what to do with the proper novel when that arrives, as opposed to the book of the character in the novel.

Of course, for my family, this has started a whole round of craziness, because they think this is memoir. I once said that everything I write is real, and I think that should be true of all fiction. It is all inspired by things that are real. That said, these real thing didn’t necessarily happen to me. I steal everywhere I go. And this isn’t some James Frey confession here. It’s a novel.

So, yeah, I can’t really say it bothers me to create a fictional character and have people think it’s me. I guess that is the price of admission.

There’s a lot of me in the book, but there’s a hell of a lot of invention, too. It’s too easy to think the main character is me, but since I came up with all the characters, aren’t they’re me, too?

But I know there is no way to divorce the writer from the art, especially when it comes to family and friends.

Although, considering I’m already locking in on what my next novel is going to be (based on this, but don’t expect me to ever reference it again on here), I think book two will provide them with even more to question if they keep thinking that.

The biggest challenge for the job is being present, although I don’t think it is a new pursuit by any means. It almost seems we live in a world that thrives in the myths of multitasking and connectedness. Especially at high-tech jobs, we live at networked computers that are always ready to go.

Our jobs require us to be surfing the web, so the challenge is to commit to that moment. Go to the page the job requires, do that task and, when I’m finished, go to the next page.

It is easy to quickly check FaceBook, MySpace, pop onto my webmail client for jeffwalsh.com, or any other distraction. But I’m trying to resist. My goal is to stay focused on the job for the full eight hours.

I mention I haven’t done a full-time job in a while, but that’s not entirely relevant because at previous jobs there was also no such division. At my last full-time job, we used an AIM client to talk within our team, and I used the same login name as I give out on Oasis and to friends, so there was a constant blurring of work, personal, Oasis, etc.

I commute to this new gig a few days a week, and today, I noticed people who work on the bus and it is that same shift. You look up and someone is writing e-mail. Two minutes later, they are playing Solitaire over the e-mail. Look again, back to e-mail. Next time, they are surfing dish patterns.

This pattern seems to exist everywhere. When I recently went to see Panic at the Disco in concert, it was amazing how much time was spent by their most ardent fans texting throughout the show, and taking pictures on cell phones (I’ve never seen one that looks worth the effort, quite honestly). If you’re really into the band and their music, and one of the band members brings their guitar right in front of you, it seems like a perfect time to drink in that moment, possibly make eye contact, smile, sing along… and not necessarily grab a fuzzy 1 megapixel snapshot to post on your MySpace. We’re capturing moments to post in the future without letting them fully be realized in the present.

I download stuff to watch on my computer, some of it broadcast stuff I missed or things from other countries that I otherwise wouldn’t have access to. In the past few weeks, I’ve determined to watch everything full-screen instead of my usual method, which is to make it as wide as possible while leaving just a sliver of desktop to play tetris.

I try and do that with everything, with varied results. I don’t bring my cell phone to this new job except for days whereby I’m meeting people for dinner afterwards and might need to sync up. Otherwise, it’s pointless for me.

I’m also still juggling how to balance this new gig with working on the novel (hasn’t been an issue) and getting to the gym (the bigger casualty), and it’s kind of surprising (but not really), that on days when I commute, the novel is done quickly and effortlessly. But on days when I work from home, and don’t have to wake up as early, the novel is often put off until closer to my start time, or after my shift entirely.

So, it’s all a work in progress, but in a specific direction.

I’d talk more about it, but I’m hourly, at my desk in the offices of my new job, and it’s 9 a.m.

It’s time for me to focus my attention somewhere else now.

Apparently, I make a statement about climate change EVERY Saturday night almost year-round, because my lights are always off at that time for a simple reason: Why the hell would I be sitting around at home on a Saturday night?!

Until now, I would cite things like the cost of having a car given the payment/lease, insurance, gas, etc., and of course, the big issue is finding a place to park near my apartment, but after this weekend, I’m changing my tune. None of those things matter as much as the fact that I really was just bored driving around.

Some of this is the fact that it wasn’t my car, of course. For example, when I walk around the city, I usually listen to podcasts or new music on my iPod. But the car didn’t have a line-in, so when I drove down to a party on Saturday, it was all just… the radio.

On top of that, it just seemed like such a waste of time. Nearly an hour of making sure my car stayed between painted lines at a high rate of speed (within 5 miles of the speed limit, so of course, I was being passed quite a bit), listening to radio, and having to deal with all the aggressive drivers trying each lane out to see which would get them to their destination faster. Blah, such bad energy.

By contrast, without a car, I would have been on the train. While sitting there and relaxing for an hour, I could have read a book, listened to an audiobook, brought a laptop and worked on something there, watched some video on my iPod… all of which seem like so much more civilized options.

I understand that driving a car is supposed to be some primal, masculine thing, but you can have it. I’m sticking with sneakers, buses, and trains.

They were good, but it’s an odd concert.

Usually, when you go to a show, it is people who all like the same music. Now, for some reason, this crowd didn’t have that vibe. It was clear they were there because they liked the movie “Once.”

You didn’t get the sense these people usually are turning off NPR and going to a night concert.

First, I arrive and they are all seated on the floor. Fair enough, no need to stand until anything happens, only… it was clear they thought they were settled in for the night. Like, people whose friends had yet to arrive, they had their jackets spread out to make room for them, etc. There was no standing in their planned futures.

I got up around the fifth row of people from the stage, and at about 5 minutes until showtime, the first two rows got off the floor and stood in front of the stage. From the third row back, they clearly seemed horrified by this malfeasance and were holding their ground. Only, there was now a six foot moat between the third row, and the greatly-compacted first two rows standing up at the stage. You could clearly see people on the sides starting to make their way up to fill the gap, and the third row and many rows behind them aren’t moving.

So, I decide, screw this, get up and go stand near the people at the stage. Apparently, this was not acceptable to the person whose view I just blocked (they are still on the floor, keep in mind, so if he intends to stay on the floor, the stage is chest level for me, so I will be blocking his view of Glen’s foot). So this guy says, you’re blocking my wife’s view. Why do you think you can just stand wherever you want? We’ve been sitting there for a half hour now.

I explain that within 5 minutes, only the balcony people will be sitting, and that at a general admission show, you stand wherever you want. If someone were blocking my view, I’d move accordingly, and if I’m blocking their view, they can do the same. He then said, what if I decide to push in front of you? I tell him to go ahead, and he wedges himself into the 8″ gap between the last person in the second row, and a bass speaker on the floor, the corner of which I selected specifically so I could rest my arm on it. So, having pushed himself directly in my eye line, he turns around squashed and triumphant and says, what would you do to that, and I non-chalantly take one step to the left, my view once again unobstructed.

His poor wife, clearly not enjoying seeing her husband be a jerk, though also not surprised this persona exists, just asks him to come back with her and to forget about it. That’s sort of the end of my encounter with them, except for the fact that they seem completely oblivious when Martha Wainwright is doing her opening set.

As I have a lot of performer friends, you know that although the audio is projecting out from the stage, a lot of the noise from the audience is heard loud and clear onstage. These people, now joined by their obnoxious friends, never stop talking throughout her entire set (just her and an acoustic guitar five feet away, mind you).

Loud, dull, and non-stop, part of the new cell phone culture that seems to constantly need to narrate a life, blissfully unaware that it’s a boring one. On two separate occassions, Martha actually stops the song and asks people to stop talking and mentioned there is a foyer if they don’t want to hear her.

Normal people would get the hint, especially when most people around these idiots start clapping, and looking at them. Instead, the female friend that joined them later decides better and starts yelling “Get over yourself! We’re not hear to see you! We can do whatever we want!”

I do feel vindicated at this, knowing that my earlier exchange occurred with complete and utter assholes. I mean, I’m no huge Martha Wainwright fan, but she was pleasant and trying to entertain us. It’s not really an adversarial role, just additional entertainment.

When the Swell Season came on, they piped down a bit more, but there was a noticeable difference in the audience reaction between the “movie” songs, and the “other” songs. Movie songs got attention, other songs were sort of treated as filler, although it was all delightful, fun, and in the same exact spirit as the other tunes. I knew going in (partially for this reason) that this would probably be my only Swell Season show, because if I like them, I’ll just switch over to the Frames. I normally don’t follow mellow coffeehouse strummers with some piano and string players. I like rock and roll, drums, and electric guitars. So, these songs will eventually get tarted up for the Frames or be an acoustic set in the middle of their future shows, I would imagine, especially as three of the extra musicians added to fill out the music were from the Frames.

So, there was something off about the whole event, seeing as we were all people in a room who liked a movie. We weren’t Swell Season fans, per se. We just connected to Once and wanted to extend that connection in person with the people responsible for its magic.

I don’t want to give the impression that The Swell Season were off and responsible for any of this. They did a fun, inspired set. He is clearly the showman, and she is bookish and quiet. So, when he’s front and center, it is effortless and self-effacing, and when she is front and center, it seems like she is challenging herself to do it.

I’m completely glad I went, amazed at the rudeness of some of the crowd (especially people who want to be close to the stage and act like that), and the best moments of the night were the small exchanges that brought me up near the stage in the first place: the little sparks that shot between them when they made eye contact and both broke into big smiles at one another, his look of joy when she sang, and his complete ease and candor at what he called “the best year of my life.”