peevish mama

It’s time for Tiny Dancing. High time for Tiny Dancing! The lake is one hundred percent frozen and maybe, just maybe, the winter blue blahs (that sounds like blue balls, heh) are starting to scratch at your door with pale skinny fingers. If you need a perk up, and I know you do, grab your iPod and make a beeline for the center of your lake of choice. Mine is Harriet and dear, sweet, lovely Harriet brought me more than a touch of peace yesterday. It was cold as all hell, but I was in a Sunday funk, so off I went. I couldn’t believe mine were the only footsteps out there. I felt like a bedecked and beswaddled Robinson Crusoe. All alone in the middle of our little city, save the ice fishermen, free to do as I please on a gorgeous white expanse of wind swept snow.

Come on, people! This is new ground! Found ground! A place to go that you can only get to for a couple months out of the year, its solidity completely belying its true ephemerality. That alone is reason enough to go, no?

As if unfettered, outdoor, hidden-in-plain-sight dancing weren’t reason enough.

Post script: Don’t be alarmed by how close I look in this pic. Dash took it last year and I’m sure the zoom was involved. Plus I’m not really in the middle – just bustin’ a couple moves on my way.

Four Monkeys by Andy Warhol 1983

It’s one of my many New Year’s resolutions. I’m sitting here in the sunroom on a sunny, frigid Sunday morning and I hear a rooster. Why do I hear a rooster? To my knowledge, we don’t own a rooster. But such is life with little kids. Now they are fighting. Apparently rooster sounds are annoying to the non-rooster types in the family.

When will I not find a plastic chicken drumstick under my pillow? When they are grown. When will I not find pink socks in my coat pocket? When they are grown. When will I stop catching rejected mouthfuls of food in my palm? When they are grown. When will I not have to clean the banana smoothie I just made out of the radiator? When they are grown. When will my phone be where I left it? When they are grown.

When will I get to stop doing giant mountains of laundry? When will I get to stop cutting up apples? When will I stop impaling the soles of my feet on the legs of plastic horses?  When will I stop reminding practice piano, brush your teeth, grab your lunch, hat, coat, backpack, clarinet? When will I stop hearing “mommy” a million times a day?

When they are grown. Which I most definitely do not want. Not yet. So I will embrace it. All of it.

This is such a cool project! Basically, it’s a story in six words (really, that’s all it takes), which is then further brought to life by a designer. Van Horgen, a Saint Paul copywriter, and Anne Ulku, a Minneapolis graphic designer managed to do one story every day last year and they are just awesome. Some are funny, some are sad, some are the God awful truth, some are swoony and romantic. They were inspired by Ernest Hemingway, who, legend has it, considered his best six word story to be: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Stunning, right? Now they’ve started a new site inviting other writer designer teams to send in stories. Check them out. Man, does this get my juices flowing.

Pushes wheelchair, sometimes sits to rest. (If you live near me, you know who I’m talking about!)

A cardinal, blood splotch in snow. (Meh)

My children take my breath away.

You see the mood? Go away.

Local mother felled by a louse.

Sometimes, bad is good for you.

If looks could kill, I’d kill.

OK, so I need more practice.

It’s harder than it looks! Here are a few from Van and Anne’s site:

By some miracle, I have found a few minutes to myself. And by a few minutes, I really do mean a few minutes. Soon Doctor Dash and the kids will stomp through the back door and I’ll jump up to find out how Dash fared on his first ski outing in 25 years. Devil Baby will inevitably yell I’m doooo oooone! from the toilet in her melodious husky voice. I don’t have time for this. I have presents to wrap and chimichuri to make. I could be setting the table for tonight or even folding the heaping basket of clean laundry lurking in the basement. But I’ve just got this glowy peaceful feeling in my chest and I want to catch it.

A few days ago a dear friend of mine handed me three knitted washcloths tied up with a ribbon when they came over for dinner. I clutched them to my chest because I knew exactly what they were. Her mother, suffering from severe memory loss, knits and knits, cranking out five washcloths every day. If my friend’s mom is anything like my friend, I know she must find much peace and comfort in the doing – allowing her fingers to be active and completing something tangible when every thing else might seem confusing or muted. They are so very beautiful and I’m touched and honored to have them since I know it’s not easy for my friend to give them up. The next morning I laid them out on the dining room table while the kids were having breakfast and I my coffee. I couldn’t help touching them, admiring the neat stitches and rereading the stunning Maya Angelou quote attached to the ribbon: . . . people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel . . .

My kids were very curious, wanting to know the story, if she could recognize anyone, who got her the yarn etc. and took turns checking out the washcloths, each handling them exactly as I might have expected them to. Saint James tossed it in the air and caught it a few times, like a pizza, Supergirl bent her head to study the stitching, Devil Baby rubbed it on her face and then put one on her head like a beret. Handmade objects have a special magic anyway, but so much more when they are an actual physical embodiment of a mind that has been plunged into mystery. They are little pieces of my friend’s mom and I can’t help thinking she is continuing her narrative, in her way, stitch by stitch, row by row, and sending it out into the world.

We all know sometimes things are so beautiful it hurts: a sunset, the face of a lover or a child in a certain light, snow coated branches, a song. I wonder if the opposite is true? That sometimes things hurt so much they become beautiful. I don’t know the answer to that. Perhaps that would be too convenient. But it is what I wonder as I look at my three perfect washcloths.

Merry Christmas, my friends. Hold your loved ones close and enjoy this beautiful holiday weekend.

So, as I type, Saint James is down in the basement playing a game of FIFA 11 Wii soccer with Doctor Dash. I saw this coming over a year back, but they really are two peas in a pod. Depending on which of them has been working, sleeping, or at school they will spring sports scores, news of injuries and awesome header goals on each other. I can see each of them savoring the piece of news, waiting to tell the other. They speak in code, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not that I couldn’t understand, it’s just that I don’t have room in my brain for the ups and downs of the fortunes of the Patriots, Barcelona and the Celtics. Every morning, Saint James sits at the laptop groggily walking in Doctor Dash’s internet footsteps from a couple hours earlier. Does that much happen in the sports world during the night, I wonder? Why is the ESPN NFL power rankings the last page opened every morning when I sit down at the laptop after the kids have gone to school?

On Tuesday, I ended up with a few hours alone with Saint James, and I wasn’t about to fritter it away on errands. Months ago, I had heard tantalizing rumors of some mythical Hmong barbequed pork belly somewhere or other – essentially, bacon to the nth degree – and my salivary curiosity was peaked to say the least. I knew I had to track it down and there was no better sidekick than my newly ravenous, bacon-obsessed boy. A swift google search yielded the name of one of the only Hmong restaurants in the Twin Cities and it sounded intriguing, so we set off. I may not be able to talk who’s getting traded by which team, but an intrepid drive deep into St. Paul in search of a hole in the wall Hmong restaurant to sample their pork belly for lunch? I’m your man.

We forded giant snow banks to get in the front door of a nondescript strip mall on University Ave and felt like we had stomped our boots out of snowy Minnesota into Southeast Asia. The tinny sound of a radio, a little boy running around with a stick and a mouth stained blue from a candy filched from his parents’ store, a cluster of older Asian folks drinking tea in what appeared to be a video store, and more kids chasing each other all greeted us as we shuffled through the hallways in search of Destiny Cafe. The restaurant is bright, airy, full of plants and packed with Hmong families at lunch time. Saint James surveyed the scene, took one look at the glass case of glistening meats at the front and whispered this is awesome!

We spent the next hour feasting, and I mean FEASTING, on a savory meal of vibrant purple sticky rice, a seafood stir fry with the most amazing greens and salty delicious sauce, and the mother of all pork dishes, the barbequed pork belly. I’ve had pork belly before and I thought it was just really thick bacon, but this had more actual pork on it, a layer of crispy fat and then a crackly caramel colored crust. Seriously, you guys, Saint James and I were in hog heaven and in between happy mouthfuls we managed to agree that snow days are good, that Asian kids are super cute and that we have to take the rest of our family to Destiny Cafe, like, PRONTO! I must go back and try the steaming bowls of pho that everyone seemed to be favoring on that cold day. And more of the pork belly of course. And those greens. Sweet mother, those greens! But most delicious of all was my stolen time with Saint James and the knowledge that as long as I’m willing to take him somewhere tasty and he’s willing to follow, all will be well in our world.

Destiny Cafe is located at 995 University Avenue, Saint Paul, MN  (651) 649-0394

From Illustration Rally via Malark

We’re in the middle of a monster storm here in the Little Apple, although I must admit when I woke up this morning, that familiar childish impulse to rush to the window pulling me out of my warm bed at 6:45, I was unimpressed.

But here it is, an hour later, and it’s coming down hard. I think – I hope – that in the end, when the last flake has fallen and settled with an angel’s hush, I will indeed be impressed. Needing a little wonder, a little awe, a little knock-your-socks-off-weather drama.

Come on Mother Nature! Work it, sister!

The holidays are fast approaching, and like it or not, we’re going to be dropping some cash in an effort to buy that elusive perfect gift for the peeps in our lives. I’ve been meaning to revisit the 3/50 Project (remember? spend $50 bucks a month in 3 local stores) for AGES, and now is a perfect time to think about supporting our local businesses. Chances are, if we step into that little antique store or flower shop around the corner, we’re going to find something a lot more interesting than we ever would at Target. Instead of clogged parking, jostling carts and long lines, we’ll get to browse, chat, connect, possibly learn something new and feel our roots in this city spread out and down. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, if we want small, independent, local businesses to thrive, we have to support them. They are the reason we love our neighborhoods the way we do, so shop up, my beauties!

This weekend is a good time to start! The 50th and Xerxes 8th Annual Holiday Shop and Stroll is being held this Saturday November 20 from 10-6 and Sunday November 21 from 12-5. Everything will be 20% off and trust me, from what I saw today, the stores are chocked full and dressed to the nines for the holidays. I highly recommend a look-see.

Specifically, don’t miss The Vintage Studio. I’ve been meaning to send you all over there for quite a while. In fact, if you’ve seen me in my super sexy seventies silver chain belt, then I probably already have. If you drive up and down 50th a zillion times a day like I do, then you might have seen the sweet little shop tucked in the old Shop in the City space. It’s definitely worth popping in, even if vintage isn’t your thing. Owner, Karen Kinney-McMullan, has a beautifully edited and displayed collection of clothes, jewelry, barware, belts and other pretty baubles. You feel like you’ve stepped into Diane von Fustenberg’s boudoire circa 1968. Chic and sexy – it’s the perfect place to pick up a smart little clutch or a new choker for all those holiday parties. Her stuff is cool, affordable (it really, truly is) and most importantly, unique. Why order a bracelet from J. Crew (don’t get me wrong, their jewelry is super cute) when you can get the real thing right in your neighborhood? Who wouldn’t rather have a cocktail ring with a story? Plush supper clubs, smoky speakeasies, grand dinner parties, epic love affairs . . . If a brooch could talk.

The Vintage Studio is located at 3016 W. 50th Street, Minneapolis, MN

Right across the street is an old fave of mine, Gallery 360. I have always been able to find unique and beautiful things in this store and it is an absolute treasure trove of gifts – anything from paintings to pot holders to ceramics to rockin’ leather cuffs. It’s almost impossible to describe the breadth and variety of beautiful handcrafted pieces, except to say it’s sort of magical. Owner, Merry Beck, has a knack for bringing together and celebrating largely local artists and artisans who create things that are sometimes quirky, sometimes edgy, always beautiful. I don’t think there is one person in my family who hasn’t gotten something from Gallery 360.

Gallery 360 is located at 3011 West 50th Street, Minneapolis, MN

Just like no one should be buying a clutch from a big box store, no one should be buying soccer cleats from one either. We’ve been going to Planet Soccer on Lyndale for a couple years now and every time we walk out of there, I’m so glad we chose to go north on Lyndale instead of south. Saint James likes a little flair on his feet and found a pair of lavender and orange cleats that are just the coolest. His indoor soccer shoes are a relatively conservative black, but they’ve got hot pink soles and laces. And if your mini soccer player wants a real Barcelona or AFA jersey, this is the place. Again, balls, cleats, jerseys, socks, shin guards – it’s all stuff we’d be buying anyway, so why not throw our dollars in the direction of this cool little store? Dick’s Sporting Goods doesn’t need me. Sports Mart doesn’t need me. But Planet Soccer? I think they kind of do. So why not?

Planet Soccer is located at 2716 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis, MN

And if any of you are going through farmers market withdrawal like I am, get ye to Tangletown Gardens post haste. Aside from being a breath of fresh air and one of the prettiest of our neighborhood garden stores, they have a farm where they grow all sorts of heirloom veggies all summer long. Admittedly, I was so wrapped up in our various farmers markets this summer that I had sort of forgotten about this and their CSA, but last Sunday I stopped in to browse and walked out with four different kinds of potatoes and a dozen eggs. It just might be time for a bodacious frittata. And you know what else? I am hooked on fresh local eggs. Hooked, I tell you! I’ll never go back, not as long as I can help it. Who knew yolks could be orange? Gorgeous. Even as winter approaches, especially as winter approaches, Tangletown Gardens is a pretty little escape with the kids – follow it up with some custard or hot cocoa at Liberty next door and you’ve got your Saturday afternoon.

Tangletown Gardens is located at 5353 Nicollet Ave. S., Minneapolis, MN

Sometimes I walk around carrying something in my mind, turning it over for days like a smooth rock in my palm, before taking one last look and putting it down somewhere safe. Then I stumble upon something else that makes me think of that first stone and I rush to pick it up again. Holding one in each hand, I see things I didn’t see before and as if by magic, the connection becomes clear: Why they struck my fancy to begin with. Why, among the reams of sounds, sights, and ideas that pass through my sieve of a brain without sticking, these were worth holding on to.

Here are some cool things I’ve stumbled upon in the recent weeks that seemingly had no connection up until the point when their connection was utterly undeniable. For lack of a better term, these all involve the “mash up.” Worlds, aesthetics, genres, technologies and moments in time colliding to create something new, and for me, irresistible.

Peevish Mama loves herself some cross-pollination.

The Bronx is a hard core punk band out of L.A. who just put out a mariachi album. For real and legit and totally catchy.

Art, architecture and technology = large scale mesmerization. Is that even a word?

This line of fabrics and wallpapers by a Scottish design firm called Timorous Beasties, is sick, subversive and sublime. The name alone is something I want to wallow in. I especially love the toile, which at first glance looks like the bucolic vistas stamped across tablecloths and throw pillows in the most proper of homes, but upon closer inspection reveal some serious heavy, sad, violent urban decay. Crack addicts, prostitutes and blighted landscapes on toile! So cool.

Men’s fashion meets ganstah swagger for the most clever thing I’ve read in ages. This tumblr feed called Fuck Yeah Menswear is seriously my newest favorite discovery and quite possibly my first web crush. Who are you FYM? I am intrigued, to say the least. Here’s just one of many brilliant examples:

You think I give a fuck about chambray?

Just make sure you bring my critters, bitch.

Tryna get WASPY.

Lilly P belts with the guns still tucked in them.

Volvo station wagons with boarding school girls still getting smashed in them.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Fuck with me real quick.

Turning out VIP with my squad.

Rugby’d out.

Wrist on bling.

Making herbs Kiel over.

Left and right.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

They can load up if they want.

Aim atcha boy.

Take shots at the throne.

But these workwear goons should know.

I never leave the cape without protection.

Patchwork Kevlar.

Unabashedly Teflon.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Got my hater blockers on too.

Warby Parkies.

Clear lenses on smash.

Always watchin’ that money.

New or old.

I don’t give a fuck.

As long as I stay stacking cheddar.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Go to hell pants hand sewn by demons.

The same beasts.

Who haunt you.

When you flip through the pages.

Of that one Free & Easy.

Your cousin got you.

Because he lives near a Japanese bookstore.

The same beasts.

Frankie exorcised in ‘08.

When he took over The Crew.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Me and my clique.

Leavin’ chalk outlines.

Outside of the Pop Up Flea.

Peep these rugged clowns.

They soft.

They shook.

They leaking.

They sleeping.

Forget The Bloods, son.

You got bigger problems.

We bleeding madras up in this motherfucker.

Hope you all got down with your bad selves, on what is, arguably, the BEST night of the whole year.

Photo by Devil Baby

I have been thinking a lot about happiness and hope lately. I think people think I’m much more of an optimist than I really am. I’m not. I’m actually quite cynical. Once, I stumbled upon the term “a Russian soul” and I had a shiver of recognition. I’m not Russian, but I’ve read enough Russian literature to know: I’ve got a Russian soul. Subject to melancholy, a worrier, glass half empty, prone to fits of pique. You know the type. Maybe you are the type. But I don’t want to be the type, hence the perpetual noodling.

Life is short and a failure to see the beauty and count your blessings is actually, when you think about it, a careless act of cruelty. To yourself. But it’s so hard to be positive and present, right? And therein lies the rub. It’s kind of emblematic of the human condition. Or maybe that’s too sweeping. It’s emblematic of my condition – let’s leave it at that. We’ve talked about this before, many times. It’s a preoccupation of mine because despite my Russian soul, I want to be happy. I try to be happy. Every day, I start over, and my level of success is sketchy, at best.

At book club, during an intense and difficult discussion of The Road, the Ladies wondered how the protagonist was able to keep going, or why he bothered to keep going when nothing he could perceive with his senses or imagine with his rational mind would lead him to believe that there was anything worth living for. Quite the contrary, the danger to which he was exposing himself and, more poignantly for our book club, his son, should have outweighed any naive spark of hope he had stoking in his heart. And yet he continued on. When many others had chosen not to, he did. Is it a defining characteristic of a person to have this hope, this will to push forward, whatever the cost? Why did some, quite understandably given the circumstances, choose to opt out of the devastation, the evil, the horror that the world had become? We wondered about ourselves, what would we have done? It’s impossible to know, from the comfort of Lady Pretty Twigs’ warm and comfy living room.

On Friday night I went out with Creeper Bud and Hot Breeches to see Jamie Lidell at the Cedar. (He deserves a separate gushing music post and I will do it if I have time, but for now, suffice it to say that this vaguely nerdy British white boy has seriously got it going on.) Our night was the best kind of sandwich: a wildly entertaining soulful and booty shaking concert stuffed between two great meandering beery chats. At one point after the show we were talking about global warming and the general “hell in a handbasket” status quo (ya, I know, why, right?) and how it’s hard not to feel completely dejected about everything. Hot Breeches nodded knowingly and said, Ya, but you just can’t let yourself go there. And it’s true, we can’t. We’ve got children to care for and lunches to make. We’ve got lives to live.

I realized then and I said to my sweet companions that I think that I gravitate toward things that are beautiful or funny or whimsical or enlightening as a reaction to the dark. When I see something that strikes a happiness chord in my chest, I go after it, like a dog after a squirrel. I chase and dig and bark. I find out more about it, take a picture and put it on my blog. It is my attempt to fight the part of myself that sits, legs dangling, over a chasm of despair. These are some bad times, environmentally, economically, morally, religiously (Catholic church, I’m looking at you!), and I don’t see enough evidence that the things that need to happen to make things better are happening. But on a micro level, in day to day life, there is plenty that gives me hope. I just have to keep my eyes open.

I took this picture a couple weeks ago. I saw this sign on my walk and went back with my camera later because I was so touched by it. I was struck not only by how lucky we are to live in a city where 1. people are actually around and 2. people will actually help, but also by this individual’s need to reach out and offer his or her thanks to those people; enough to compose a letter, print it out, cover it in plastic, put it on a stick and stake it firmly in the grass. It gave me hope.

This blog, Peevish Mama, started out as a place to bitch, to vent, to put my mommy angst. I wanted to redirect my frustration and ire away from my brood and into the ether. But when I look at my “peeves” category versus my “pleasures” category, I’m surprised by the difference. You want to know the score?  Peeves: 24 Pleasures: 86. Not bad for a peevish mama with a Russian soul. I guess.

And now for a bit of happiness, here’s a little Jamie Lidell for your viewing pleasure.

Thanks to a fortuitous bit of timing, I was able to meet The Wishing Tree Lady yesterday and she couldn’t possibly be more lovely. But I just as easily could have missed her, had I lingered at home just a bit longer. A little bit of kismet, I think. We were all comfortably ensconced in the backyard after school, enjoying this gluttonous string of fantastic weather: Supergirl on the monkeybars, Saint James drilling balls into his rebounder, Devil Baby sweeping leaves, Doctor Dash and I sipping adult beverages. I wasn’t going anywhere, except that earlier, I had promised Supergirl I would take her to the wishing tree after school and she was holding me to it. I decided we would make a break for it, just the two of us, but Devil Baby got wind of our plans and insisted on coming. I sighed, looking longingly at my wine and my chair. Forget shoes, just hop in the car, let’s go, quick.

When we got there, there was a cluster of people around the tree, including a woman cutting down the wishes. There were no more paper tags. Supergirl’s eyes filled with tears and she started walking back to the car. I called her back. Surely there was a way for her to add her wish. The woman with the scissors found a couple blank sides that Supergirl could reach to write on. It’ll still count, I whispered. I waited for Supergirl, reading more wishes and listening to the gentle chatter around me. A man who had apparently stopped to ask about the tree and ended up helping to cut wishes handed me a pair of scissors: It’ll help them come true if you help. He smiled and continued on. Maybe so, I thought. I held the scissors in my hand and looked around. The sun was setting over Lake Harriet, Supergirl was reading wishes, Devil Baby had made a friend (a cute little dark haired boy who turned out to be the Wishing Tree Lady’s son) and suddenly there was no better place in the world to spend the next ten minutes. I started to snip. So, is this your project? I ventured.

It turns out that the wishing tree is part of a bigger project, specifically, The Hokey Pokey Project, which The Wishing Tree Lady, also known as Deb, also known as Mrs. Hokey Pokey (to me, anyway), has undertaken with the simple goal of making people smile. Every week for one year, she will pull together some cool thing in a public space to that end. She’s doing it for the smiles, but also to teach her children “that they can be a source of joy for friends, acquaintances and strangers . . .” My God. Can you imagine what this world would be like if we all did this? She calls it a “modest” project, but when you think of the implications, the symbolism, it’s huge. Especially now, when everything can seem so bleak. And if you think of the ripple effect, there is no way to know how this could turn out. I am smitten by the concept of putting something into motion which then takes on a life of its own.

As for the hundreds upon hundreds of wishes, Deb says she wants to spread them out on her sidewalk, count them and read them. There are at least 400 but likely many more because when the tags ran out, people started writing on the backs of tags and even on leaves. Incredible. She promises they won’t be thrown away but she’s still not sure what she’s going to do with them. Maybe they’ll resurface in some way shape or form as the Hokey Pokey Project evolves. Check out her blog and keep your eyes peeled for more joy to come.

And if you have the good fortune to meet Mrs. Hokey Pokey, make sure to thank her.

To move like that on a rainy street corner. I find it utterly engrossing. The guy in the navy is pure magic.

There’s always the danger, with high expectations, of being disappointed. But Janelle Monae couldn’t disappoint if she tried. She could come on stage in a robe and slippers, sit in a bean bag chair and eat cereal and still be riveting. She’s a superstar. She’s adorable. She’s poised for take off and if she doesn’t, well, shame on us. She completely defies classification, wearing the label of black female artist lightly, swinging it around and playing with it like she did the matador cape she rocked last night. (Seriously, it takes some major panache to pull off a matador cape (and a pompadour and saddle shoes, for that matter), but boy does she!) Her voice is gorgeous and facile, a voice to rival any diva’s, but what puts her over the top for me is her dancing. These are some bold words, but I’m going to say them: She’s an amazing dancer, as good as Michael Jackson. No joke. Sexy, androgynous, irrepressible, she soft shoes and shakes it like nobody’s business. Watch out for her. Seriously, watch out.

Check her out with Big Boi in this vid. Love love love.

photo by Stacy Schwartz

Last night Dash and I went to see Arcade Fire with Lady Tabouli and Mr. Lady Tabouli and again, at the risk of sounding like an undiscerning gusher (don’t I always do this when I see live music? I know I do), they knocked our socks off! In fact, not only did our eight collective socks get knocked off, they got blown out of the auditorium, down the corridors, out the door and are dangling from high wires outside of Roy Wilkins. Socks fully and completely knocked off. We are sockless. As often happens, a couple factors coalesced to make the show one of the best I’ve ever seen in my life, not the least of which is simply: this band rocks. For real.

I had just finished reading The Road earlier in the afternoon, although the word afternoon seems like a fake cheery cardboard cut-out word for what it really was: dark, sad hours wrapped around the last eighth of a book that left me sobbing, empty, tired. The Road is a post-apocalyptic novel about a father and son’s journey at at time when the world as we know it and all that we recognize as goodness, humanity and hope has been burned, raped, pillaged and left to blow about in a wasteland of gray ash. The book is devastating and beautiful and it stays with you, seeping deep into your skin, changing the color, the taste, the smell of everything around you. Like that ash. It’s incredible. And awful.

So, fast forward thru a cold water splash on the face, dinner and smooches for the kids, a cup of steaming green tea, a chatty minivan ride with our pals, burgers and cocktails, a hilarious three block dash through the rain until finally we bust onto the spectacle that was Arcade Fire. Keep in mind, I’m still wiggy from The Road – I’ve got it weighing on my chest through the giggling and leaping over puddles, and then all of a sudden, my jaw drops and all I see is this huge band (8 of them!) with this HUGE sound, and all I can think is: Perfection. It’s fucking perfection.

We are swallowed up whole.

They look like Mad Max meets thrift store meets Project Runway. Survivors and journeymen, championing beauty with powerful music and haphazard sartorial flourishes. Glittery dresses and combat boots, navy gas station jumpsuits bedazzled with red lightening, tight button down shirts that read as military rock-a-billy, savagely shorn hair and sweat. Sweat every where. Five men and three women going nuts, letting their freak flags fly, holding nothing back and giving us the FULL DRAMA.

They sound like nothing I have ever heard before, singing in strangely uplifting harmonies and running around changing instruments between songs like its musical chairs. Two of the women play electric violins and look like wild fairies as they work their bows and voices into a frenzy. And not for nothing, who gets to sing AND play violin at the same time? Is that even allowed? They were screaming! All of them were. The third woman, Regine Chassagne, a Haitian beauty, was like an angel in a sparkly gold dress and jeweled fingerless gloves singing in her haunting, gorgeously imperfect voice one minute, then wailing on drums, on piano, and killing an accordion the next. The lead singer, Win Butler, sings himself raw, lurching, kicking, climbing and clamboring all over the stage. But what a voice, a voice kind of like Bono’s, a voice that by its limits, by its humanity and earnestness grabs you by the throat and forces you to open your mouth and contribute.

It sounds freaky and it WAS, but make no mistake. These guys are a big stadium rock band. Their songs are anthemic, swelling and crashing like giant waves. Arcade Fire makes you sing and scream and clap your hands. They give you the blood sweat and tears, the blood guts and glory, but it’s smart, breathtakingly technical, complicated, textured and completely modern music. Post modern even. Beyond that, maybe even, dare I say it? Post-apocalyptic! Nah, that’s just me and my Road-tinted glasses, but, man, if there was ever a right band at the right time. For me. My God. There’s a piercing frantic joy that sort of cuts out of these dark and moody chords in their music and it felt so right. Just right. (For real information, like the playlist and an actual musical analysis, go here.)

And speaking of modern, Janelle Monae at First Ave. tonight. Finally!!!! I may swoon, my head may explode. I’m so excited to see her. I have been waiting a long time. A long long time. More gushing tomorrow, I’m sure.

Not when there are things like this in the world to learn about. I never knew about Ama, or women of the sea. A 2000 year old tradition in coastal Japan, these beautiful hardy women would dive up to 25 meters with no equipment in search of seaweed, abalone, snails and other shellfish.

They had to maintain a certain amount of body fat to survive the frigid waters and would huddle together around bonfires to warm up between dives, eat and gossip. It was treacherous work, but Ama could make more money in a short 20 day season than a man could in a whole year. Plus, they got to hang out with their lady friends all day long. Ama were a hot commodity and sought after for marriage. They continued to dive deep into old age.

When goggles were invented at the turn of the century, Ama were early adopters, but mostly continued to dive only in shorts and cloths wrapped around their hair. There weren’t really any men around and diving in their skivvies afforded them more freedom and actually kept them warmer. Remember, they didn’t have lycra back then.

I’m struck by how strong and happy these women look. How free. Especially at a time when women the world over were still fighting to be heard (and are still). These gorgeous photos are the work of Iwase Yoshiyuki, who wrote of his beautiful subjects: “They carried the joys and sorrows of those living with the sea . . . I immersed myself in their world.”

Stunning.

STUH. NING.