It's all so much clearer now

The past week featured a few '90s time warp trips for me.  And I'm still trying to digest how it all makes me feel.  So here's a few stabs at my reaction to both the end of a Kurt Cobain-inspired exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum and the Pavement reunion tour that traipsed through the Paramount Theatre.  

I'll start with the latter.  Pavement is a favorite touchstone of mine.  I fall in general agreement with the shorthand claim that their fuzzy sound and ironic slouch only masks bushels of worthy wit.  And hearing Stephen Malkmus talk earnestly about this tour as a one off deal was refreshing (don't expect to see them keep trying to cash that check in the future).  You have to go back more than 15 years to really find their hopeful peak.  So the easy money is on them being less than vigorous in concert.  I went on my own, watched on my own, and decided on my own that...it's time for even the most ardent fan to move on.  They still bring a good show.  Two hours, including a 4-song encore that a more cynical band wouldn't have done at all given the bland, obligatory ovation they got as encouragement from a crowd that I saw as seriously underpacked.  It was the sort of crowd you could see doing the same thing I did beforehand - fixing a nice dinner for the family AND doing the dishes before hitting the town.  I saw a few pregnant women.  The line-up at the merch table afterward was way deeper than that to the bar, at least while the opener was playing (Quasi, a Portland band everyone respects who packed a few decades worth of experience into a tight 40-minute set).  Everything Pavement did was fine.  That's the problem.  The extended moment when these songs mattered has passed.  When I got home, I saw the handful of CDs I'd put in our stereo's changer.  When I look at my iPod, I've only bothered to upload this year's newly released (and wonderful) "Quarantine the Past" compilation.  That's a wounded metaphor, but it works for me.  I love Pavement.  I won't say "loved".  But now I can move on. 

The Kurt Cobain exhibit at the SAM was pulled yesterday after a handful of months.  Far more local ink was spilled on it than I ever thought worthy.  It always just seemed like a tourist crowd draw, especially considering how close the SAM is to the Pike Place Market.  But it was First Thursday Gallery Walk night last week.  What better time to see what for.  And the verdict?  Of course it was forced nostalgia.  Creepy and almost entirely devoid of wit.  Yet the point that I saw was actually pretty brilliant, albeit unintended.  I'm speaking of the people watching, most of which seemed to be infinitely entertained by its own internal divisions.  The partiers jostled by the gallery types, the tourists mingled with those in effect demanding acknowledgment as true locals, the stripes mixed with the solids.  Where I fit in doesn't matter a hoot.  But like anyone that lived in Seattle when Kurt killed himself, I've got my own stories to tell and images to share.  Spending that Friday at Two Bells in Belltown with friends after hearing the news.  Seeing a pile of afternoon Seattle Times issues brought in and passed around.  Hearing how a friend who's office was in the same building as The Rocket had to get out of there as the media frenzy heated up.  Those images are what I'd hang on the walls of the SAM.  And they'd probably look just as stupid.  The personal decontextualized and writ large is doomed to fail.  Time and time again.

Where I sit now is altogether in a different time and mental space.  Maya starts kindergarten tomorrow.  We're going to head out now to do some last school shopping.  That's the show I can't wait to see.  Call me past prime or whatever suits your taste for snark these days.  But know that I'm still looking backward as I focus on what's to come.  It's just that those things in the rearview mirror are no longer closer than they appear.  Thankfully.

"And in conclusion, I'd like to summarize my earlier points on child rearing..."

The best thing about hosting a 5-year-old's Birthday party is looking back, hopefully self-satisfied and unblemished.  That's how we still feel after Saturday's celebration for Maya.  The kid did great.  As did her 18 compatriot guests, plus a few younger humans and a bevy of adults that stuck around.  I'd like to recommend the place where we had the party - Arena Sports in Magnuson Park.  Extra credit points for the name of the park.  But that only pulls the place up to a C-minus.  The kids couldn't care less if a place is horribly dirty and on the brink of condemnation (which this Arena Sports certainly is) so long as they can run wild on the indoor soccer field and massive bouncy gyms (yes, that's a plural).  Some of the parents even got a few swings in at the decrepit pitching machine in the batting cage.  No one injured, no one's feelings even noticeably hurt.  The only thing that sucked was my little thank-you speech to everyone at the end of the party.  Seldom has the internal commentary "am I still talking out loud?" applied so well.  At least I didn't call anyone a chickenplucker or anything close to that.

The other big part of this past week was having my parents visit from Wisconsin.  We hit some things I don't do often enough when I'm not in tour guide mode - browsing through the quietly awesome Nordic Heritage Museum in Ballard, brunch at Lowell's in the Pike Place Market at such a time where we basically had the whole second floor to ourselves (sshhh!), a quick jaunt out to Snoqualmie Falls where the winds were whipping and the observation deck was closed which was actually a more authentic feel than any sort of postcard day.  Plus they got loads of grandparenting time, along with a handful of visits to Maya's Pre-K.  They left tired but satisfied, with us staying behind feeling much the same.

So now the nation turns its focus to what a cranky ol' sumbitch Sen. Jim Bunning (R-KY) is and always has been.  Here's hoping the guy has a grandchild or a few to soften up that mental kidney stone he's waiting to pass.  Hope your own stones do so quietly today.  Rock on.

Seattle sight seeing ain't always this pretty, believe me...

It's one of those afternoons that makes me want to reach around Seattle's waist and squeeze. Wait...that didn't exactly come out right. I'm talking a hug. Because Seattle is so damn cute and fuzzy. And filled with hilarity.

Maya's on a break from her regular gig when it comes to daycare. So we're juggling some fun things - swim lessons, playdates, picking up drifters from down by the Amtrak station for a few hours of reasonably-priced babysitting. Some days give me a bit more time to get things done than normal, some much less. Today's a treat because I got some writing done earlier and now I'm also benefiting from a playdate drop-off so I can run some errands and the like. Included in a mix of things that you'd surely not care to hear about was the need to head down to a music venue near the Pike Place Market to pick up a pair of tix for a show that Sarah and I are overeager to see in October. Yo La Tengo @ the Showbox SoDo. Music geek royalty (reminds me of my all-time favorite Onion story headlined "37 Record-Store Clerks Feared Dead in Yo La Tengo Concert Disaster"). But I went to the ticket office inside the Showbox at the Market because it's closer. Those familiar with that area know it is surrounded by places that are or wish they were as classy as a strip club. Inside the Showbox there was an older rocker dood ahead of me in line with his bike getting single tickets for the following shows - Motorhead, Butthole Surfers, and The Damned. He was about 50. Then there I am. Then this kid, no more than 20, comes in by himself hootin' and hollerin' like he just shot up a village or saw the Indy Five-Hunnerd or won a free trip to Cabo Wabo from a classic rawk station. The old-way-beyond-his twenty-ish years shirt hanger and skinny jeans model behind the counter says without any sarcasm "this isn't a strip club" as nonchalantly as if he'd just said "restrooms are for customers only". Lynyrd Skynyrd didn't take offense, thanked Mr. Hipster kindly and turned on his heels, back into the sunlight with a mission before him. I got my tix minus the ridiculous Ticketmaster mark-up. And the afternoon is still young. Is this a great town or what?

Hope your own clubs are all exclusive yet welcoming today. Rock on.