I Get It

People have had babies before. But not my people. This is my oldest cousin's first child, my godparents' first grandchild, my grandmother's first great-grandchild. He's the first new baby my extended family has welcomed in fifteen years. He's the first newborn I've held since my own sister was born. He's named for his father - my cousin - who was named for his father, who was named for his father, who was named for his father. End it already, I once thought. I've never been a great upholder of tradition; I prefer, as a matter of general philosophy, to modernize and move on and overthink - never to do things like give names and have babies just because It's What People Do.

But that was before he got here and I saw him. Now, 120 years of William Joseph is exactly exact and perfectly right. The one I grew up with is a role model and a teacher. He used to read books in corners and give me new vocabulary words to learn. I learned them. We're finally and irrevocably grown up.

Deadhead for a Day

This was one of the busiest weeks of the last few months, so I almost skipped the concert last night. I nearly chose in favor of a night on the sofa and whatever was on TBS (probably Legally Blonde, it's always Legally Blonde) just to have some time to myself, finally. But at the last minute, I decided to go along with my friends to see the Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band that aims to recreate the Dead experience by playing exact setlists from bygone decades.

Now, I'm no Deadhead. I certainly have nothing against them - they tend to be nice people, with a very refreshing lack of fashion sense - but I can't claim to be an expert on the music or philosophies of the Grateful Dead. I like some of their songs, but only the upbeat, melodic stuff. Here's a bit of definite blasphemy: fourteen-minute lyric-free jam sessions bore me to tears.*

Even so, I was pretty excited to see this band, you know, for the experience. We arrived into bizarro 1968, everyone in tie-dye with cell phones. There were fans of all kinds - the stereotypical aging hippie, the stereotypical latter-day hippie, and even a fairly sizable group of corporate types in collared, buttoned shirts. (On a Saturday night? At this show? Yeah, I found that disturbing on a few levels.) We wormed our way into a spot right behind the sound guys, a straight shot to the stage, bonus points for the rail to lean against. For the first half of the show, I kept myself amused watching the happy bobbing heads in front of me. There was a guy next to us who would periodically thrust his arm into the air and wail toward the stage, "Jerry! Jerrrrrryyyyy!" Ah, people and their music. It's a beautiful thing.

By the time the band took a break, I was getting cranky. This had already been a long, long show by my standards (I have the attention span of a flea) and in fact it was long, long break, to be followed by, God help me, a long, long second half. I was tired. My feet hurt. My back ached. There were no chairs anywhere. I considered curling up in a corner; I figured this crowd would let me be. But on a trip to the bathroom, my friend ran into someone she knew, who insisted we all come upstairs to the balcony.

Downstairs, it turned out, had been only a light, refined taste of what the Dead experience was supposed to be. Upstairs was the grainy, whole-wheat version. True Deadheads danced around us, their arms and legs flailing indiscriminately, their eyes mostly closed. An old man with a lazy eye and a peg leg charged around the floor like a bull toward the red cape. A few people wandered over to chat, doubly impaired and unintelligable, but seeming to want to enthuse with us over the general excellence of the night, and of the music. One guy asked me how old I was. Twenty-five, I said. His response, one I'd never gotten before: "When Jerry died, you were eight."**

I usually don't (can't) dance unless I've had a couple drinks - which I didn't do - but the beauty of hippie style is that no one cares much for technique. Caught up in the feeling surrounding us, we had all joined in the Slow Flail by the end of the night. I don't know that this show will turn me into a real follower - I'll probably just continue to put "Uncle John's Band" on repeat when I need to relax - but I'm thrilled to say that I was there. I was there, man. It was like going back in time. Just like that, I bet.

*I'm told that they wouldn't, if only I were high. If only!
**Faulty math - I was actually fourteen when Jerry Garcia died. It was 1995. I remember it. A whole bunch of those bear t-shirts showed up around school that year.

Living Here

My bedroom door has become half-disconnected - by which I mean that the top hinge has come unhinged. Or rather, the hinge device itself has come off the wall, so the hinge still works, theoretically, except that it can't do its job as long as the hingy-plate-piece-thingy no longer fastens to anything. (See, this is why I can't be an architect.) Anyway, the door is useless. But that's not the most annoying thing in my life.

That would be this: My new black ballet flats, which are good quality and which I bought for just 50% of their intended price, are well beyond adorable. I've gotten at least one compliment on them at every single wearing. Unfortunately, they cause raging, angry blisters on my hours-long weekend walks around Mount Vernon, my favorite neighborhood in Baltimore. This means that I'm unable to pull off both cute shoes and a jaunty step. I have to choose, as Carrie Bradshaw never did.

I choose the neighborhood. My long walks are the light of my life and that's no exaggeration - think what you will. Mount Vernon is the closest to Europe I feel in Baltimore, and it isn't expensive to get to or bursting with good conversation I can't understand to overhear. This is the season when it's booked solid with markets, festivals, and events. I make the fifteen-minute commute every weekend, as early as 8am if I must. I'll miss none of it.

And that has surprised me very much, my love for Baltimore. Four years ago, I was hoping I wouldn't end up here. I wasn't shocked, though, when I did end up here; I never ever manage to get what I want. But as it turns out, I'm pretty good at wanting what I get. Lately, when I think about following some dream to New York City - or even the much-fantasized-about Europe - it exhausts me. I like it here, where if my shoes don't fit, there's a doorless room full of more comfortable options just up the road.