There’s something about autumn that gets me in the mood to batten down the hatches. Alan took Kate to a Matt & Kim concert Saturday night, and…
…may I just interject something here? I think I’ve mentioned before that Kate’s enthusiasm in pop music isn’t for superstars like Lady Gaga, but these smaller, less well-known artists like, well, Matt & Kim. In the last year she’s been asking to go to their concerts. She doesn’t ask for much, so if certain circumstances are met (parent escort, not a school night), I generally say yes. But these bands don’t play at arenas, or even at theaters, but at clubs. Rock clubs. And while I guess I always thought I might someday sit down with my daughter at a bar, I didn’t think it would be when she was 13. Last night it was Matt & Kim at the Majestic, and next month she has tickets for All Time Low at the Shelter. The Shelter is the basement part of St. Andrew’s Hall, a.k.a. “the most dangerous concert venue in America.” That’s not literally true. It’s just outside of touristy Greektown; the description refers to all the hip-hop acts that got their start there. Still. The accompanying parent on that trip will get the full treatment from me — don’t let them get too close, nowhere near the speakers, no moshing, whatever.
Saturday night they didn’t get home until after 1 a.m. Alan said the show was pretty good. (Although he mentioned that Matt recalled their last gig in Detroit, after which he was robbed at gunpoint.) Kate got her CD signed by Kim. That’s another reason she likes these little bands — the meet ‘n’ greets at the merch tables. Lady Gaga doesn’t do those, methinks.
OK, back to hatch-battening. While they were out, I tackled my home office, where I was losing the battle against the heaps of paper that work their way into our lives. Why so much paper? I’m striving toward a paper-free existence, and the rest of the world is picking up the slack, plus some, it seems. I sort into piles, then re-sort, and by the third time through I’ve usually made my peace with throwing most of it out. It can take me days to clean an office. My final six months at my last full-time employer were the best, because I’d made a resolution: In hostile territory, it’s best to travel light. When I quit, I walked out with my coffee cup, one file folder and 20 years of memories. It. Felt. Great.
Oh, and the ankle’s better, thanks. If it happens to you, follow RICE therapy immediately. Also, praise G-d for ibuprofen. It made all the difference. It’s still puffy and sore, but I was able to go for a little bike ride yesterday without howling in pain. Progress.
The usual crazed week lies ahead, but I have a jump on things — nothing like a mild sprain to get your paperwork done — and I think I’m ready, just as soon as my loins are girded. In the meantime, some bloggage:
Leave it to nerdy NPR for something like this: When everyone in the world is being called a socialist, what does a real, admitted, avowed one say? These people are not socialists. In part 2, what is a libertarian, and why many of the Republicans who claim to be so, are not.
The Wall Street Journal has its own axe to grind with the web, but I think their reporting on online privacy, or lack thereof, is pretty prize-worthy. Bottom line: Nothing on the web is free, and the price you pay is your personal information. (Except here at NN.C, where all I know about Dwight is that his ISP is somewhere in the Chicago region. Or was. Maybe.) The latest installment is on the worst offenders — websites frequented by children. Lovely.
Only in Detroit: The Guerrilla Marching Band. Watch the video for some great glimpses of Hamtramck — pierogi, For Sale or Lease signs and fat people. Great town.
Out the door, I am.