Spring's here!

Ahh... The joy of something you've waited for coming to fruition :)

"It's nice out" indeed!

I know I've posted 10,000 versions of this picture and blogged about it one time too many. I just can't seem to get enough of this view from the Mother Ship! Today, the sky is a soothing blue, casting the most serene backdrop for little clusters of white fluffy clouds, sparsely thrown into the mix for contrast.
These buildings stand robust and tall, as if saluting—and welcoming—the beautiful spring season ahead. And at last, my storm has passed :)

Rock 'n Rain

As you know I'd spent Friday night watching the Goo Goo Dolls Live in Buffalo concert dvd (a recording of their July 4, 2004 homecoming gig). Many articles and reviews have been written marveling at the band's seamless performance and professionalism—
considering the unexpected DOWNPOUR smack in the middle of the show. Johnny Rzeznik's perfectly tousled tresses instantly transformed into a soggy mop of rockstar locks—still cute in my opinion, in a way only someone famous could pull off.

Thoughts of electrocution came to mind, followed by envy for those who'd witnessed the musical spectacle (and yes, Rzeznik's sexy crooning, flirty gazes, biceps and all). Among several favorite scenes and songs, one worth noting is the part where Rzeznik peels off his drenched black tank, wrings it, and flings it to the crowd. Cut to the next scene, he is singing "Acoustic #3" while the rest of the set is now covered in plastic. Bassist Robby Takac joins him in "Broadway," and you get shivers down your spine as you watch stagehands frantically uncover the drum set, and drummer Mike Malinin enters in PERFECT CUE right after:

"...see the young man sleeping in the old man's bar/
Waiting for his turn to die..."



And the band—plus the crowd that stayed put and braved the storm—roars back to life! *SIGH*

Speaking of percussionists with awesome musical timing, I read an interview of Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters a while back. Apparently, he had been a drummer prior to becoming band leader, and he still thinks of himself as a drummer at heart. To paraphrase, he said something about how cool it is being the drummer because all the psycho girls go for the lead vocalist, and the decent ones go for the other band members. Cute. Click here for a tongue-in-cheek, funny interview of Malinin—who runs ultra marathons when he's not touring with the band—and see clearly how the people at the back really don't mind being un-cool, and therefore become the real cool ones by default.

As I watched the rain pour in the video, and see clearly how the band was totally performing in their element, literally and figuratively immersed in the moment, I got reminded of a particular 'rainy run' from back in college, at the height of my sportclimbing days. I was on strict curfew and only had a few hours after school to swing by the climbing gym, and squeeze in a workout with friends (in the guise of a late afternoon "class").

We usually drove to U.P., parked the car where the mountaineers hung out, and did the whole route along the campus outskirts. On one particular day—this I remember distinctly because I wrote about it in my journal, back when blogging was still unheard of, if not non-existent—in the middle of the run, it started raining: nothing like a dainty drizzle, but fat, globs of water loudly splattering on the pavement. And instead of halting, we all savored the cooling drops on our tired muscles and sweaty backs [hydro-massage anyone?]. Perhaps it was the adrenalin rush, we all ended up running back to the climbing gym, as we were way too soaked to hop back in the car. I still remember the feeling: the excitement, the light-heartedness, the euphoric spring in our step, which I relished as I rushed to make it home on time.

Going back to the Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris" was on heavy rotation that year. It was 1998, I was 18, oblivious to rest of the world, naive. Back then it was all about simple pleasures, good coffee, good music, enlightening conversations, conquering cliffs, surf trips, classes. There was no career to worry about, no beauty desks, no New York plans, and definitely no London dreams.

One day I'll put on my running shoes again, and try to recapture that wonderful familiar feeling.

Casellula Night

I honestly believe that many a friendship are forged over huge glasses of wine, hunks of good cheese, and fat slices of chocolate cake. I met up with a friend last Wednesday at this quaint, wine and cheese place tucked in a street midtown, just a few blocks from work. NH left an incredibly thriving modelling career in Manila to study fashion design at Parsons.

When it comes to Manhattan hotspots, I gravitate towards the quiet, quaint, and fabulous; or the incredibly obscure and anti-social—like the small tavern where a friend bartends on the Lower East Side: a true-blue dive with the requisite dim incandescent bulb over the beat-up pool table, vintage jukebox, and a cash register that paints a picture of 19th century Manhattan in your head.

On the flipside, when a place gets too packed (and trendy) that it requires one to adjust to a few decibels louder when conversing and to battle beefy—and very snooty— bouncers: Count. Me. Out.

Fortunately Casellula rose up to the challenge of being 'quaint and fabulous' without being pretentious, serving up honest-to-goodness topnotch wine, authentic French cheese, and freshly-baked dessert in an ambient neighborhood setting. NH and I conversed like long-lost friends, sharing tidbits and tirades from a life left behind, over gourmet grilled cheese, olives, and sweet pairings. And before we knew it it was already past 1am, and the temperature had dropped to the 30s (on a day I'd chosen to wear an airy spring dress).

I'm not sure if this slight brush with hypothermia is what's causing me to feel under-the-weather at the moment, like the early stages of flu where one's throat is scratchy and knees feel wobbly. I'll try to sleep it off but will close this entry pondering whether in life, if it truly is possible to have your cake (drizzled with fresh cream) and eat it too?

And if so, what exactly are the consequences?

Listening to: "Say Goodnight and Go" by Imogen Heap.

Another Friday

No, I didn't catch another movie alone in Times Square, that was getting to be too depressing. The watching-alone part was okay, but the no-one-to-talk-to-after-the-movie bit was insufferable—the silence was deafening and only made coping with this long-distance relationship, worse.

My weekend salve, this time, came in the form of a last-minute trip to Border's and an equally impulsive purchase of The Goo Goo Dolls Live in Buffalo concert dvd (a.k.a. that famous rainy gig) and the Marie Antoinette soundtrack (loved Sofia Coppola's Lost In Translation OST so this should be good. But I haven't seen "Let them eat cake" yet.) To justify this sort of shopping 'spree', I had to skip Friday night cocktails with friends. (Does that officially make me a loser?)

Oh, but I didn't exactly forego some form of libation: As I am nursing this almost-flu, I intend to drink as much orange juice until it comes out of my ears. At the office I downed Tropicana from cute little cartons—this weekend's version is a bigger box spiked with Absolut Apeach.

Bottoms up.