Pleasant Surprise

As planned, I made it to the Josh Ritter concert last night. It was great fun. He has an amazing energy live, and, since it was general admission seating, I was essentially in the third row, close enough that I had an unimpeded view all night long. The band added a lot to the show -- especially a horns section that came out for the occasional song. Not only were they great (and enthusiastic) musicians; the whole crew had an amazing sartorial sense. They were seriously stylish -- boasting alternatively a crisp suit and shirt (which allowed Josh to look comfortable and sexy rather than all buttoned up), some pork pie hats, a waxed, glorious handlebar mustache, and a blue paisley tuxedo with black lapels. These guys really put some thought into their show. They said it was the last night of their tour, but they were anything but tired out. I really enjoyed every minute of it.

The only downside to the show was that my husband and I were stuck on our feet for upwards of four continuous hours. (My tootsies are still killing me today, and I'm skipping out on my workout because they need a rest.) But -- between Ritter and his opening act, the versatile Eric Bachmann, who, accompanied by a violinist, really got the night started on the right foot -- it was worth it.

In other news, I went back to see the apartment I like in Jackson Heights. Am mulling over whether to make a bid on it. I think we will, and I think we'll do it tomorrow. That said, because my husband and I couldn't decide without seeing it one more time, the broker has slated it for another open house tomorrow. That gives more passers-by an opportunity to vie for the place and get it instead of us. I guess there's a price to pay for the luxury of taking time to make up our minds.

Otherwise? Caught up with an old friend over tea this afternoon. About to watch a little Grey's. Hoping it's not demonstrative of a lack of solidarity with the screenwriters -- whose right to strike I endorse -- to watch a show while the strike is on. Is that the equivalent of crossing a picket line? I'd like to think no.

Not Just Another Friday Evening

Tonight I'm going to make good on my promise to get out there, at least from time to time, and am going with my husband to go see Josh Ritter perform live at Webster Hall.

I first discovered Ritter's sound courtesy of the website 3hive. It only took one hearing of his song "Thin Blue Flame," and I was hooked. I downloaded that song, listened to it over and over, and knew all the lyric to it (as well as to a few of Ritter's other songs) before that weekend was out. So you can imagine how psyched I was to hear he'd be touring through NYC.

Going to see his performance tonight is not only a way to enjoy something cool my city has to offer (although admittedly not one of its countless free marvels), but also enables me to appreciate music at a new level. Owning CDs is good, but attending live performances -- particularly more intimate ones -- can be transcendent. Here's hoping tonight proves to be one such show.

Radio Nowhere

The mister and I snagged two tickets to see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band perform at Madison Square Garden next month. For my money, there's no better live performance out there, even though the vagaries of Ticketmaster are such that we're spending good cash to watch the back of the Boss' head for three plus hours. This will be the fifth time I've seen Bruce perform live -- the third at MSG.

Born in the U.S.A. was the first album I ever bought. Not in CD format; not even in tape. Vinyl, baby. In 1984, courtesy of my soon-to-be-stepmom (who, at 28, was old enough to fund my nascent record habit but young enough to turn me on to music way cooler in my eyes than anything either of my parents would recommend), I was the proud new owner of a record whose jacket boast the bluejeans-clad arse of an all-American man:

I listened to it until it scratched and warped. I accompanied him, singing off-key until I'm sure my parents were sick of it. (Although, in retrospect, this probably paled in comparison to the nausea-inducing weeks during which they endured marathon sing-along sessions involving my younger sister and me alternatively butchering Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love of All" and belting out the entire soundtrack of Les Misérables.)

Becoming a Bruce fan at the ripe old age of eight may not have been particularly subversive when you consider that most of my classmates at the time were bopping out to Madonna's Like A Virgin:

But -- subversive or no -- I loved it. And the passion for the Boss and his music has stuck. I'm a fan to this day. It's one thing to continue to hold dear a book or a painting that touched you when you were young. But the Bruce Springsteen catalog -- both with and without the E Street Band -- keeps growing and delighting me. So next month's concert should be a real treat.

Allowing myself this sort of thing to look forward to is what makes slogging through the everyday bearable.