And the Hippies Can Party!

Except for an abiding love of high-quality patchouli, I will never be a hippy. I’m way too uptight. And it’s definitely a misconception when people say the world would be more peaceful if hippies were in charge. They fall into human folly and meanness just like the rest of us, even if they are more laid back about it. But, as I evidenced this weekend, nobody can throw a wedding like these guys.

Pure joy. And shouldn’t the celebration of a sacred union be all about joy? Usually it isn’t. It’s more about who will be sitting next to whom and making sure Aunt Matilda is invited because one wouldn’t want to offend her even though no-one wants her around. What to serve? Open bar or cash bar? Tux or suit? She showed up wearing, what? I can’t believe she didn’t ask Mitzi to be a flower girl! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah until the bride ends up on Valium and the groom shows up drunk and the celebration becomes a mockery of the wedding itself.

Unless you are a pure of heart hippy, like my two friends are. Their wedding was most definitely a celebration of their union, their family and friends, and the ideals of hippydom – peace, love, and generosity.

High on a hilltop in rural Vermont, next to a pond, about two-hundred guests wandering around in their Sunday best – some in suits, some in jeans and high-top sneakers – all wearing smiles, hanging out in the sun, playing baseball or Frisbee or guitar or just sitting around and talking while dogs chased each other and kids ran amok until the bugle was sounded for the ceremony, which I missed because my toddler decided to ask his “Why?” questions in that high-squeaky voice. We went for a walk.

And the food! Roast pig, vegetable dishes, cheeses, five cakes, pasta, potatoes, kegs of beer, bottles of wine, water, juice boxes, fresh berries picked from local bushes... A guest could want for nothing. And it just kept coming. Some donated from the community, some catered, all yummy.

The happy couple, bless them, even provided a child activity center complete with paints, crayons, reams of paper, Play-Doh, balls, bats, frisbees, bubbles, a toy shop right on top of the hill.

And it just kept going. Torches lit, bonfire blazing, the groom and all his pals set-up stage and played all night in a Roots Music Lollapalooza. A small miracle getting all these folks together – Session Americana, Bow Thayer, Jabe, Dana Colley, Tim Gearan, Jeremy Moses Curtis, and the list goes on. I felt like I was front row at Lollapalooza. And people just danced and danced – best was watching all those little kids shaking it loose.

I had to leave for the inn at the bottom of the hill before the fireworks – keeping a toddler up three hours past his bedtime didn’t seem wise at the time (won’t make that mistake again) – and let me say that meandering down a wooded hill under a full moon in a black Vermont sky is not a serene experience, especially if one has read Joseph Citro’s Shadow Child, but once safely ensconced in our room, I listened to the creaks and moans of the old inn, my son’s breathing, and felt all was right in the world.

Reading: Thoroughly enjoying Alistair MacLeod – the man can write. Also reading Potty Training Made Easy, Fast and Simple. Riveting. Let's hope it works.

To Split Your Belly Laughing: Rent Flight of the Conchords.

Reviews (or Yapping Just to Hear Myself Yap)

Eddie Vedder at the Opera House: And this is my last post about the man. Geez, I’m even boring myself.

I’ve seen a few one-man shows – Christopher Plummer as Barrymore, Patti Smith, Henry Rollins… Granted, none of these are mainstream rock stars, and the first was more a play, but these folks are not without their share of fame, and the audiences were smart enough to respect each other and the performers by realizing they were witnessing something unique.

This is what I expected when I went to see Eddie Vedder on August 1. My expectations fell short. Choice of material? Brilliant. His performance was stellar. How could it not be? So this is a review of the audience, rather than a music critique.

I think that ninety-five percent of the audience was there in search of that unique experience but it was the remainig 5% that marred the evening for me, and I think I can say that they annoyed Mr. Vedder as well. From my perch on the balcony’s edge, I could see him bristling at the mindless screams and cringing at the “We love you, Eddie!” chants. And the demands for Pearl Jam songs yelled every time the poor man tried to speak! (Hello, people, you didn’t come to see Pearl Jam.)

He tried courtesy; then succumbed to blatant rebukes, insulting Red Sox Nation by negatively comparing that clique to New York. Yet, these fans were too dull to get the hint. And so, Mr. Vedder shut down – he gave a great performance but one sensed that it was only a shadow of what he’d intended. I left feeling frustrated and unsatisfied, as if the night wept with unfilled potential. A bit flowery, I know, but true.

So I when the opportunity arose to grab a second row seat for August 2, I went again. This time, Mr. Vedder was prepared and immediately warned the audience to behave, as a parent must address a toddler before taking him into a fancy restaurant. It didn’t work completely, but the night was closer to what I had expected, an intimate event filled with songs and campfire confessions. If only the jocks had stayed home to get drunk while playing air guitar to a Pearl Jam CD, the night would have been perfect.

The funny thing is, this small group of brain-dead louts were once the kids that bullied the long hair skater freaks in high school (ahem, the Eddie Vedder types). Now, he is their hero. I doubt they even get the irony. But the saddest thing is, if they could return to high school, knowing what they know now, they’d still go beat up those skater kids. They don’t learn. All they know is a belligerent sort of worship in their desire to live through the live of another, be it Tom Brady or Eddie Vedder.

Then again, I’m no better. That they say their prayers too loud, better to hear themselves than to hear the voice of the one they idolize, is really no different than my listening, silent, with straining ears for some kernel of wisdom. It sort of taught me a lesson about spirituality and the Great Spirit, but that’s an entry for my personal journal.

Plus, where is my own courage? I regret not standing up on behalf of the artist and his quiet fans to entreat these yahoos to keep silent. My father did that once at an oratory event. He'd had enough of the rude patrons talking and laughing over the speakers. The action stunned me at the time and since I was a kid, sort of embarrassed me until one of my peers went over to him after to shake his hand in thanks. Now, of course, I see that he was incredibly brave, a champion for human rights.

And truly, when it comes down to it, the only thing that would have made such an experience perfect would be Eddie Vedder hanging out in our living room, playing guitar and chatting over a beer and some good food. As well as winning the lottery. So let’s move on.

Books…

The Lives They Left Behind by Darby Penney and Peter Statstny. Recommended to me by a friend who is mutually in love with the old Worcester State Asylum. Most of the buildings are destroyed now, but the old clock tower remains, and both for its architecture and history deserves to be remembered.

Anyway, the book is a non-fiction account of the lives of a handful of patients who lived at Willard Asylum in New York at the start of the 20th Century. Hundreds of suitcases were found in the attic of the institution and the authors chose a few to trace the history of each owner both pre- and post-institution. Amazing the range of patients – some were just misfits, some truly ill, and some temporarily depressed. Each tale reveals a glimpse into life at asylums that were originally built to restore morality and compassion to the mentally ill. Unfortunately, as with any well-intentioned human endeavor, the system sort of fell in upon itself. You know, the road to hell and all. A fascinating and melancholy read. For a good scare after reading, because we are all depraved, rent Session Nine. And check out this site.

The Outlaw Demon Wails by Kim Harrison. Had a hard time with the first half of the book and before you anticipate a negative review, think again. Rachel (and the novel) seemed to be plodding along. Plus I resented Marshal’s place by her side and am utterly frustrated with the relationship between Rachel and Ivy -- they are so right for eah other as best friends but anything more just seems like a trite plot development.

Then I realized (halfway through), that I was in mourning -- I missed Kisten way too much -- and I almost gave the series up. I read a little further and it all snapped into place. Rachel was is mourning, too, as was the author. So kudos, yet again, to Harrison for carrying her reader right along through Rachel’s life. Harrison pays the appropriate respects to Kisten then allows Rachel to begin to live again.

And how she begins! There is major character growth (for Ivy and Trent as well), new relationship aspects to explore (her mom, Quen, Al, among others) and some amazing secrets revealed. The book ends happy, all tied up in a bow, with plenty of frayed ends for the next installment. A great escape.

Just starting: Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States in anticipation of the forthcoming television event and Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief.

Not on My iPod but Wish They Were: Sun Kil Moon, Damien Rice, and The Cave Singers.

Blog of Note: Love Patricia Kennealy-Morrisons’s post on John Edwards’s idiocy. And China’s injustice. The woman ain’t afraid to speak her mind! Check it out here.

Website of Note: My blog is a frivolous one, bred for escapism, but this one speaks of a reality we, as Americans, have no right to ignore or brush aside. Thank you, Tomas Young.