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The morning pages tricked me. It was weird. Why am I surprised? This time around (I’ve been doing them off and on for about seven years) I was using a Pentel roller ball, extra fine. I was proud of myself that I was using a two dollar pen – not getting suckered into the habit I always had of using a fountain pen. Pretentious, I scoffed.

(Not just any fountain pen, but a gorgeous Lady Patrician, seventy years old, that a dear friend gave me.)

This morning? The pages ate three Pentels. All purchased at different times, the morning pages just ate them up and their lives sputtered out. I threw a little tantrum. I have no idea why I was digging my heels in at the thought of using the fountain pen again – maybe I didn’t want to honor the pages that way? Too much commitment? Just being stubborn? But finally I ran out of pens and had to dig the bottle of purple Pelican ink out from the depths of the drawer and I filled the little beauty (the bladder doesn’t work, so filling it just consists of giving her a good dip).

I wrote. And OH! the difference. My hand flew. Of course, flying, you can’t read any of the words. But I ain’t writing the pages for posterity, just for therapy. There’s never been a reason to reread any of them. Lord, if I did, I’d fall asleep. Most of them are pretty heavy with erudite phrases like: Damn, I’m hungry. I have no food in the house. I have to do laundry. What was I going to get at Target again?

But they look better in purple ink, I’ll tell you that. The Lady Patrician is back.

Can I just tell you that there’s a new phenomenon on digital cable television in the Bay Area? Do you have it where you are? They’ve always had those miles of crap radio channels – you know the ones – hip-hop or house or jazz or classical, all songs, all the time, no commercials. And there’s never been one good channel. But we have this new one, lamely titled the Americana channel, and it is amazing. Right now Lyle Lovett is singing – since I sat down this morning, I’ve heard Lucinda Williams, Emmylou Harris, Tim O’Brien, Nickel Creek and Steve Earle…. They play the old stuff and the new stuff, the Waifs right next to June Carter Cash – and they display the name of the song and the name of the album. It’s incredible. I’ve given up any thought I had of cancelling my cable. This makes it worth it. This and HBO.

It’s my weekend! Hope it feels that way for you, too!

Okay, Brooke’s given me permission (and thank god, ’cause I didn’t think I could hold it in any longer):

I was sworn to secrecy some time ago (and I did remarkably well, I think) that the lovely and talented Ms. Dar Williams was preggers. Yup. Can you imagine? A bouncy sweet sprite-like sensitive activist like her? Having a baby? Fabulous.

Of course, babies bring one thing to mind, and you know where I’m going with this, right? Baby sweaters.

So I made her one:

The buttons remind me of candy. But, let me say this, it’s quite small. It’s the two-week-old sweater. At about a month, it’ll be too small, I’m sure. I only know it’ll (probably) fit because I made one a little smaller once, and it did fit the baby (for about twenty minutes).

Anyway, I had shown it to Amy Ray and her girlfriend Carrie earlier in the evening. (All right, I’ll admit it – this part WAS thrilling) Amy said, “That’s the cutest thing I ever saw.”

*quick moment of star-struck-edness as she realizes fully for the first time she showed Amy Ray something she knitted*

All right, that’s over. Levelheaded again and now backstage, Brooke introduced me to Dar and I shoved the bag at her. I didn’t really know how to preface it. I couldn’t really say, “Hi, nice to meet you. You don’t know me from your taxi driver, but here’s a sweater I made for your unborn child.” I must have asked Brooke a million times in the last few weeks if it was going to come off as stalkerish. She said it wouldn’t, and I could only believe her.

This is the priceless part: Dar opened it, made the obvious coo-ing noise, held it up and then exclaimed, “I’m not having a KITTEN!”

It’s a leeetle small, did I mention that? Then she said it was her first baby gift (!) and it would make her husband cry.

I felt like doing a cartwheel, right then, right there.

Okay. Whew. I’m so glad I could tell that part of the story. Hanging out with the rock stars ain’t the same without a little knitting thrown in there somewhere, you know? Oh – and check out Brooke’s account of the show – much more well-put than my stammering account – I agree with her about everything, especially Patty Griffin. That girl could gild cotton with her voice. It doesn’t get much better than the four of them, up on that stage, singing alone and together.

(And to make up for not taking pictures, here’s what I wore – and here’s the backstage pass and seating assignment stuck to my cords…..)

Now Officially Done being cool. I’m WAY better at being geeky. Let the knitting/watching Carnivale resume.

Well, I don’t want to drop names…. You know I hate doing that…..

What the hell am I saying? I don’t ever have names to drop! Let the dropping begin. Sit back.

So my friend Brooke and I go to see the Songwriters concert: Dar Williams, Patti Griffin, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Shawn Colvin. An incredible line-up, but in my heart, Dar was the headliner. I’ve been a fan of hers for what feels like forever but what is probably more like eight or nine years.

Brooke’s her pal. I mean it. From the stage, Dar plugged Brooke and her book, at which point it was all I could do not to squeal. The women standing behind us talking (which had been annoying most of the evening, but was tolerable at this point) said, “Oh, are you Brooke?” Brooke nodded, the picture of modesty. I heard a stage whisper and saw out of the corner of my eye a finger pointing in my direction, “I think I know her, too. The one in the white sweater.” I straightened a little and dropped my eyelids, trying to look a little famous.

Oh, yeah, get this: AFTER Dar plugs Brooke, she mentions that Amy Ray is in the audience. You know who she is. If you don’t, go buy ANY Indigo Girls album and get back to me in an hour. You need to be not only familiar with their music, but also be familiar with the fact that I LOVE THEM to understand this story.

Now, let me say that I understand I LOVE THEM is a strong statement. But think of your favorite musical artist in the whole wide world, the one that has shaped you the most as a human being, and then just imagine that you get to watch a Dar Williams concert with her.

Yep. Table for six at the Warfield? Amy, her girlfriend, two of their mutual friends, Brooke, and ME!

And what I was most proud of? That I lectured myself beforehand and really convinced myself that great as it was, Amy Ray is just a woman who likes good music and I was glad to meet her and talk with her. Doesn’t hurt that she plays good music, too. I didn’t feel starstruck, just happy to be there.

And backstage later (okay – I’m going to get over myself in about six minutes, I promise), I got to chat a little with Dar and her friends. I got a hug.

(Only regret – didn’t ask for pictures after the show – I was really trying to maintain my “I Could Never be a Stalker, Don’t Worry” pose, but I would have liked one with Amy and/or Dar. There. I said it.)

It was cool. Doesn’t that sound like an understatement? I know. But it’s appropriate. If I were over the moon right now, giddy and unable to speak, or moved to tears, I think I would worry about myself. That’s fandom, that’s too much, too far. But I will never be as jaded as to think that the chance to meet admired artists isn’t great. I had a fantastic evening.

Whee!

I’m a Cancer, born July 5th. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while I go into my own shell. I think something about the concert and being around so many people (while still missing the two who weren’t there) set something off in me because yesterday I did nothing.

I mean: Nothing. Except knit and watch TV. I never even got out of my pyjamas. I REALLY needed to go to the grocery store but instead I ate frozen peas and corn and found some frozen shrimp from Trader Joe’s. It’s amazing what you have to eat in your house if you can’t bear the thought of long aisles and wobbly cart wheels (well, wobbly cartwheels would be okay, I suppose. ‘Specially in those long aisles…). Frozen whole wheat bagels. Half a bag of incredibly stale chips (I never notice staleness, but these were almost chewy). Cheese that I cut inches of pale blue off of before eating. Six chocolate chips in the bottom of the bag. Chocolate sorbet that my sister brought one day. And it all tasted good!

Now: Back to work, to train. Leaving from there to the City to the next show which I hope will overwhelm me only with its loveliness.

I don’t usually do this. I have regular nights in, nights where I do nothing and am completely alone, but not usually a whole day. It was gorgeous, I gotta tell you. Oh! I finished the Must Have sleeves. Pics later. Happy weekend to you!

Something NEW to do with Koigu.

The Indigo Girls rock. They’re true artists with fire and passion and a hell of a lot of talent. No matter what, they’re a great show. You can’t help getting tangled in the music, dancing and singing with it. And it’s fun to go with interesting women who are witty and quick and as in love with them as you are.

But I always go to their shows with my sister Christy, who couldn’t come to the show last night. And on top of her not being able to attend, I hurt her feelings on the phone while still waiting in line to get into the Fillmore, so hearing her favorite songs was kinda tough.

And I go to their shows with Jenn, who’s in Ethiopia for a year, who has running (cold) water twice a day if she’s lucky, and who has to carry a flashlight to look for hyenas on her way home from teaching class at night.

I missed them.

But about the show, here you go:
It was great, of course. Audrey (buy her CD, it’s fab) and I wrestled our way to the front where we made a few friends and a few enemies. We stood behind two big-haired people who thought they had invented kissing. But the sound was excellent. They played all the right songs as well as some new ones from their upcoming CD. They played Mystery, which I maintain is one of their best songs ever. “There must be a thousand things you would die for, I can hardly think of two….” Audrey was a great person with whom to watch the show – just the right amount of between-song commentary and she knew all the words.

But Christy wasn’t there. And Jenn wasn’t there. I never really knew that would matter quite so much. After all, the Indigo Girls are my favorite band in the universe, and I was there with a group of beautiful intelligent women …. And I just stood there, missing MY girls.

Brooke, clever girl that she is, got some backstage passes. No pictures, ‘cause that’s WAY taboo, but we did go upstairs afterwards, which was roped off for VIP, and I shook Amy Ray’s hand which, let’s face it, no matter what kind of mood you’re in, is AWESOME. Then we sat around and drank more and sent furtive I’m not a stalker glances at Amy and Emily who were catching up with their SF friends.

Came home a little shell-shocked, I think. Slept badly. Had a FANTASTIC phone talk with Christy as soon I woke up. Made us both feel better, I think. I apologized for being an asshole and she accepted said apology. That always helps. I considered for brief moment how fun it would be to mail Jenn the backstage pass and then I realized that she really might fly home just to punch me. “Hey, good thing you had a backstage pass. I had anti-malarial drugs and no chalk.” (Aside – this is when I become an asshole – when I don’t think things out and through to their logical consequences. When I don’t think before I act or speak. Trying to become better at thinking first.)

Today: To think before acting. To get a cup of chai at my coffehouse and write. To wait for the rain that’s lowering the skies and maybe go grocery shopping for healthy food (and some ice cream).