Music – Page 5 – Rant and Roll

I’ve never felt this way before

Ladies and gentlemen, do I ever have a treat for all of you!

Feast your eyes and ears on this majesty:

IT’S GUNS ‘N ROSES ON THE GUZHENG.

Holy smokes.

So, in my former life (a when I actually had time to sit down and troll ridiculous things on the interwebs) I used to come across lots of cool and irreverent videos, and enjoy parcelling them out to friends and families in the form of facebook posts or late night e-mails.

(Seriously, I always tell people that I have both an MA in Political Science as well as an MA in YouTube, what with the amount of time I spent surfing this website during my time in grad school.)

Now, I have to get my cool stuff from the radio (re: listening to As it Happens betwixt the hours of six and eight on CBC Radio 1) when I am careening about from one post-work activity to the next.

URG I’M SORRY DUDES.

I totally don’t want to be that girl who just talks about how busy she is all the live long day.

It’s just that I am.

I am so that girl.

And the crazy thing?

Even when I try not to be busy – when I put real effort into streamlining my life, and make a conscious effort to take on less extracurricular activities, it doesn’t seem to make a darn difference.

Not one iota.

In the words of the immortal Liz Lemon: What the what?

How is this even possible?!

Anyways, I’ve had my mini-rant, and I’m not going to mention it again (for at the very least the next week and a half.)

And if I do, it is totally your prerogative to call me on my crap. There are just way too many fantastic, funny, and fundamentally freaky thing going on in the world these days, and I need remember that my exhaustion meter ranks about 0.1 on the importance scale.

Coolcoolcool?

Cool.

So what else has been happening?

Well, Breaking Bad finally ended.

(Finally broke?)

Marc and I watched the series finale last Sunday night, and then spent a good couple of hours dissecting the episode (and the show as a whole – as we were wont to do after the majority of season five episodes.)

Do any of you cats watch the show?

I honestly think it is the best thing I have ever watched in my entire life.

(Yes, even better than The Wire.)

OH YEAH. I SAID IT.

I’ve also been reading a lot of Voltaire and listening to Franz Ferdinand’s newest album on repeat like a maniac.

THAT BAND IS MY VINCE GILLIGAN OF MUSIC.

Phew.

This post is a veritable dog’s breakfast of topics, is it not?

And in that vein, I want to end with a memory:

The year is 1998. I am twelve years old and I am in grade seven. As a newly pubescent human being, I am cognisant of the existence of the male sex, but mostly just think that all the boys in my class are weird, smelly, idiots.

Despite this, I still desperately want all of them to fall in love with me.

The fact that I am approximately seven to ten inches taller than all of them further complicates things.

My favourite outfit consists of a tight long sleeved black shirt that has a red and white stripe running across the chest (a hand-me-down from my older sister), levi blue jeans (!!!) and red Doc Martin boots (purchased after saving up eleven months of my allowance money.)

One spring night, my mum asks me if I want to go see a movie with her.

What movie? I inquire.

Les Miserables, she responds.

Sure, I say. Why not?

We walk to the Varsity movie theatre, just up the street from where we live. We buy popcorn and drink water.

My immediate reaction to the start of the film is that I have never before seen a man like Liam Neeson.

Watching him on the screen makes me feel a weird and shirty.

It’s a sensation I’ve never before felt.

And I kind of like it.

When we leave I try and nonchalantly tell my mum that I think the guy playing Jean Valjean is very handsome.

She nods and agrees with me.

He’s definitely nothing like any of the boys in my class, I think.

And probably taller than me too.

…

So that’s all friends!

Happy Friday to each and every one of you.

I wish for you all the love.

And all the weird, shirty feelings you can handle!

Looking so darn foxy

I’m not sure how many of you out there are acquainted with the amazing hilarity that is “Ylvis”, but for those of you neophytes, I present to you, for your viewing enjoyment – “The Fox”

I first got to know Ylvis a couple of years ago, when my rad chum Adelle played me their music video for their song “Stonehenge.”

(They like to keep their titles short, and very much to the point.)

We were at work, eating lunch together. It was one of those nondescript Vancouver winter days where everything seems grim – the sky, sea, and city all somehow meld together into one grey, gargantuan mass, and everything just feels damp. We had made plans to go out for lunch, but due to an onslaught of thick fog-like rain, and the accompanying on-set of general mid-week malaise, we decided to forgo venturing outside and just ate in my office.

After we polished off our food, we puttered about online, showing each other the latest viral videos that were tickling our funny bones.

It was at this point that Adelle turned to me and asked, “Do you…do you know Ylvis?”

“EEL-VIS!?” I asked. “You meanlike Elvis!?”

Adelle burst out laughing.

She has this incredible way of going from completely expressionless to gut-busting laughter in under a second.

It really is amazing to behold.

“Yes…Ylvis…” She managed to squeak out in between laughs. “They’re a Norweigan group.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Norwegian!? Like, Norway’s version of Elvis?!”I was trying desperately to figure out what that may both look and sound like.

Also, one thing you should all know about Adelle is that she really loves Michael Bublé, so I just assumed that whoever she was talking about was just the Scandinavian equivalent of Canada’s own lounge crooner extraordinaire.

“Not really,” she answered. “They’re more like Josh Groban. But funny.”

This I just had to see.

So together we watched Stonehenge.

And boy was she ever right.

These dudes can both carry and tune and bust a gut.

(Although I really need to specify for reasons silly enough that I’m really not that big of a fan of the J. Grobes. I think he’s a cool dude, and his Twitter feed is hilarious, but that music – phew. Not my bag AT ALL.)

Ylvis on the other hand – Ylvis I can enjoy.

Plus, now I really, really want to know: WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?

Straight, no chaser

I don’t know about you guys, but lately I have been listening to all of the jazz.

And believe me when I say ALL OF IT.

There’s just something about the start of fall that makes me want to cuddle up in bed, crack open a really great book and listen to some Lee Morgan until my eyelids droop, and my breathing falls slow and steady.

I want to herald my dreamscape with these fantastical riffs, these trumpet strains.

It’s funny.

I have such a strong memory of this exact same scenario being played out, over and over again by my mum, most nights growing up.

As we kids wound down and slowly adopted the more melodic (and ultimately less manic) postures of the late-night, I can see her so clearly: her in her nightie, washing her face, slathering her skin in moisturizing cream, and puttering about her bedroom to the soft and oh-so cool musical stylings of Thelonious Monk, or Cole Porter, or Quincy Jones.

Sometimes she’d say something like, “I just love this music.”

Other times, she would just close her eyes and sway to the melody.

CBC (the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) has a number of fabulous jazz programs, and they will be forever married to these memories.

As we chatted about our days, my sports-teams gossip, and her work drama, we’d let the notes dance about us, almost like invisible fireflies, lighting up the night.

It was nice.

It was a nice way to unwind.

As much as I loved those evenings, I never really thought much about jazz as a teenager.

It’s not that I didn’t like it – it was just in the grand scheme of music, there was always something pop-ier, or rock-ier ready to take its place.

In the teenage canon of cool, there’s not much room for Benny Golson.

Much like the sky, or the natural scenery beholden to Vancouver, the beauty of jazz was one I took for granted.

It was just there.

I didn’t need to appreciate it, because it was a part of my everyday life.

Now, I sit at my computer and am practically moved to tears listening to these incredible tunes, these notable notes.

They make me imagine Parisian streets, lit up by a watery moon; cobblestone alleys, flecked with raindrops, and lovers sighs.

They make me imagine red dresses, and strappy heels; an empty café with a lone couple, dancing cheek to cheek. The sweet scent of candle wax, espresso, and wine, hanging in the air.

They make me imagine.

Sometimes I feel as though I was born with the capacity to feel too much.

Everything – every word, every song, every glace; every thought, every sound, every jest seems to rush through me, straight to my heart.

I think too much, I worry too much, I care too much. I am incapable of divorcing myself from my work, my loves, my passions, my friends,

My family.

Everything and all that they are, I pack tightly inside of myself, and work desperately to make sure they are kept safe.

Kept pristine.

Serene.

When I sit here, and I listen to this music – this fabulous noise, these perfect sounds, I can feel my chest swell.

I can feel myself expand, feel these worlds rushing out; I watch as all this love that lives inside me is unleashed, and I relive this memory.

Reliving it as though it happened yesterday.

And it hurts so much, because I want to be back there.

I want to be sitting in that bedroom, listening to Quincy Jones.

I want to feel my mum’s hand in mine, the soft fabric of her sheets on the backs of my legs.

I want to look outside of her window and see the glow of our neighbours lights; hear the patter of the rain on our roof.

I want to listen to the jazz without thinking about listening to jazz.

I just want to listen to jazz.

Are you running for women’s rights? The environment?

Howdy dudes!

Well, the Scotiabank Half-marathon went down yesterday, and overall?

NOT BAD.

I finished with a 1:33 and placed 7^th in my age group. Now while this is slower than I had initially hoped for, I think for the amount of time I actually put into my training, it is more than respectable.

Because, folks, that sub-1:30 time may have been a bit of a pipe dream.

Do you any of you other runner-peeps do stuff like that? Just assume that you should just be able to do something, without really thinking about what actually goes into achieving it?

I mean, thinking back to the Sunshine Coast half in April, I trained my butt off for that run, and it paid off – I ran a PB of 1:31.

And somehow, the outcome of that achievement was the (erroneous) expectation that come the next race I would just, well, run faster. Without putting in the proper work.

How silly can a gal be?

What it has made me come to realize is that while I can proclaim that “next time gadget, it WILL be mine!”

I just need to make sure I go for, you know, more than six or so runs to ensure it happens.

Anyways, I don’t mean to be making excuses for myself, it’s just something that I was really thinking about during and after my run, and speaking of which – IT’S RECAP TIME!

Sunday morning broke beautiful. I woke to the sunny, blue sky, freckled with the odd cloud. At 5:15am I was feeling well rested and excited.

I put the coffee maker on, and then washed my face, put my hair up, and slathered on a good layer of sunscreen.

I read a bit while I ate my breakfast – banana with peanut butter, piece of plain toast, cup of coffee, and two large glasses of water – before going upstairs at 6:00 to wake up Marc.

I cannot seem to say it enough, but seriously, he is SUCH a good husband. For all of my runs, he’s up with me, driving me to the start gate, and meeting me at the finish line. I know he’s super happy to come out and cheer me on, but he told me today that my speediness on the courses definitely helps. This cracked me up.

I LOVE HIM, TRULY.

He dropped me off at the start line at UBC around 7:00. My immediate thought was to find a bathroom, for one last pee break. My one note for the organizers is that there were not NEARLY enough port-a-potties. The line-ups for the facilities were monstrous, even with a little subterfuge on my part, I barely made it out before the firing of the start gun.

Anxiety – it’ll get you going!

Because of the long bathroom waits, I didn’t get to start as close to the start line as I would have liked, which meant that for the first 2 – 2.5 km I was bobbing and weaving in and out of people like Cassius Clay. At kilometer three, my attention briefly switched from finding my spot amongst all the runners to the AMAZING tuba band playing at the side of the course.

They were playing My Sharona.

ON THE TUBA.

I cannot really begin to describe just how epically amazing this was.

All in all, over the first 5k I was feeling pretty good – my strides were long, and my breathing quiet.

Up until I reached the six kilometer mark, and encountered five young men, each holding up signs with Forrest Gump quotes. Normally when I am running, I don’t respond much to supporters on the sidelines. I mean, they really pump me up, but I try not to channel my energy away from concentrating on the mechanics of my run.

However, if you know me, you know that I love this movie, and can pretty much quote the entire film at length.

I couldn’t help myself. As I ran past a guy with a sign that said, “RUN FORREST RUN!” I turned and yelled at him, “I GOTTA FIND BUBBAAAAA!”

He burst out laughing, and yelled right back, “JENNNNNNNNAAAAYYYY!”

I was past him by then, but I raised my hand and gave him the peace sign.

NOW. While this was all well and good (and hilarious, and I loved it) yelling out that quote really winded me, and it look me probably 1.5 km to get my stuff – breathing, stride, etc. – back in order.

“No more funny stuff Vanessa,” I told myself.

Running down the hill to Jericho beach I felt like I was flying. My mood was boosted even further when to my surprise, we ran past a bagpipe band at one of the parking lots, just up the road from Spanish Banks.

My “no funny stuff” plan was going absolutely great until about kilometer 10, when, down at the beach, I ran past two course photographers and without really thinking, I just catapulted myself into the air, and made the craziest, happiest face I could possibly muster.

The two of them laughed and thanked me for a great shot.

Great shot maybe, but that second burst of energy only served to zap me all over again.

Then I saw the split times at 10.5 km.

41 minutes.

41 minutes!? Holy Dinah, I was moving, and most definitely too quick at that.

I told myself not to think about it, and just concentrate on moving as it felt comfortable. As soon as the pace started to hurt, I made sure to adjust accordingly.

Around kilometer thirteen, I zoned in on a few women who were running ahead of me, and made a point of trying to keep them in my sights.

I cannot lie, it was over the next three km that things really began to hurt. I could feel blisters forming on both of my feet, and overall, I just felt tired.

I tried to keep my strides as short and quick as I could, especially with every uphill (no matter how minor) I encountered.

At kilometre fifteen a young woman spectator yelled out, “I love Big Sisters too!” in response to my shirt. This definitely served to lift my spirits and put a bit of a spring back in my step.

Unfortunately, this pep was relatively short lived, and even just trying to grab water at the seventeen km station was difficult.

I felt like my arm was moving in molasses and I had to really slow down to make sure I even managed to grab the cup.

From there, all I could think about was getting over the bridge and getting to the finish line.

It’s strange. I love running. I LOVE it. But there are times, I tell you, when I cannot understand what the heck it was that compelled me to take part in this absolutely bonkers pastime, and everything in my being is shouting at me to just STOP.

STOP RUNNING.

Walk. Go lie down in that cool looking grass. Make this madness end.

But somehow, I just keep trucking.

I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Amazingly, once I got to kilometre nineteen, things started to actually fall back into place. Nineteen to twenty flashed by, and that very last kilometer, although painful, was over before I knew it.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw the timer as I pulled into the finish line.

There was no way I was going to pull off a sub-1:30 with the pace I had held for the second half of the race.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

Marc was there, cheering me on.

I received a lovely medal, and all the water, bananas, cookies, and yogurt that I could get my hands on.

And I raised $1,165.00 for Big Sisters, an organization that is near, and dear to my heart.

So while I chase the ever-elusive personal best, today I will sit on the couch, drink some chocolate soy milk, and enjoy.

The nostalgia is strong with this one

Happy Friday you fab chaps!

Okay, first things first.

Can we all agree on the absolute awesomeness of this song?

I actually cannot stop listening to it. All this writing about my teenage years must have flipped a switch somewhere deep inside of me, because I have been rocking out to all the sweet tunes from yesteryear ALL THE LIVE-LONG DAY.

Now, if someone could just pass me my flared jeans and mini backpack, I’ll be off to get us some brown lipstick and giant silver hair clips.

OH BABY.

Secondly, look what I purchased last night:

I cannot even remember the last time I had Popsicle sticks! I will be making these delicious, frozen noms all summer long.

I don’t know about you all, but I am much more a fan of the yogurt pop, than the traditional juice based treat, but I’m open to any tasty suggestions you might have when it comes to the art of the Popsicle.

HIT ME UP YO!

Finally, things are just racing by, I’m having a hard time catching my breath or keeping my balance.

I went for a short run today after work, the first since my race this past weekend.

I felt great – my legs felt strong and my cardio easy. The only tiredness I experienced was just every-day, normal, “I woke up at six and worked all day before strapping on my runners” fatigue.

Speaking of flipped switches, the weather these past few days has been so unbelievably beautiful. I can smell spring in the air, and feeling the warmth of the sun on my winter-kissed limbs is a joy of which I will never, ever tire.

Tonight I am doing a show downtown, and then it is off to fete my brilliant friend Emily of Well Fed, Flat Broke on her spectacular thirty years on this great big ball of green and blue.

I am also hoping that Marc and I will have a chance to go see Jurassic Park this weekend, as well as have ample time to run about outside, like the two sun-starved children that we are.

Barbeques may also be included.

I cannot wait.

What is on all your agendas for the next two days?

I hope that whatever it is, the sweet spring sun will be shinning down on all of you.