Blue Monday

I still don't like Mondays, because they remind me of that feeling of facing a week of things you're supposed to do, i.e. the beginning of the school or work week and how far away the days are where you get to pick what you want to do. I suppose now would be the perfect time to attempt to change my perception by shaping Monday into anything I want it to be. Monday is cupcake day! Monday is library day! Monday is likely "buy one/get one free" at least one Philadelphia thrift store. I could make Monday the day where I do something indulgent for myself like having my knees waxed (?). But it would be a fight to shake that feeling of drudgery that accompanies the start of the week.

I dreamt the other night that I was scheduled to do a one hour stand-up routine at this used bookstore in State College. I was with two other comedians and I had to go first. I realized five minutes before the show began that I didn't have any material. I was like, Oh, shit, I guess I can wing it for awhile. I wasn't even too stressed, though I did ask the bookstore owner if I could borrow a sheet of typing paper and a pen and then I went into the bathroom to brainstorm and wrote "George Bush" at the top of the list, figuring I could do at least twenty minutes on him without really trying. Again, the dream pretty much perfectly encapsulates my psyche at this moment in time.

Went to see Feist last night at the Kimmel Center per a generous gift from Padhraig. Hayden opened for her--this cute, bearded harmonica/guitar/piano playing guy who offered funny asides between songs. He was adorable and we fell in love, married and divorced in my head during the fifty minutes he had the stage. His songs are about jealousy and wanting to save or defend the honor of the woman he is with (including a song about an ex-girlfriend killed by a bear while camping with another man) and a song about his promiscous cat, Woody, and one about a rock star staying at his house and coveting his wife. He looked exactly like Bret from FOTC, I swear. He did not notice me and pull me onstage ala a Bruce Springsteen concert. He couldn't have even if he had wanted to; we were all civilly seated in velvet chairs more accustomed to opera enthusiasts.

(Jesus God, when is this NPR fundraiser going to end?).

Feist came on next, beginning with a shadow trick where she goes behind a white screen and sings in silhouette. She has a beautiful, achey voice. The show was good, though it's not normally what I'm drawn to because she's sort of hippy-ish with her onstage projector that flashed images of flowers and birds and hearts and her little white mini dress and the matching white outfits of the accompanying musicians (three of them are brothers), but at some point, it's helpful to stop evaluating everything and enjoy it for what it is instead. She sang all of the songs I know (all five of them); I like her faster pieces better, there are several that make you want to jump up and dance, which some girls did, though they got admonished by the KC usher. My favorite, favorite part of the whole night was when, after Feist had been playing for about 15 minutes, a guy arrived to take his seat two rows ahead of me. He was sporting a gigantic frizzy Afro. I mean, two seats wide. I whispered to Carrie, My view has just been eclipsed, but this guy immediately pulled his hair back into a ponytail, restoring my vision, clearly aware that his hair would be a problem for those of us behind it. It was a sweet and funny moment. I realized too that I am jealous of musicians. I wanted to be Feist in a short dress, playing the guitar with confident abandon. I think it's sort of an artistic jealousy because the show also reminded me how you can impact others through whatever your medium is--playing music, writing songs, writing stories, telling stories, blowing on a saxaphone--and I feel like I've been extraordinarily lazy about doing the same.

We did ride our bikes though. I did not fall off and was not hit by a car or an opening door. Have survived another day without obvious injury.