Browsing all posts in "travel"

the best game i can name

From the Not A Personal Blog And Yet files, I went to the Winter Olympics earlier this year. I really only remember moments; here are a few of them.

I remember dueling national anthems on the skytrain, being worried the Richmond Olympic Oval was going to come down around me when a Canadian won gold, the crepe stand in Yaletown, the appalled look on Sam’s face whenever I said something so utterly preposterous that the only thing there was to say was “oh my GOD” (I did this often, and mostly on purpose). The dude in line at Ontario house who called a friend and said, “well, there’s an American in this line, but she’s okay.” More cowbell. The kid on his bike with a Canadian flag cape flapping behind him. Looking at my hands, realizing they were swollen and discolored and covered in sores, but twittering something about frostbite before I put on my gloves. The running commentary on the nordic combined team event, provided by American skier Todd Lodwick, standing about six inches away. Being in BC Place for a medal ceremony, thinking it was reasonably loud and awesome when they played the American anthem for Shaun White’s gold, and then standing in awestruck silence as 20,000 people sang ‘O Canada’ and proved me wrong. Wondering how more bobsled people don’t die, because it is fucking terrifying. More cowbell. Sam’s cheerful, “good hustle, team!” as the three of us (her, me, The Dart), hating the world and the mornings in particular, stumbled out of the house at 7am to make it to curling. Freezing once we got there. Feeling like my life depended on how hard I cheered for Canada in the first USA-Canada hockey game, and hoping Gabs did not get us all killed by cheering too loudly for America. Fleeing the premises when the US got that empty-net goal. More cowbell, more cowbell, more cowbell. People on the skytrain platform cheering QUATCHI QUATCHI QUATCHI as I walked by, a giant stuffed Quatchi doll strapped to my back. “Pam, we’re never going to get out of here if you stop to flirt with every Mountie between here and the door.” The sky on that last Sunday, clear blue and beautiful when Canada won that gold in hockey, and there were kids on every street corner draped in maple leaves and cheering; people on their porches waving the flag; cars honking at each other as they passed, cowbells hanging out the windows; pedestrians waving and smiling and dancing; lines of high-fives with strangers as I waded through downtown to get to the airport; the Hip on my ipod playing Fireworks (if there’s a goal that everyone remembers…); grinning at people till my face hurt; laughing, laughing, laughing.

That is all.

you’ll be serving the song

This isn’t a personal blog, so I don’t really say much about what I’m up to, but I found a few pictures from the Amsterdam concert I went to last week. And I am actually in one of them! I always appreciate photographic evidence that I’m not making up my entire life.

These photos on flickr, by Henk Ritskes, are all really good, but here are the two I actually care about.

This is early in the show, and nothing is going on right there, so it’s pretty calm. Just over the watermark, you can see my face right at Gord’s feet, my arms on the stage, looking up. I’m not kneeling; I’m on my toes. I look like I’m about eight years old. I didn’t feel like it at the time, but I look ridiculously tiny in that photograph. Note that I’m surrounded by guys who are all much, much bigger than I am.

This is the closing song (‘Blow at High Dough,’ for those of you who care about such things), a shot of the same area of the pit, and it’s pretty easy to imagine me curled against the stage, trying to protect my head but mostly just getting kicked around as the crowd presses in. It wasn’t a 90s-style NIN pit or anything (I was in those, too, and came out hurting), but it got pretty rough for me. But note that I am not complaining! I’m small and by myself and deserve what I get for standing there. I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, okay, maybe I would have had a little less beer dumped down my back.

There was a moment in this show, during ‘Locked in the Trunk of a Car,’ which starts off a little slow, a little quiet, and the room was mostly dark. And then the lights flashed on, bright glaring white shot through with smoke, and the drums kicked in, low and heavy and driving, and I looked to my left and the pit was this huge writhing mass, and people were hanging over the rail of the balconies, and it went up and back and on forever, alive. I thought, “yes,” and then I didn’t think anymore for a long time.

And that is pretty much what I have to say.