There are so many thank you‘s to give out this year, and don’t have a lot of time to get them all straight before my final post is due. I, we, obviously owe a great deal of thanx to Cat Connor and the rest of the official Blogathon team for getting us to and through this point with hardly any significant technical difficulties – not to mention an excess of enthusiasm and cheer. Cat went above and beyond her call of duty by sponsoring me back when it looked as though i might not even make the ‘thon cutoff, and for that i am very grateful. Which naturally leads us to my sponsors: Cat, Rabi, Tony, Courtney, Dave, Tom, Alayna-Renee, Maggie, Amy, and my roommate Kate. In my mind sponsoring someone for blogathon not only includes a donation to a sympathetic charity but also a vote of confidence that the sponsoree will work to the best of their ability for an entire 24hours to create new and worthwhile content. Knowing that the eyes of my sponsors were on me i couldn’t help but want to do my very utmost to show that i’m serious about this event.
I can hardly forget the people who kept me awake, especially Lynne & Benjy, who definitely spent a lot more time talking to me than anyone should ever have to. Next, there are the people who physically showed up to put in time on this project. Lindsay – who is one of the most talented people i have ever known (and a hilarious co-worker); Kate – who brought me humor, granola bars, and support … all unconditionally; Elise – who really shouldn’t have even put up with my sleepless wackiness as much as she did (and whom i will commence cuddling with very shortly); Gina – who continues to inspire and amaze me with every note she exudes; Jack – whose humor and grace at being rescheduled paid off in finally recording one of my all-time favorite songs; Karen and her bemused patience at my insanity over the entire event; and Dante – who didn’t even get to play on all the songs he could have added his talents to.
My final thank you is simple: thank you for listening. It doesn’t really feel like it, but i’ve been playing my heart out now for more than just a couple of years, and today i think my music might have traveled farther than ever before. Thank you for humoring me, and for being patient with me, and for spending your time and bandwidth on me; it means more than i can sing, strum, or even plainly say.
aim
Three links that you’ve seen before.
But, if Amy is my journalism Yoda, doesn’t that make me Ewan McGregor? I’m so confused.
And, now, for another episode of Writer’s Block Theatre.
When we last left our hero, he was awaiting a response to his record reviews with bated breath. Would he finally get to write for an honest to goodness newspaper? We pick up shortly after Peter receives the paper’s reply as we fade up from black. Though he was initially joyous at their friendly invitation of “Welcome Aboard,” over the course of the day he realizes that the congratulatory email has delivered him the worst possible news – his new editor is more interested in what he feels about records than what he thinks, and is hopeful that he will revise his reviews to this effect.
Peter stammers as he recoils in fright from this newly transformed message. “But… but… feelings are the root of all bad record reviews!,” he exclaims as he slowly backs away from the screen. “I’ve spent years detaching myself from new records so i can offer tidy unbiased opinions of them. Saying that any record i own by someone other than Ani or Tori makes me feel anything is an utter lie! I’ve reduced reviewing music to science!”
“Is that so?”
A voice rises from behind him; Peter whirls as though he’s being confronted by another of his worst fears only to find Amy sitting on his guitar amp nonchalantly leafing through a Rolling Stone. He opens his mouth to speak, but she silences him with a wilting glance.
“How you feel will influence anything you write, Peter, so you can just come down from the damned pedestal and write with some feeling for the benefit of all of us people who don’t consider each cd purchase a new child.”
Temporarily ignoring the implication that he would feel the need to be scientifically detached from all of his children so that none would feel more liked than the next, Peter madly gestures back towards the screen. “But, Aim, feelings? Why should someone buy a record based on how i feel? They don’t even know me!.”
Amy fixes Peter with a cool glare from over a two-page spread of Ewan McGregor. “Peter, are they really compromising your journalistic morals here, or is it a possibility that you’re so excited about this job that you just have cold feet.”
Peter’s only reply is silence.
“Well?”
“Erm… possibly mildly chilled feet.”
Amy nods to herself. “Just as i thought,” her face is buried in the magazine before the next sentence escapes her lips, “now get to writing.”
His moral quandary solved by the quick wit of his friend, Peter is again faced with the computer screen — now sinisterly blank white as it awaits his feelings about the Wilco record. Slowly, he approaches the keyboard.
(Cut to black, commercial airs while Peter frantically tries to decide if he honestly feels anything about Yankee Foxtrot Hotel)
Sometimes it seems as though everyone i know reads Henry’s Diary on a semi-regular basis, and today Aim beat me to the punch and had to break the news to me. Far be it from me to insert myself into other people’s personal lives that i know nothing about via the internet, but i would trade in a whole heap of my personal good karma if it could help the situation between Mike & Tracey. I was just a little younger than Henry when my parents separated, and my only memory of my father living with me is him standing on our steps screaming something. I think it might have been the day he left. I’ve already made my feelings pretty clear on how amazing i think Mike is for creating the Diary, and i just don’t want to believe that the idyllic little Californian world i had conjured in my head for Henry is now going to be irrevocably changed with only a website to act in the place of memories that will slowly trickle away from Henry as the years go on.
Right. So much for not inserting myself.