Give My Regards to Broadway

Wednesday saw the end of my six-month co-op with the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ya know, ASCAP) in Manhattan, between Lincoln Center and Central Park.  Y'all saw the Facebook statuses bragging about how cool it was, tweets about the #commuterlife, and snaps showing off this city and counting down the days until I land in the next one.  I just wanted to reflect a bit, and thought I'd share. 

The first thing I saw when I
stepped off the elevator

I didn’t get to take much advantage of Manhattan during my time here.  I had four hours of commuting to do per day, I wasn’t old enough to go out with my coworkers, and I didn’t have the money to go out to dinner, except occasionally.  My life consisted of getting up at 6:30 am to be at work in the Upper West Side at 10, leaving early to catch the 5:41 express train to be home at 7, and being too tired and broke to do anything else.  That was 4 days a week.  I taught bass lessons and worked at China Garden the other three.  The only days I didn’t work were the days we went to Woodloch, I went to Boston, or we had a family obligation.  There was no day off.

Having said all of that, there really was no day I didn’t love my time at ASCAP.  I can confidently say that my worst days of co-op--days when trains were delayed, I had to walk blocks in pouring rain, or my projects got dull or didn’t make sense--were still happier than most people’s best days of co-op.  That’s because I’m in a field where I love what I do, and because I got to work with some of the best people I’ve ever met.  

There were certainly some fantastic adventures on the way.  I got to see understand the public performance royalties system.  I was looking for the contact information of a Mr. Jasen when I found instead the address of Mr. Mick Jagger.  I got to work the Deems Taylor Awards, play bass on a recording at MSR Studios with Sachal Vasandani for the kids of America SCORES, hand plaques to Paul Williams to hand to honorees at the Jazz Wall Event (where I also sat two feet away from Esperanza Spalding ((stick with it until the bass solo at 3:21)) and saw a breath-taking upright bass trio tribute Charles Mingus), and exchange a smile with Ne-Yo at the Foundation Awards, just to name the first few things that come to mind.  

Runyonland,
NYC

Even when the projects and events were less exciting, the positive impact we were having made it so worthwhile.  The Plus Awards project benefitted hard-working, lesser-known, up and coming songwriters and composers.  The Green database was compiled to keep track of bands and industry organizations who take part in and promote environmentally friendly touring.  ASCAP’s Songwriter Residency with America SCORES brings pro songwriters into a classroom to write and record a song with underprivileged kids.  How can you not feel good about work like this?  

I was also very fortunate.  I don’t think there was a better group of people anywhere, at any company, to guide and support me through my first full-time professional experience than the group I found in the Membership Department of ASCAP.  

Some of my most fond memories of these people are:

-Meeting Michael Kerker and playing the “What’s My Favorite Musical” game.  Sue and Shelby scoured his Broadway-themed office for clues as I stumped him with Company. 
-The CMJ event at the Webster Hall Studio, where everyone was mindful of the X’s painted onto my hands.
-When neither Cia nor Jason wanted to deal with Lindsey Stirling’s Plus Awards application because they couldn’t decide whether she was Concert or Electronica.  I tried to explain Lindsey’s work to Cia by showing her a video.  She misunderstood the concept, and thought Lindsay’s style of dancing was called “the dub-step.” 
-Locating Alex’s desk with Shelby by following a list of clues like kindergarteners on a Treasure Hunt.
-Shelby’s insistence I read Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In, and the effect it had on my perspective.
-Bonding with Jason over the band twenty-one pilots and, naturally, getting sick on the day he had an extra ticket to a show. (I’m 3 for 3 at being sick when they’re in town.)

MEET THE CAST: Shelby, Sachal, Sue, Nick, myself

Every person I met was respectful of my time, my commute, and even my lowly intern status.  People wanted to hear about my life and my school and my musical experience.  Nearly everyone sat me down at some point to ask what I wanted to do in the long run, and genuinely wanted to help me figure out how to get there.  

I could paint you a picture of the whole web of people, but you’d be here reading all day.  All you need to know is that there was never a dull moment.  I have genuinely loved working with Sue, Shelby, Jason, Michael, Nick, Luis, Mike, Danelle, Nicole, JJ, Andrew, Eric, Brianne, Alex, Alex, Michelle, Cia, and the rest of the people I met working with the Foundation and Marketing in the last few weeks.  Judging by the number of people that have told me they’d like to have me back at ASCAP as a full-time employee one day, I think they’ve liked working with me as well.  

Then I think of Boston, and I feel the whole city breathing inside me.  That sounds dramatic, but I can’t explain it any other way.  It’s like I’m imagining all the adventures I’ll have all over Boston, but in reverse.  Boston will be having its adventures all over me.  It’s like I’m on a roller coaster.  We’ve just pulled up to the peak and we’re pointing toward the sky, ready to climb.  

The thing is, I’m excellent with ‘hello,’ but abysmal with ‘goodbye.’  If I could live both lives, both cities, and both sets of adventures at once, I would.  I don’t like leaving.  

#nofilter

I’ll miss walking up Eighth Ave or Broadway to work everyday, ever in awe of this city, even after months of walking the same street.  I’ll miss the view of Lincoln Center, with its beautiful fountain and plaza.  I’ll miss Central Park lunch hours.  I’ll miss Michael’s pop quizzes on Broadway show tunes, Jason popping his head into the Conference Room to tell a cheesy joke, trading off music preferences with Nick, Sue critiquing my posture, and leaning on Shelby’s cubicle wall every morning to chat before getting to work.  I sincerely hope that this farewell is only for now at 1900 Broadway.

But I am ready to be a college student again.  I’m excited to play music in four ensembles, live with people my own age, and galavant all over Boston at any hour of the night.  

When I stepped off the train of my last commute--at least, for this co-op--I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.  For one, I drove over train tracks a total of 172 times and never got run over, which was probably my biggest fear all of these months.  Really though, I was proud of myself.  It was not an easy six months of living, and I still left the office on my last day teary-eyed and grateful and sad that it was over.  

What all of this boils down to is that I had a fantastic co-op experience, and it’s left me feeling optimistic about everything there is to come.  I can’t have New York and Boston together, but I’m lucky to have either of them.  Both are homes to communities of people I love, and I can do work that makes me happy in either.  I am as grateful as I am fortunate.  

To everyone in both cities, thank you 

for being part of this crazy adventure with me.  

"The Way It Feels To Live Now, Today"

The story starts when I was sitting in a meeting in the Aaron Copland room.  I could hardly focus on the discussion because we were in the Aaron Copland room.  The portraits and captions around the room narrated his whole life, and I wanted nothing more than to walk in circles taking it all in.  Y’all know I love a lot of composers and a lot of music, but Aaron Copland is particularly fascinating.  

A brief bio: He was raised by Jewish Russian immigrant parents in Brooklyn.  His first assignment, when he studied under Nadia Boulanger in his 20s, was to compose an organ symphony, which ended up premiering with the New York Phil that concert season.  He was an openly gay man, which was uncommon for the 1930s.  He supported the Communist party until he heard about the restrictions Stalin imposed on Shostakovich.  An eccentric guy, overall.

This homosexual Jewish Russian communist from Tin Pan Alley is credited with creating the Americana sound.  Maybe you can’t articulate what that sound is, but I know you’d know it if you heard it.  It’s music that conjures up images of Arizona sunsets and Colorado mountain peaks.  It’s in the soundtracks of cowboy movies and tales from the frontier.  Copland uses open chords to paint pictures of wide open plains and prairies.  The music itself just feels vast as the American landscape

I sat there unable to focus on the Deems Taylor Awards meeting because the ‘Hoedown’ from Rodeo was ripping through my mind with the spirit of a wild bronco, alternating off with the image of a picturesque prairie cabin brought on by ‘Simple Gifts’ from Appalachian Springs.

I re-realized how beautiful the musical heritage of America is.

The Deems Taylor Awards honor excellence in music criticism.  The people who receive these awards are making socially and intellectually relevant commentary on the musical climate of the past and present.  Isn’t that fitting for the moment I was having?  These are the people who would have noticed Copland’s talent if they’d lived in his time and been the first to laud his emotionally charged sounds.  These people are helping us define our musical identity today by articulating what we feel when we listen to music.  That is such a hard thing to do.  

And I re-realized how valuable the fusion of music and literature is.  

I had a vague notion that it all tied together.  

When I finally took lunch at 3, I opened Facebook to answer a message.  The first thing on my Newsfeed was an interview with J.K. Rowling from her fundraiser this weekend.  It started by reminding the viewer of who Rowling is, as though anyone could really forget.  They credited her with instilling a new passion for reading in a generation.  They went on to talk about her charity, Lumos, that finds homes for institutionalized disabled children.  When asked why she chooses to spend her fortune this way, she answered in her usual unassuming and unpretentious character: “What is the point of being alive if you’re not trying to make things better?”

That is a damn good question.

And I re-realized how good for the soul charity and literature and children are.

And there was this resounding notion that it all tied together.

I sat there at lunch with a cappuccino, tabs of my browser open to Lumos and Thought Catalog and Feminist Frequency, rain boots on my feet to get through the snow and sleet of the morning, and this overwhelming desire to shout to the world how good life is.  At that moment, my tiny, personal slice of life felt enormous with potential and excitement and even the responsibility to make things better for people who don’t feel the vitality I feel in the world. 

So I left the building at 5:20 to catch my 5:41 train like usual, but the city caught me way off guard when I stepped outside.  Lincoln Center is more beautiful at night than it is during the day: the Metropolitan Opera House and the plaza and the fountain are all lit up and peopled with tourists and opera-goers and artists.  The trees in the street dividers running down Broadway are all draped with lights.  Stray flakes are still falling from the first snow of the season.  I can see my breath and everything is glowing.  This moment is so perfect.  Every light in this city is a star to wish on, or represents the light of each soul trying to make it in this world.  

I re-realize how small I am.  No, I re-realize how big the world is, and how grateful I am for that.

And somehow it’s all tying together.

The Americana sound.  Our musical identity.  The value of all art.  

A well-loved book.  A coin tossed in a fountain.  A neon sign in the dark.  

Every simple thing is a gift.  

Take It From Broda

Barney Stinson has had some ridiculous rules and theories in the last eight years.

He's frequently quoted as saying "I have one rule:" but that rule can be any of forty different things.

There are, of course, the Lemon Law, Freeway Exit Theory, Bro Code, and Hot-Crazy scale to abide by.

Very little of the advice he gives is female friendly.  My feminist feathers are quite ruffled.

There is one thing he does have totally correct:

"When I get sad I stop being sad and be awesome instead."

Rather, when you get sad, stop being sad and remind yourself how awesome you already are.

When you get rejected or doubt your own worth, remind yourself of your accomplishments.  When no one takes the time to notice your good hair day or that your hours at the gym paid off, enjoy those victories with yourself.  When the haterz hate, remind yourself you’re totally the coolest.  

It works for me.  When anyone from a jealous "friend" to an unsavory sleazoid tries to bring me down, I remind myself that I’m awesome, and it’s someone else’s loss not to see that.

I AM AWESOME BECAUSE
     ...when I play upright bass, you see all my manly arm muscles flex and it's SO INTENSE.

     ...nobody does a better Bellatrix than I do.

     ...my taste in music is eclectic: everything from Tchaikovsky to T-Swizzle to Tarot.

     ...I'm a feminist and I'm happy to accept whatever reputation you think comes with that.

     ...I had my jaw broken and I feel stronger for it (despite not feeling half of my bottom lip).

     ...I used to hate running and couldn't run a mile.  Now I can run four and feel good.  My work ethic will get my anywhere.

    ...I'm hilarious.  I'd follow me on Twitter in a hot second.

The rest of the world can be harsh on you, so YOU shouldn’t be.  Try it, or allow me to try it for you.

YOU, SIR OR MA'AM, ARE AWESOME BECAUSE
    ...you use your taste in weirdo indie music to build the perfect playlists.

     ...your hair is shiny.  SO shiny.

     ...you’re an excellent singer.  Or you’re not, but that doesn’t stop you.  

     ...you’re a sciencey drunk.  Other people are dancing and falling and crying and you’re explaining the Big Bang Theory.  

     ...you're honest. You won't force a laugh when it isn't funny.  You tell it like it is.

    ...your facial hair is on point.  No one rocks sexy scruff quite like you.

     ...you have a FEARSOME jump split. 

     ...you're not shy about your fandoms. You're a Doctor Who/Pretty Little Liars/Game of Thrones/Arrested Development/Harry Potter/Pokemon fan and PROUD OF IT.

     ...you're attentive to detail.  It makes me feel good that you pay attention to what I say.

     ...your snaps crack me up.  

     ...you’re a Buddhist or a pro-choice activist or an environmentalist or a Democrat.  You care about something and you’re acting on it with conviction.

     ...you have GREAT eyebrows.  Seriously.  Daaaaaaang gurrrrrrrl.

     ...you’ve never turned me away when I needed you.

     ...your celebrity crush is Nikola Tesla.

     ...you have impeccable taste in writing.  That's obvious, since you clicked this link.

From me to you today, tomorrow, or any time you're feeling down: 

You, dear reader, are awesome.

Know that for yourself.  Remind yourself.  You deserve to feel good.

Hey, guess what?  I don't even remember why I was feeling down.

Writing about Writing or alternatively The Story of My Stories

Also called 'The Story of my Writing' or 'Writing about my Stories'

This is a series of vignettes, which started as separate thoughts and ended up stringing themselves together like a garland.  I apologize for keeping you.  I’ve always got something to say, but I’d be speechless with appreciation if my chatter is worth your attention.

ON GRAMMAR

I feel very strongly about the rules of grammar: we should all use them.  Writing loses its credibility when sentences are unstructured and juvenile.  What you have to say could be the most intelligent and insightful thing I’ve ever heard, but I won’t trust it if it sounds written by an ESL middle schooler.  Irreverence toward grammar is unforgivable.  

The pun isn't even about grammar,
but that doesn't make it any less true.

Stylistically sidestepping the rules is another matter.  When I’m writing creatively I prefer winding run-ons that wrap around themselves like ribbons spinning from a spool.  I’ll use every splashy adjective in the rainbow to modify my subject, squish a verb for every step of an octave into my predicate, and adorn my objects and complements with description till they collapse like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.  I make up phrases and skip in circles around what I’m actually saying so you’ll start to hear my words in my own voice, smiling with each syllable.

This brings me one step forward, two steps and a Maxie turn sideways to my next point.

ON THE PRETTINESS OF WORDS

I swoon over pretty words like I swoon over nothing else, except perhaps the climax of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme.  

A word could be aesthetically pretty, like whimsical or cacophony, or it could be symbolically pretty, like elysian or scintillating.  Oh, tell me I’m scintillating and I’m yours forever.  

Pretty arrangements of words stop my heart too, and that’s why I love poetry.

look up:and we’ll 

(for what were less than dead)dance,i and you;
high(are become more than alive)above
anybody and fate and even Our 
whisper it Selves but don’t look down and to 

-morrow and yesterday and everything except love

e e cummings

Did you smile?  I outright giggled.  Did you get it?  I sure as hell don’t.  I just love how it makes me feel.  Words make me giddy and weightless.  Any other girl’s heart might skip a beat when a boy smiles at her the right way.  Mine goes when a writer reaches for a pen.  

ON STORYTELLING

The memory I recall is never quite the story that comes out, because stories are different from memories.  I’m the protagonist in my memory, but I’m also the narrator in my story.  Narration provides insight.  The best stories are not memories told precisely as they happened; they're memories that have been best realized.  Take what you remember and figure out what really happened in the world and how it affected everything else.  Like so:

Related:
If I haven’t told you about the horror and the
hilarity of my orchestra years yet, ask me about them. 
In my freshman year of high school, there were 11 lewd,
rough-housing boys, 3 laid-back, lanky drug addicts,
one lesbian, and terrified me. 
It was the worst year of my life. 
I haven’t stopped laughing about it yet.

Before they became the story of how I fell in love with music, my memories of my middle and high school years are those of a brace-faced, socially inept, know-it-all tweenager who wanted to be the best at everything.  It’s only by the grace of God or Beethoven or the Muses that in my crusade to outplay everyone else, I found my life’s calling.  That part, of course, is the romantic story I tell.  No one wants to hear the details of the stick-in-the-mud Hermione part of my life and I hardly even want to remember it, so it gets re-written.

The problem with story-telling is that it’s so easy to replace my memories with my stories.  My 20/20 vision is made hazy by rose-colored glasses, and I live with a permanent filter on reality to keep ugly ideas and pessimistic vultures out.  I erase the errant smears that fall outside the lines of the life-story I’m sketching.  I’m so far past the frontier dividing fact and fiction that I wouldn’t know how to return to a life of veracity if I wanted to.

  

Washington Irving phrased it well: “I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories.”

ON MY OWN STORY

My story-telling hobby has become such a habit and a heartbeat that I live comfortably in those terms.  I am the main character in my life story, the protagonist in my own bildungsroman.  I don’t mean that in a narcissistic Generation Y way.  Every person has his own nuanced and sensational story.  I happen to be living in this one, and I’m obsessed with appreciating everything and documenting life as it happens.  

"Everything before now, before now,
before now is just a story I carry around."
Chuck Palahniuk

As such, I take a bit of every character with me from everything I read.  I face this daunting, breathtaking, heartbreaking world armed or impaired with Alice’s curiosity, Harry’s selflessness, Elphaba’s defiance, Scout’s sense of justice, Gatsby’s delusions, Piggy’s intellect, Peter’s ignorance, Huck’s humor, and Equality’s ego.  Right now I’m still figuring all the pieces out, but one day I’ll have had enough characterization to be my own complete character.  Or maybe not.  I could go on re-writing and subtly shading myself anew forever.  How should I know?  I’m only in the formative stages of this epic, after all. 

ON THE COVENANT WITH THE AUTHOR

"Blue sky ocean to ocean,
blue ocean sky to sky. "
Rod McKuen

Whether I’m opening a book or an article on Thought Catalog, I’m agreeing to humor the author for a little while.  I will read what he has to say by understanding his words as he means them.  ‘Blue’ may not simply be blue.  ‘Blue’ could be anything from the clouded cobalt of a boy’s pretty eyes to a sunken hue in a midnight sea of sadness.   I try to accept the whole story of the author’s every word.   

Have faith in your narrator.  She’s trying to tell you something worth hearing.  Slip into her brain and hear her story as she means it.  Think in her thoughts, see in her colors, hear the world as it sings to her.  

Buy into my dramatic overreaches and the honest sincerity of my cliches.  Please don’t roll your eyes.  Understand just how genuinely and precisely I mean each nuanced word I choose.  Understand me.  Believe in me. 

“Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn,
 "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.”
Lewis Carroll

Language is just that powerful.  You can use it to let people come so close to you.  To invite someone to inhabit your own mind with you is, I think, the most intimate gesture you could ever make.  

Dear reader, I invite you into my life with each word I write, speak, or sing.  We can revel together in everything the world has to offer.  That’s all I really wanted to tell you: I’m blushing and flattered that you’re here with me.  

Boston Is

Boston is beautiful the first time you see its skyline from the Mass Pike ramp, and every time you see it after that too.  It’s crisp and cool, cobblestoned and historic, a metropolis for the young with a life story older than Paul Revere.  

Boston is an invigorating jog along the Charles by day or a scenic stroll by night.  It’s the posh shops of Newbury a block away from the landmark churches of Copley Square.  It’s the crooked streets and eerie cemeteries and old-town ambience of the North End. It’s all the college students living in an eclectic collection of colored houses on Mission Hill.  It’s the esteem of the Financial District next to the bustle of Downtown Crossing next to the enigma of ivy-veiled brick houses on Beacon Hill.  It’s a tapestry of storied neighborhoods and locales, each with their own history and subculture.  It’s stone cold outside, but with a warm hearth inside.  It’s the definition of New England. 

Boston is a sleepy Saturday morning watching TV with five roommates who don’t need to talk to enjoy each other’s company.  It’s retelling (or piecing together) last night over a strong cup of coffee, maybe over someone’s stash of Starbucks grinds if it’s a really good story.  It’s a stockpile of inside jokes that don’t make sense in conversation with anyone else.  It’s the collection of quirky posters and far-fetched memes I’ll never understand decorating the boys’ apartment like a modern art museum.  It’s the Tremont Street Raiders and the Sticky Six (though there are nine of us these days).  It’s getting all dolled up for the Symphony.  It’s a list of bizarre nicknames following increasingly bizarre stories.  It’s knocking on a friend’s door to say hello and staying hours longer than you meant to.  

Boston is an immeasurable number of bear hugs when you’re coming or going.  It’s a geographical coordinate that keeps us together in spirit when we’re separated by zip codes and state lines and oceans.  It’s a conglomeration of people from as far away as Australia and as local as Bridgewater, or as foreign as Kentucky and as familiar as Brooklyn.  It’s a communal agitation toward the T after midnight.  It’s a collective reverence for J. P. Licks.  

Boston is too much Dunkin Donuts coffee and not enough Starbucks.  It’s a convolution of streets named with no rhyme or reason, except for a small alphabetical grid in Back Bay.  It’s Newbury instead of 5th Avenue, a ‘theater district’ instead of Broadway, Symphony Hall instead of Lincoln Center, and the Common instead of Central Park.  It’s conservative and commemorative.   

Boston is, like anything else in the world, a subjective experience.  It’s a Chicken Cordon Lou from Chicken Lou’s for someone like it’s a Sunrise at Pavement for the next guy.  

Boston feels like home.  It’s manageable.  It’s got plenty of foliage, for a city.  It’s full of vibrantly blooming lives, too.  It’s welcoming.

Boston is not home, though, and never will be.  It’s just a love affair that I’m having, and a tragic one at that.  I’m enamored with everything about Boston: the city, the people, and the lifestyle.  Part of why I love Boston so much at this point in my life is the imminent certainty that I will never settle there.  Right now there’s so much to explore and test and find, but that all will run out one day.  In the end, I know New York is the city for me.  And so Boston means much more to me right now.  

What was I thinking then, running away to a beautiful, irresistible city for college, meeting the most extraordinary people, and having the time of my life, for a limited time only?  Well, Boston took me by surprise.  I had no idea I could fall so in love with it after growing up in New York.  Now my heart aches all over again every time I have to leave.  This love affair is indeed a tragedy.  It’s not the Romeo and Juliet type of tragic, although it certainly feels that way at times.  No, I know we’ll move on from each other in the end, Boston and me.  We’re closer to a 500 Days of Summer tragedy.  Boston is the experience of a lifetime, but with an expiration date circled on the calendar.  There will be bigger and better things one day.  For now though, I don’t look so far ahead.  There’s a commute into Manhattan waiting for me, but for the moment I’ve still got my eyes on the Green Monster, the Citgo sign, and the Boston skyline.  

Bus Blog: A Transcription of My Thoughts As They Happened

Having already spent ten hours Friday, four hours Saturday, and three hours Sunday traveling, I was bored just two hours into what would be a nearly six-hour bus ride.  We took a rest stop just an hour and a half into the trip, waking me up from a pleasant nap.  I decided to write out my thoughts as they happened from the end of the rest stop until arriving at the intersection of 34th and 8th so you could all take the last four hours of the bus ride to New York with me!  Here is the transcription of the original, organized chronologically by what song was playing on my phone. 

No one will get this meme
but I liked it, so there.

Cinderblox, Sonata Arctica- This is one of my favorites off of their latest album.  It grows on me every time I hear it, with the twanging banjo worked fluidly into the angry metal tune.  The drumming is more interesting in this song than in their earlier work.  I must make a note to tell Chris this, since his biggest complaint about my favorite band is that their "drumming is too monotonous." What kind of criticism is that, anyway?

Don't Say A Word, Sonata Arctica- I love it when I get two SA songs in a row on shuffle.  This one is a CLASSIC.  Not that very many people know SA at all but if they know just one song, this is it.  I fell in love with it at first listen, but didn't realize how many other people did until I noticed it was their number one hit on Spotify and their choice of closing song live in concert, even though it's like three albums old.  Scrolling through Twitter, I found that Joe Walker was having a Q&A in honor of the premiere of something or other for Team Starkid.  I asked what wearing a dress in AVPS did for his love life, since his wearing a dress would be a turn-off but the view of his biceps the dress afforded was certainly a turn-on. 

L'italiano, Toto Cutugno- Even though the song is in Italian I always want to sing to it.  The Bruins-Ranger game had just started in Boston.  I knew I'd have to fact-check the updates Adam was sending me with the Rangers' Official Twitter, since he's a biased Bruins fan.  This suspicion was confirmed when he falsely claimed the team to be up 3-0 a minute into the game.  

Love Song, Sara Bareilles- I know how old this song is, but it feels fresh since I never listen to it.  It feels especially fresh with my new "Beavcoon green" (as Eric describes them), noise-cancelling earbuds.  What a nice song.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Elton John- The Bruins take the first goal of the game.  Evidently Elton John will not bring us good luck today.  Skip.

Born This Way, Lady Gaga- I'm no Little Monster, but I really love this upbeat, 80s-feel, Madonna-esque song.  Captain Cally scores for the Rangers!  It's a shame I don't have more Lady G to listen to if it's bringing us luck.  

They were FANTASTIC live.

Allen's Bar, Barrage- Why doesn't the whole world love fiddle music more than it does?  It's so pleasing melodically and the instrument itself is so dynamic and capable of so many styles.  I love fiddle music and Barrage and I think they're severely underrated.

Do They Know It's Christmas, Band Aid- This is one of the few Christmas songs I keep on my phone and iPod all year long.  It's just so good.

Shampain, Marina & The Diamonds- How much more can you contrast a song that was written and recorded for charity than to follow it up with a Primadonna girl like Marina?  Interesting choice, Gods of iPod Shuffle.  Not that Marina really is all about being a materialistic brat.  I'm pretty sure from listening to both of her albums in sequence that she's making statements about materialism and superficiality, not subscribing to them.  Though she is just kind of being gorgeous and making a living off of it.  Ugh.

Lights, Ellie Goulding- The Rangers have thrown away another power play.  Tell me something I don't know?  The elbow of the man sitting next to me keeps nudging me.  Not on purpose, just because he takes up more room than his seat allows.  I really like Goulding's floaty, ethereal voice.  I spot a billboard for the station Star 99.9.  We must be getting close!  Google Maps disagrees.  We're not close enough for me to make the 5:12 train to Ronkonkoma I was planning on.  Great.

Don't Fear the Reaper, Blüe Oyster Cult- LOVE!  No thoughts.  Just listening.  And maybe a little bit of remembering that my 11th grade crush recommended this song to me.

Talk Dirty to Me, Poison- I'm kind of enjoying being so lost in the music that I'm noticing distinctly the hammer-ons and pull-offs and precise timbre of the guitar in this song.  Just listening to music while we're stuck in traffic on this rainy day is kind of nice.

The Day, Snata Arctica- Heavy on the metal today.  Mi piace.  This power ballad/rock song is so gorgeous.  I never realized it was in compound quadruple meter before now.  

La Piccinina, Adriano Valle e Gabriella Piccinini- Grazie mille, Nonni e Nonno, per ballare con me al mio sedicesimo compleanno.  

I Am Not a Robot, Marina & The Diamonds- This was the Free Single of the Week that introduced me to her.  I had no idea what she was singing about but thought her voice was pretty.

*Not

I Wanna Rock, Twisted Sister- I can't sit through this without flashing back to the Spongebob Movie, even though I am not a Goofy Goober.

Deathaura, Sonata Arctica- A Bruins goal wrecked my meditation on how cool this dark, wicked 7-minute tale of a witch hunt is.  And then the Rangers responded with a goal almost immediately.  My NHL App told me Nash had scored it!  I'm glad he isn't as useless as I was feeling like he was.  The back and forth, going in circles nature of the game is reminiscent of the full-circle nature of the song.  Eerie.  

Russian Sailor's Dance, Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Eugene Ormandy- Thinking about how we played this in eight grade reminds me of how Eric just had his last Great Hollow concert and he's moving up to the High School!  What's funny is that having the eighth grade band join us on playing a symphonic version of Russian Sailor's Dance qualified as 'cool' for us.  For Eric's grade, 'cool' meant a customized arrangement of a song with a drum track and light show while Mr. Roth accompanied them on electric guitar.  How the times have changed.  Then again, Mr. Roth DID arrange Time of Your Life by 

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Green Day for us.  And he's only used the arrangements for one group that he really loved since then.  I would know, as I've had perfect attendance at GHMS Orchestra concerts since graduating the school myself.  It also occurs to me that this song is in the rock genre of classical music with its accents on the upbeats and syncopation.  It seriously preempts the development of rock and roll.  Huh.

In the Light, DC Talk- Christian rock just feels soooo good sometimes.  Also, I still love Lifeteen a lot.

Break, Three Days Grace- This is great for workout jamz and angry music.  It's also supporting my Russian Sailor's Dance conclusion by being syncopated and accenting the upbeats.  This is actually really awesome and I want to learn the bass part. 

Bennie and the Jets, Elton John- This is the second Elton John song the Bruins have scored during on this bus trip and I don't even have that much of his music for it to be popping up in shuffle like this.  I take the blame for that goal.  I should have skipped over this song more quickly.

Mary Did You Know?, Kathy Mattea- How did this Christmas song sneak onto here? Skip.

Being Alive, 1996 London Company Cast- Wrong revival.  I hate the voices of the 1996 version.  2006 is where it's at.  Skip. 

Only in New York, Muzzy in Thoroughly Modern Millie- My first thought when I listen to this is always that it's a "fluff entertainment" piece, the technical term for which Andy and I learned in Feinstein's Musicals class.  The theory is that when the plot of a show is too complicated, they just throw in some songs that have no other function than to entertain without developing the plot.  The more you know.  My next thought is always of the production we did my Senior Year/Delia's freshman year of high school.  It was fantastic, if 

Me and Gustav, rocking SHSW during
Thoroughly Modern Millie

I do say so myself.  I loved being in that show.  The Elbow Man keeps peaking at what I'm scribbling away at so furiously.  It doesn't matter to me because he probably can't read my moving-vehicle chicken scratch handwriting.  Adam texts me saying to keep playing Elton John.  Ugh.  I think they should re-make Thoroughly Modern Millie as a movie musical.  All I can see at this moment is Queen Latifah playing Muzzy but it just works so well.

Australia, Jonas Brothers- I'm hiding my face in shame, but also definitely head-bopping along.  I kind of even want S.O.S. to play.

Fixing A Hole, The Beatles- I like the Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album (which, I learned in some music class at some point, was the first album that made it socially acceptable for adults to listen to rock), but I wonder if I need to listen to the album chronologically to really get it all.

Burn, Three Days Grace- Google Maps is now telling me we'll get to tick Tock Diner at 5:55.  Never mind the 5:12 train, I just hope I can catch the 6:12 one at this point.  It's raining pretty hard outside.  I hope it didn't rain on Kaity during her walk.  She rode with me to South Station, which was so sweet.  I'm really glad she ended up with us this semester and because I had such a good experience with getting a random roommate, I won't mind if I have to live with random roommates next January.

Every Little Thing She Does is Magic, The Police- I see New Rochelle on Google Maps.  I'm not hearing Sting sing, I'm hearing Rosemary sing in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.  New Rochelle, New Rochelle, our house will be in New Rocheeeeeeelle.

Finale B, Cast of Rent, Movie version- Alllllllll the tears for this song.  I interrupt the song to watch a Vine selfie of Joey Richter feeding a giraffe.  I would send the link to Rebecca but I know for sure she follows Joey Richter too and can see it any time she wants.  I start the song over to give it my full attention.  Without yooooou, the hand grooooopes, the ear heeeeears, the pulse beeeeeats.  Life goes ooooon, but I'm gooooone, 'cause I diiiiie without yooooou.  No day but todaaaaay.  Usually, I frown upon such codependency as this song promotes, but in my head I'm seeing Mark's movie.  More specifically, I'm seeing the ending with the image of Angel.  It's too haunting not to love.  I repeat: alllllllll the tears.  

Secret, The Pierces- Too harsh a mood change.  Also, the Bruins score again.  Skip.

Fight Like A Girl, Bomshel- I love this girl-power country song.  Looking out the window, I thought the fog was so thick that it obstructed the top half of a building from view.  I thought of Mighty Mount Olympus.  It turned out to just be a short building.  More like Thunder Ridge, the little mountain we went to once in upstate New York.

Delia is the second star from the right (and straight on
till morning).  Ohhh I crack myself up.

Marry The Man Today, Adelaide and Sarah from the Guys and Dolls Cast- Reflecting on Delia and the cast of the SHSW production this year.  They were BRILLIANT.  I saw it three times.  I don't like this recording, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt.  A sound recording can't accurately capture the stage presence and performance of a song that's meant to be performed live.  

Seven Wicked Reels, Barrage- I always forget to count for the seven reels until like halfway through.  I started counting about a minute and a half in and got five.  I'm too lazy to try again.

Ravel's Bolero, BSO conducted by Charles Munch- Find the right version of this song and it's perfect for everything, ever.  Andy was listening to a version once that was just too slow and too loud and actually dissonant to the ear.  It was unpleasant.  I like my version.  It's kind of sensual for a classical piece.  It's got these long, legato runs that build up to a repeated, syncopated high note and then float back down shyly.  It's repeated by, like, every instrument and takes fourteen minutes.  We're getting into the Bronx now.  I don't think I'll make the 6:12 train but I'm not even stressing about it because it's so peaceful to listen to Bolero.  

Brahms's Academic Festival Overture, Budapest Symphony Orchestra conducted by Anton Rickenbacher- I played this piece with MYO!  Funny story about its name: Some university wanted Brahms to take a few classes and pursue an honorary degree.  After a ton of pestering, he finally agreed.  When it came time for his graduation ceremony, they told him they wanted him to compose something in honor of the school.  To spite them, he strung a bunch of folk tunes (think along the lines of Yankee Doodle Dandy) together under this pretentious title and played it at the ceremony.  The uptight administrators were not amused.  I think it's a wonderful piece.  I should re-learn the bass part one day.  I can still hum the melody but I haven't got a clue what the actual notes are.  Sometime this summer. I'm so enjoying this piece that I'm still not stressing about the train that leaves in 35 minutes when I'm 34 driving minutes away from the station.

{Skip like six songs because now I'm in a classical mood}

Goodbye to You, The Veronicas- This is not classical, but I'll take it.  Why this works when Michael Buble didn't, your guess is as good as mine.  Anyway, yay for girly alternative rock! I'm eagerly awaiting their next album, which is like 3 years overdue.  Chris and Adam's texts about the Bruins winning are more jesting than mocking, mercifully.  At least, that's how I'm choosing to read them.  

Crows Fly Black, Tarot- Tarot is another reason I love metal and I strongly recommend them.  Also, the train leaves in 15 and Google Maps tells me we'll be driving for at least 20 more minutes.  Ugh.

Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles- Yeah, this song is definitely supposed to segue straight into another song.  I'm missing something.

Favorite Musical EVER.

Dancing Through Life, from Wicked- I LOVE THESE LYRICS AND EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SONG.  Nessa starts singing and I remember how much I wish "Wicked Witch of the East" was considered a song and put on the soundtrack.  It's not because there are too many spoilers.  I still wish, though.  This tunnel is really narrow.  It occurs to me that if we collide with the car next to us and crash, this notebook is almost definitely going to land in a puddle and no one will get to read all of this golden material I've been working so hard on.  That thought, more than anything else about a potential crash, saddens me.  My discomfort is assuaged when, at the climax of the song, we emerge dramatically from the Midtown Tunnel.  It's no more light outside the tunnel in the rain than it was inside, but I still couldn't have planned that moment any better than it happened.

FINAL SONG: Cool the Engines, Boston- How fitting is it that this is the soundtrack as we arrive at our destination after a nearly six-hour journey?  WHICH HAPPENED TO BE FROM BOSTON?  You couldn't make this crap up.  Anyway, somewhere in this huge, daunting city, a slice of pizza is calling my name.  So is a toilet, since The Elbow has the aisle seat and has been asleep for the last two hours.  I felt bad waking him up to ask him to move.  

Dear reader, I wish you happy and safe traveling in your future.  At the very least, I hope it's happier than mine was today in this abysmal rain and traffic and safer than it was Friday when my bus broke down.  For tonight, I bid you adieu.