'Touched'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
My first concert was Little River Band. Out-70s-THAT!!
Oh, and I agreed to accompany my dad to see the Kingston Trio in May, since no one else he knows likes them except me (but I'm guessing that the Golden Oldies tour won't be as good as their classic '50s recordings). Dad indoctrinated us in 50s Folk Groups at a young age, and I'm the only one of my siblings whom it stuck with.
My first concert was Sandy Patti. But my first "real" concert was Def Leppard with Queensryche opening.
My second concert was Dead Milkmen at the Hub Ballroom.
Stage prints in my gut for a week! Blood on my shirt that wasn't mine! Being within smelling distance! It was awesome.
Ignoring the part where, technically, that's where I met Psycho Ex 1.0, even though we lost touch and didn't actually get together until about four years later when we ran into each other again.
Keeping it real, Kristin.
Isaac loves rockets so I call him my Rocket Boy. Somewhere along the line this led, inevitably, to me singing "Rocket Boy" to him. Which of course led to him singing it.
First, because I know you love Wicked, watch that Firefly vid linked to in, umm, Minearverse, I think. (If you can. Do you have headphones if you share an office?)
My computer speakers don't work. I do have headphones, but I've not watched that vid yet because I fear I am in the sort of hormonal cranky mood that tips easily into crying, especially during songs like "Defying Gravity".
... I think I've forgotten how to edit developer content. Fuck. This does not Bode Well for Job Productivity.
My first concert was probably Fishbone. Might've been Violent Femmes.
I think I've forgotten how to edit developer content.
I take it the croquet mallet won't cut it?
Oh Teppy, I'm sorry.
Vibing hard for Steph's dad.
My first concert was Talking Heads. Same tour that STOP MAKING SENSE was filmed from (their last). It was Awsome.
I had an assistant manager at Waldenbooks who had the best Talking Heads concert story. It was about a year or so before they hit it big nationwide, so they were still playing at assorted small venues in Chicago when they came to town. Connie saw them, loved them, and then was invited to come along when they decided to go bar-hopping, mostly because Tina Weymouth desperately wanted another woman to party with. She said they were (mostly) really cool, but David Byrne was a bit of a dick.
Damn, Tep, another?
Well, he hasn't been feeling well since heart attack #5, in November. He feels like there was a blockage -- or something -- from back then that was never dealt with. And, frankly, by this point in his life, he knows his cardiac symptoms well enough that I'm inclined to believe him.
He said he feels worse than he has in about 5 years, and given that he's Mr. Massively Stoic, the fact that he's remarking on how bad he feels is kind of worrisome.
I'm sure he'll be fine, but all week I haven't been able to shake thoughts of gloom, doom, and death. I can't get my rational brain to make my jittery nerves shut up.
And then I feel like a bad daughter for resenting the fact that I have to go to the hospital after work to see how he's doing. But I do. I just want to go home, crawl under the covers, and not come out until April.