I'm commuting home the other day and pull to a stop at the light in Inman Square. Behind me, another cyclist stops and I hear him begin to rant in that tone of voice that's just best ignored. The rant is long-winded and full of cursing but seems to boil down to "women suck". The light turns yellow the other way, and as we both start to take off, he says, "Oh wait, you're a guy. Well, you still suck". The light turns green and I accelerate up Hampshire street. Fading into the distance behind me, I hear a somewhat out-of-breath "Huh. Maybe you don't suck so much after all".
August 24th, 2002
Last night, roozle and I randomly decided to go see Paul Westerberg at the Somerville Theatre. They were sold out and it was 25 minutes past showtime but we managed to buy some pretty good tickets from someone trying to unload them and the show hadn't actually quite started yet... score. I'm not super familiar with Paul Westerberg; I've heard some of his stuff covered in concert and one or two particularly famous pieces on the radio. It seemed to me like the more famous pieces were the ones with more complex guitar work, and the more obscure pieces were the ones with subtle lyrics... I suppose that shouldn't be such a big surprise, really. He had a couch and comfy chair up on stage with him, and a roadie-helper guy who wrangled guitars for him and, in an amusing moment, held his harmonica when he couldn't find the holster for it. At one point he invited a bunch of people up on stage to hang out on the couch; roadie guy gave a couple of cute, unattached-looking girls bottled water from Paul's stash and I made the prediction that they wouldn't be going home that night. Sure enough, they were still hanging around by a speaker stack as roozle and I were among the last to leave... I hope they had a good time last night. I sure did.