Like in a Season of the Old Me

Erica told me that Grandaddy is the worst-looking band of all time ever, so of course I had to go see them last week when they played at Liberty Hall. Either my sister has much higher standards, or I've started to find men with beards really appealing, but I didn't think they were all that bad.

Not that I would be so shallow.

Anyway. It's music made in ranch houses, alternating bong hits with Atari games and skateboarding: totally California. If I can't major in Marimekko, I'll go with my California fixation: artifice and nature, Brian Wilson, surfing, Dogtown, Valley Girls, Neutra houses...you get the idea. Oh I almost forgot: The O.C. I love The O.C.

Lawrence always gets my flashback meter out of wack. I've come to the somewhat sad realization that I'm now in the older half of the show-going population. Sometimes I look around concerts and try to find my nineteen-year-old self. The girl with the camera, chronicling the bass player's every move? The girl with the pigtails, chain-smoking? The girl who rushes the stage after the last encore so she can tuck the set list into her vintage handbag? K-10 is always dark and empty, then I always wonder what would happen if I took the exit for Evening Star Road.

It's not California, but it'll do.