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Posts Tagged ‘Gogol Bordello’

I’ve been drafting posts. Drafting, drafting. Deleting. Saving. Ignoring. Bored, boring.

Before I can post today’s post, I have to go back a few weeks and fill you in on my life. You think keeping up with your own life is hard? this is what it takes to keep up with mine. Some of these details were filled in in this post and this post. I’m scattershot. I’m restless. I have no confidence in myself as a blogger any more. This is why

[Wednesday, August 15]: I re-injured my rib last Thursday morning [August 9], leaning over from the driver’s seat to the floor of the passenger side, putting pressure on the arm rest with my lower front -side ribs. OUCH!

It didn’t hurt terribly until Saturday [Aug 11] but with the help of rather constant ibuprofin, salt baths, and ice, I managed to do most of whatever I needed to do.

Tuesday [Aug 14], we went to pick up Violet at her friend’s house, only 40 minutes from the beach, so we thought, why not hit Crane for a couple of hours? I was fine at the beach, fine in the 60 degree water, sort of able to fall backwards and do an itty-bitty back frog- stroke and an itty-bitty breast stroke (no real backstroke or crawl, though reaching my right arm overhead on land seems quite comfortable).

Just as we were packing up, I did something to the right side. Something horrible. Something startling and painful, deep-in-the-gut, take-your-breath-away painful. Each of my hands started to go numb and my head got light and fuzzy. I thought I was going to throw up or pass out or both.

We skipped dinner and grabbed Violet from her friend’s. I complained and freaked. I alternated between not feeling any pain to being filled with crazy fear. I inhibited, I om shanti‘ed, I centered myself, I thought my best Alexander thinking.

I decided I needed to go to the ER.

We went to Emerson Hospital on Rte 2, right outside of Concord and near Walden Pond. How can you go wrong with a hospital named after Ralph Waldo? I must be the luckiest busted-rib girl in Massachusetts. That and the doctor was good-lookin’. But there were no female doctors, so eff that.

Though taping or binding ribs in cases of fracture is no longer recommended, I fortunately ran into my PT friend this week [Aug 16] and she said she will put some of that kinesio tape (like the OLYMPIANS!!!) on me tomorrow night. Not in fuscia to match my hair, but hey, I’ll take skin tone if it means I can start moving more….please please please let me bike and hike and yoga soon.

Here’s a photo recap of last Thursday’s Gogol trip:

common sight on I-91 and/or I-89 in VT

Me and secret kid in back seat (note fuschia hair, hint hint kinesio tape designers)

Gogol show was rain delayed and by the time they played, there was only an hour and a quarter before they were kicked off stage, 10 pm curfew!!!! CRAPPY and not a great show. No encore. I was in the front “row” most of the time, grabbing my side lest someone should slam into me. I found 2 women at the show who had read one of my older Gogol posts but I did not find The Wanderlust Queen.

Next morning, we ate at one of the coolest restaurants in Burlington. Look what was in a couple of the tables upstairs:

Yeah. I know you don’t believe it. You know how I feel about rocks.

*

FIN

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Heading up to Burlington, VT in just less than an hour. Excitement abounds in the twinkly household. Young ones are crabby, but I suspect moods will shift by evening. I think I re-injured my rib in my enthusiasm to clean out the passenger side of my car. It’s hot out there. My hair’s a mess. I don’t look like a proper groupie who can muster my way up front to catch a few drops of Eugene’s sweat. I don’t want any wine spit upon me. I might try to find the Wanderlust Queen if I make my way up front, but it’s so hard to remember what everyone will be wearing.

In lieu of a guest post, I send you over to kamper’s place for your gogol-of-the-day.

Remember that Susun Weed says a minimum of 7 orgasms a week for peri-menopausal/menopausal women. We’ll just see about those spontaneous ovulations. I hate ovulating. I like orgasm-ing though. We haven’t yet hit 7 Gogol songs in one week. Babble babble babble. I’m a little excited. Can you tell? I just realized that my best 2 vibrators are purple, but frankly, I’m a little short on my seven-a-week.

 

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In spite of the need for me to update you on a poetry reading I attended and read at last night, it’s time for your daily Gogol Bordello….

The video is a bit of a wank-a-thon, but I post it because Eugene Hutz’ pants are falling down past the crack of his skinny ass, so dangerously low that I fear taking my teenage daughters to the show tomorrow night in VT should there be a Jim Morrison-style exposure. Look, I’m not against nudity (au contraire), but sloppy, drunken exposure is another thing.

The lyrics are silly, but hey, they are sung in no less than THREE LANGUAGES. Do you get that no less than 5 continents are represented in the band? How you can’t tell if Hutz is pretentious (Diogenes, Foucoult), silly (start wearing purple), a drunkard, all or none of the above or some other mysterious and wonderful manifestation we haven’t seen before in a punk-gypsy-rock pop band?

I am sure the bouncers are glad he’s just a skinny thing.

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Until the show. To cure what ails you.

HEY HEY HEY HEY HALI HALI HO HALI HALI HEY!!!

If only I had any clue about the Slavic languages. I did hear Joe Strummer, Bob Marley, and Vasco da Gama in there. This is the genius of lyrics like hey hey hey hey hali hali ho hali hali hey. Everyone can join in. Folk music. For the people.

I love how Eugene gets into this by the end of the song. He is slammin’. He even looks at the camera as if it’s a live audience. Did I tell you yet to GO SEE THIS BAND LIVE ANY TIME YOU CAN?

HEY HEY HEY HEY HALI HALI HO HALI HALI HEY!

Wait, wait, wait. What about how Eugene says “Guadalajara?” Do they teach that in school? Because they should.

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Hubby, my older daughter, and I went to see Gogol Bordello in Boston last night. I figured out a little bit more why this is the best live band I’ve ever seen, and, when you go, the best live band you will ever see. It is their interaction with and inclusion of the audience in every move they make on stage. That’s not the only reason, but it’s one of the overarching ones.

One of my favorite things last night happened after the concert. We were driving back home on I-90 and we stopped at a rest stop to grab a bite to eat (I try, I really do. I had a cooler and food bag packed with healthy stuff, but McDonald’s fries and coffee won out in the end). While waiting in line, a 20-something man noticed my [new] Gogol Bordello t-shirt and asked, “Were you at the show?” He was in a state of bewilderment, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, a halo of bliss above his head. I answered that yes, I’d been at the show. We began to chat. It was nice to see the reverence in his face, the gears clicking in his head trying to figure out how it was possible for such a band to exist.

I also struck up a quick conversation, still in line at McDonald’s, with a teenage girl (14-years old, maybe) who had the same happy, dazed look on her face.

“Did you just come from the concert?” I asked.

“Yes. Weren’t they amazing?” she asked.

“Yes.” I answered, and: “Had you seen them before?”

“No, have you? Does he tour a lot?”

It was all so endearing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Just 2 hours ago, I bought tickets to see Gogol Bordello on Lake Champlain for a mid-August concert. This time, I’m going for it. Up in front of the stage with all the pretty young women and raving young men. RIGHT UP FRONT. That’ll be me backstage, the only sober person in a throng of groupies trying to share a bottle of wine with the band. Maybe Eugene will let me massage his hands. Or forearms. Or the twisted erector spinae muscles of his back. Yeah, that’s how fantasies work around here: me massaging famous rock stars.

It’s like my kid, clucking at me to Stop it, Mom when I was bounding, fleet-foot, up the aisle last night, dancing around, twirling my new t-shirt in the air. Nobody cares, Violet. Nobody cares what I am doing. They are not looking at me. She danced next to me the whole concert, her face glowing and carefree, safe with her parents, buoyed up by the good will all around her.

I’m here to be happy, to fill the empty spaces with energy and heat and vibration. Just like that band up there, biding our time and asking everyone to join in the ecstatic moments.

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Just bought tickets for Gogol Bordello in Boston, June 1, me, Hubby, and the big kid (the younger one will be sailing in Camden, Maine)

Here’s my GB post from last year.

They’ll also be in VT in August.

Call me. We’ll caravan.

*not exactly, but this will kick off the summer festival season for my family. Who else will we see? Wilco, likely. David Sedaris? Wait, that’s not a concert and he’s not here ’til fall. It all works. Trust me.

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You know what the Advent Calender window had behind it on Christmas Eve? Annie insisted that Paul be the one to open it, so I speculated that it would be a picture of Tweedy. But not really. Perhaps a picture of a bottle of Polar Seltzer, black cherry flavor. No. Maybe a fully-decorated Christmas tree. So wrong. It was an ICE DRAGON in the tiny double window. I love my kids!

Got my first iPod nano from Hubby for Xmas. It is tiny, so tiny. I feel dangerous when I have it on. Am I the only one and will this feeling pass? Are there any iPod virgins left? I look forward to loading hundreds of songs onto it. I am figuring it out, but as intuitive as Apple products are reputed to be, I find it klunky and somewhat unfriendly. I also couldn’t figure out how the little fucker clips on to my clothes. Hubby had to show me. Why, Santy Apple Claus, why, do you insist on making me feel dumber than I really am?

Christmas was good. This is the first year since we moved to Western Mass in which I didn’t feel financially stressed more often than not. Eleven years of living in the bliss/hell of self-employment in a New England state, so different than when we lived in Ohio. I am so grateful that our income was more predictable this year. It’s amazing what that does to my ease my mind.

Best present given this year? Behold the perfect gag gift for the consummate lover of Polar Seltzer in our house:

Be afraid, be very afraid!

I am grateful for this blog, for the technology which allows it, for my readers, for the kindness of those who leave comments.

I am grateful that I started writing poetry again and not only that, grateful to be reading it again

Grateful that I was able to take an improv class this year.

Glad that I celebrated 20 years of marriage. Glad that we get to go away to amazing places within a few hours’ drive, stay overnight, eat, shop, walk, swim, hike, visit friends, hear cool musicians, see amazing art.

Grateful that I found out about and saw Gogol Bordello.

Grateful that I got to go to my 30-year HS reunion, see lots of old pals (including my biggest high school crush, which was a hoot), stroll about Kent, Ohio, home of myself, land of the birth of my adulthood*, have that nude photo shoot in a garden in the heat and flower of summer.

Grateful for all the cool music I’ve discovered this year, in part because of the technology and youtube, but more because I do stick to my Music Monday posts. Especially my new-found love for all things Wilco and Tweedy.

Grateful that Willow was in our life.

Annie’s shrine to Willow (detail, not the whole thing), which includes a nail-polish painted (I kid you not, my kids are goofy) white bathroom tile

That is an origami Willow with a little paper bird (crane) in its mouth. Annie must have made a thousand paper cranes on her own this year and went on a bit of an origami adventure. SO GREAT!

My latest fad of photographing bathrooms from our travels. This is from the newly opened Atlantic Pizza Company in Rockport, MA. One of the prettier public restrooms in New England (this photo does not do the bathroom justice)

And this, the environmentally-friendly Euro-loo at The Wired Puppy, Provincetown, Mass

Grateful for any way that a reader might find my blog. Truly, the most abundant search term seems to be some manifestation of “ass tattoo.” That’s not even the most ass of the ass tattoo searches. Ready? I’ve had to live with this and I think if you’ve made it a year here, you will be able to live with it, too: asshole tattoo. You can imagine that I don’t want to know more about asshole tattoos. I do not think someone was thinking, hmm, how many assholes (meaning people who are jerks, idiots, morons) have tattoos? No, I take it as a literal search for tattoos on people’s assholes. First of all, OUCH and second, DUMB and third, if you want a tattoo on your asshole, you’ve come to the wrong place–begone with ye!

Thanks for coming along for the ride this year. Who knows, I may post again before we see the dawn of 2012, but ciao for now and thank you.

With tres mucho love, twinkly

this one is from the uber-tacky, red-and-white tiled bathroom at Five Guys Burger and Fries on Cape Ann

*for some reason, this seems like I’m talking about my maidenhead: why, Santy Claus, why?

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