Moms and Bobs

If there were 12,000 months in a year, my mother would deserve to be celebrated in each day of every one. So, being the officially deemed and nationally observed Mother’s day and all, I figured I should make a trip down to Houston so that she could see my face, and be reminded of the constant adoration I have for her that is written all over it every time I see her. I brought Kate along with me for this celebration of mothers, as Kate’s mum, Lynn, is in Susanville, CA (not a simple weekend destination), and mine considers her a surrogate daughter. It was a beautiful and memorable weekend.



Be it known that my mother and her mother are far from any archetypal mommy-type. She’s my rock, yes, and my compass, and sometimes my disciplinary and therapist, but she is in all honesty my best friend. In fact, she refers to our relationship as “junior and senior roommates”—a term of endearment rather than of residency. I’m not sure what other 25-year-old women and their mothers do to spend time together, and I’m sure there’s a vast array of mother-daughter relationship types, all individual in their own right, but if there were any normalcy that existed in these types of things, I’m quite sure that we don’t qualify.



When we’re together, she wears her pearls and I my tie-die skirt, and we get in her fancy little sports-suspension bmw and jam out to CSNY, Devendra Banhart, Van Morrison, Great Lake Swimmers, Dylan and Joni from any one of the countless musical compilations I send to her regularly in their painted packages … that she saves, as if she could ever have a use for them again, or believes they are truly pieces of art that will gain emotional and memorable value with time. I guess it’s that macaroni necklace syndrome that only mothers understand.



Every time I’m about to come see her she asks the same questions: “What kind of beer are you drinking these days?” (She’s not necessarily a beer drinker, but deeply respects my love for the craft.) and “Are there any shows you want to catch while you’re here?” (She will have already checked out local listings and give me the lowdown on the Houston venue scene for that given weekend.)



One of my funniest memories is a couple years back when she bought us NIN tickets, obviously without a clue of what to expect. However, to her credit, she held her own in her pale pink camisole and endured the hardcore, rambunctious fan base. Earlier this year she even requested we see Marilyn Manson at Verizon … But only if I thought I would enjoy it, of course, but she was just throwing it out there because she was sure that I would think it would be quite an experience. Well, didn’t I?

I alerted her when Aimee Mann came to Houston a while back, but something came up and I couldn’t make it at the last minute, so this amazing woman went by herself to the show. And bought me a CD. I’ll get calls from her while she sits a few rows from Ryan Adams and delivers her commentary about his performance.

Obviously, she’s fantastic.



Together we go to dive bars, museums, rodeos, dance lessons, live shows, thrift stores, funk clubs, fancy Italian restaurants, and seedy country western dance halls, but one of my mom’s happiest places is by the water. Just ask her. The sound, the salty aroma of the Gulf waters, the spirit of the sun-drenched surroundings …



There’s this wild solidarity about time spent by the never-ending ocean. Whether you’ve found yourself in the swell surroundings of a family-filled diaper-clad holiday weekend at an umbrella-dotted public beach, or perched on the farthest point of a fisherman’s jetty blinded by the salty breeze, or sitting on the dock of the bay joined only by your favorite book … just one long look out to where the water meets the sky miles out of merely estimated miles has always been able to take me to a place that is so remarkably personal. It may be the feeling of being so insignificant in the face of such a grand, vast, powerful body of water and life, or just the sheer bliss from an ocean breeze brushing your sun-kissed cheeks.



So as one can assume, we went down to the Gulf’s bay to celebrate her fabulous motherhood. We ate crab, shrimp, pineapple and snapper, drank my favorite Jamaican lager and Bloody Maria’s (that’s tequila with some Tabasco and tomato for flavor), browned our skin, swang on porchswings, dipped our toes in the beautiful chilly blueness, listened to a great live couple who played a bunch of folk jams, reggae, and Townes Van Zandt covers/renditions, tap danced in our heads to the rhythmic shucking of fresh oysters (well I did, at least), waved at the fisherman, witnessed a breathtaking bay sunset, and contently contemplated life’s complexities.





My sweet mother is so incredibly beautiful, and I am so incredibly lucky to be hers. Happy Mother’s Day for 12,000 months and more to every mom out there. You fools amaze me.



Also—and entirely off subject—if you haven’t heard the Andrew Bird cover of Dylan’s “Oh Sister” you most definitely should. I kind of despise Dylan covers. This one is perfect. Plus, Dylan turns 67 on Saturday. Cheers, Bob.

a little rain's gon' come

I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

I always listen to Bob. And why would now be any different? He eases my soul. I’ve been dying for someone who cries for harmonica, who loves the rain, who needs my love. So I went to the greenbelt. It’s full of love. Growth, green, and love. A wonderful place, our greenbelt is…





I will be eternally interested in the life of life and the life of death.

… and how death can be so beautiful



and how such beautiful life can grow from death





I met some amazing people along my journey … just one of the many reasons I adore my great city. These young men were just waiting for something to bite, to fall for their bait and catch on their line. While the man on the rocks has a different motive. There is no game in his love. He is simply there to give it freely, in honest admiration. Like Bob.







So I’ll leave you with a burning questing … Do you have to have seen the needle and the damage done to be as cool as Neil Young?

Austin City Has No Limits

Every once in a while, something goes down in our infrequently sleepy town that makes me proud as hell to live in it. Though it may seem cliché, and a little overdone, the Austin City Limits Festival is one of my all-time favorite weekends of the year.



I know many an Austinite that turns their nose up at this mega-event, and to them I say, thank you. Thank you, elitist home-towners and ‘Keep Austin Weird’ers. Thank you for your laughably controversial op-eds in the Chronicle and local blogs about anti-corporatism and unfavorable acoustics. Thank you for giving disgruntled cabbies a reason to complain about a profitable weekend of heavy business. And lastly, and definitely not leastly, thank you for not buying tickets, so that non-elitist festival-loving friends, old and new, from across the world have the opportunity to join in the fun. A Festivus for the rest of us, if you will. After all, if we’re going to repair Texas’ historically and politically preceding reputation, we have to start somewhere.



I, for one, had family and friends visiting for the event, and these out-of-towners left our great city exhausted and singing its praises. I also met a slew of like-minded ACLiens from all over the world (Linda, my new Canadian friend, wherever you are, rock on and I’ll see you in Victoria BC). Thanks to LJ’s excellent photographic skills, we were able to chronicle some of our fun.


Day 1

T.G.I.ACL

Though we managed to miss the unexplained 18-wheeler conflagration, we couldn’t escape the heat. We did catch a little solace from the sultriness at the crowded entry gates (thanks to the cover of a friendly rain cloud) and a little of Peter Bjorn and John’s set. Not a bad way to start a steamy day.



Possibly my favorite performance of the weekend came in the heat of the first day from the UK’s M.I.A. Seemingly unphased by the Friday afternoon furnace, she talked about politics and partying, about war and Visas, invited half of the crowd to join her on stage, did the running man for about 48 8-counts, and put on a side splitting performance (no seriously, cheeseballs. She danced so hard that she split the pant seam of her fuchsia jumpsuit). I have never wanted so desperately to be in someone’s posse as I do in hers.



At the end of a long first day of festivaling, Bjork and her colorful cronies took the stage. Bouncing around the space in a state of emergency, this Icelandic icon brought the goods. I wish she had delivered more of her classics, but I’ll settle with crazy costumes and confetti explosions.


Day 2

No Sleep ‘Till Brooklyn

…And on the second day, God said, “Let there be a morning of bottomless mimosas with friends followed by another amazing day of music.” Cold War Kids and Clap Your Hands, deliciously depressing Damien Rice, Stephen Marley stirring it up for the rebelution, and some of my favorite Canucks, Arcade Fire were some of the highlights under the scorching Saturday sun.





Andrew Bird was hands-down, kick everybody’s ass, one of my favorite acts. I’ve been lovin’ Drew for some time, not only because he’s on Ani’s Righteous Babe label, but because he whistles like a Disney movie and is one of the most inventive musicians/lyricists of our generation. He came in style, no doubt, rockin’ the v-neck and rad neon green shades.


Day 3

Sunday Funday

Day three, the troops and I came to play. GearedBeered up and ready to rock, we walked to DeVotchKa to catch a chick rockin the tuba. I love Midlake, and apparently other people love Midlake. One dude loves them so much that he decided to propose in the middle of their set. He actually said be my Young Bride which was endearing and disgusting at the same time. I mean ... I am, we are, all very happy for them. Congrats you two.

Bloc Party was rockin. Regina Spektor is not, I repeat not this generation’s Tori Amos. Amos Lee sounds the way soul food tastes. Jeff Tweedy is on my hero list, and I could watch Wilco for days. It’s Wilco.



Ghostland Observatory is this strange little collaboration of two funky children with one huge beat. I want to carry them around with me wherever I go. Not like pet rock style. You know what I mean. Definitely bringing the energy.

As for Mr. Robert Dylan, all I can say is that he is f***ing Bob Dylan. No, he didn’t sound like a young songbird in spring, but he’s old, people, and he’s lived a life of spilling his heart and soul out day after Dylan-loving day. I mean come on, has anyone been to a Willie show lately? These things happen to people. Anyway, the point is that I love Bobby D, and it was good to have him there.



It has to be said, that the person that first played ol’ Bob (and Joni, and James…) for me is my mum. She was there watching Bob too, and time has never felt so real.



Dear ACL,

I love you. Until next year…

Love, Me

Fur Balls and Folk Stars

I have been desperately trying to convince Mason that the sole thing we currently lack in our lives is the love of a furry feline friend, and I’m pulling out all the stops here. On May 5, I argued that it was essential that we celebrate ‘Cinco de Meow’ by selecting a cat from the local shelter. Now, it’s coming on June, which (according to the ASPCA) is none other than ‘Adopt-a-Shelter-Cat-Month.’ What better time than now, before the poor displaced fur balls are all picked over?



I believe that a compassionate higher being felt sympathetic towards my situation and appeased my longing with a sweet surprise. One morning, four precious flea-bitten feral kittens were huddled on our porch. They found me, and my honey turkey, my porch and my love, and they stayed in the refuge of our porch for several days.



These sweet kittens have me thinking about the “fraidy-cat” syndrome. I look endearingly at each stray kitten with harmless intentions. I want to pet it, love it, feed it and care for it, but when it sees me, I send it darting off in fear. I understand we are different – the kitty and me – but what about ‘different’ is frightening? Is it my size, shape, smell? What if it were not a cat, but someone of another culture, color, background, education? If we understood each other and could communicate how we cared for one another, what this friendship could offer and how we each could benefit from it, the world would be a kinder and more comfortable place. The world would have less fear.

Calling all landlords, tambourine men and rainy day women!

It is him, babe. This Sept. 14-16, I have a date with bobby d. The folk icon and master lyricist himself is set to headline this year’s Austin City Limits Festival, and this three-day binge of Dylan and debauchery is not to be missed.

Thanks to an unbelievable family hook-up, I have been blessed with the opportunity to see Bob live and in person once before in New York (February 1998). I believe some of you may have caught it on television, most notably remembered in reference to ‘soy bomb.’



People will do just about anything to get next to Bob, and I can’t blame them. Check out the ACL lineup and buy your 3-day pass before you’ve missed your chance. I'll be there. After all, missing Bob when he comes to town is like missing a free lecture by Jehovah. It's just wrong, sinful … bad for the soul.

Bob D – I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight