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[Originally a Facebook post to Kerry]:
You're getting a second chance to see these guys: Thursday night @ Club Nokia. I know my taste in music is suspect, but an entire nation loves this band: If you can't trust me, then at least trust Canada. Gord Downie is an epically talented showman. He is what Bono wishes he could be. There. I said it. Even though I know it's not true. I'm sure Bono is perfectly satisfied being Bono; I doubt he wishes he were anybody other than who he is. But he could have been greater, and he never got there, and that irritates me.
Anyhow. The only downside to this band is that, if Los Angeles Canadians are anything like New York Canadians, there will be five of the biggest guys you've ever seen in your life at this show, built like bears and drunk in that aggressive way that only Canadian men can manage (American men, mercifully, pass out long before they get anywhere near this state.), alternating between tearfully declaring their love for Gord Downie and Canada and picking a fight with someone in your immediate vicinity. It's annoying, but it's part of the scene, apparently. They do have strong stomachs, at least: I've never seen one of them vomit. (This, unfortunately, needs to be said after a very disgusting concert experience I had earlier this year.) So there is that.
Update to Notes on the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza:
... For those of you (and I know there are many) who were eagerly awaiting some updates on the next stages of the Month-Long Cleaning Extravaganza, I'll have you know that I haven't been holding out on you. What I've been holding out on is cleaning my damn apartment. There was a fury of bathroom cleaning ... um, Sunday night, I think? But aside from that, my old roomie arrives in under 24 hours, and my apartment still looks like a bomb went off.
I actually went out last night and purchased giant pink Rubbermaid containers (They didn't have the usual clear ones, and I was desperate.), into which I plan to dump all the shit that currently resides on the floor of my roommate's old bedroom. (And if history is any indication, that is likely where it will stay. Until my apartment collapses in a heap of disrepair. Or I die. Whichever happens first.) The only upside of the mad cleaning dash that will commence around 6p.m. this evening is that it will encourage me to be ruthless. Because let's face it. I'm over 30 now. I'm probably not ever again going to fit into those pants that made my ass look so fantastic when I was 25. And on the off-chance I ever do lose the post-30 poundage, those pants probably aren't the sorts of things that have any business being on the body of someone over the age of 30. No point holding onto them any longer. Into the trash they shall go!
[Note to people who worry about this sort of thing: I would give my under-30 pants to charity, but the city removed all the Salvation Army boxes a couple years ago, I imagine, in a flourish of terrorism prevention. Which, while potentially keeping us all alive, has created complications not unlike the complications resulting from the terrorist prevention-induced removal of all the trash cans from Rockefeller Center at Christmas-time. (No empty coffee cup has ever gone on such a journey as the one my empty Dunkin Donuts cup embarked upon with me during the Last-Minute Christmas Shopping Adventure of 2008. Nary a trash can in sight.) There is simply not, at this point, any time to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up. And I do not, at any point, have the patience nor organizational skills required to schedule a Salvation Army pick-up, so that wasn't ever going to happen anyway.]
Alright. Wish me luck! If there's anything worth posting during my Night-Long Stashing-My-Ridiculous-Shit-Out-Of-Sight Extravaganza, I'll be sure to let you know!
Next Day Update: Discoveries from a Frantic Evening of Cleaning:
1. It turns out that, around 2:30a.m., the bathroom at the Wash World more or less turns into a public bathroom for drunk people who just aren't going to make it from the nearby subway stop back to their apartments. About five minutes after each train rumbled by overhead, a stream of people in various states of alertness stumbled into the Wash World and asked somewhat desperately to use the bathroom. It got a bit comical after awhile!
2. I'm a little irritated with myself for not cleaning my apartment sooner. It took only about three hours to clean "The Forbidden Mess" (so deemed by Joe, whose 
curiosity
about the situation was piqued when I invoked the value of 10 years of friendship to ensure that he wouldn't look behind the guest room door the last time he was here, so embarrassed was I by what was going on in there). Mostly I really just needed to throw shit out.
3. So yeah. Those of you who know me, know that I lost a ton of weight (since gained back, annoyingly!) when I started running marathons in 2003. Like, I actually got pretty skinny. I knew this much. What I didn't know, however, is that I apparently also started dressing like a slut when this occurred. I found a teeniest tiniest little denim skirt last night. Holy crap. I recall emerging from an unfamiliar subway stop in Brooklyn several years ago wearing this skirt and being appalled when the cop whom I'd asked for directions to the bar where I was meeting my friends asked me if I was a stripper. I still don't think that comment was quite appropriate coming from an on-duty cop, but at least I now understand where he was coming from. Good lord.
But yeah, otherwise fairly uneventful! Just talked to my roomie, and she'll be here is about two hours, so hooray!!!
Mary Siobhan O'Brien: worked till 9p.m. tonight, then went to the Target in the Queens Mall and bought a toilet seat. How many things about that sentence make me want to kill myself?
