While doing a massive organization of my wardrobe during the summer of 2012, I realized that I own a ridiculous number of t-shirts, some which I was able to cull without much thought but many that have stories attached - sentimental, funny, creative, unique stories.
So... my goal is to tell the story of one t-shirt per day. Until I run out of t-shirts... or stories.
I saw Frank Black/Black Francis at Malkin Bowl years ago, opening for the Swell Season. It was a dream come true for Glen Hansard who told the story of his very first vinyl purchase, a Pixies 45, which began his love affair with the band, a formative force throughout his own music career. It was touching to witness his awe at sharing a stage with his hero and the collaborative pieces were a lot of fun. Being out in the gorgeousness of Stanley Park, the whole concert was rather surreal in its own immersed-in-music way. When The Pixies added Vancouver to their tour, I bought a couple of tickets; ended up making friends with a woman who just happened to be in Vancouver, was a huge fan & needed a ticket; and added a new layer of alt rock to my musical experiences.
Feels like I've been thinking too hard on these posts this week and I really wanted something light to ring out the year so here we go...
BACK
FRONT
I bought this shirt when Lesley and I went on the Epic Birthday Trip to California mentioned in September.Our VIP tickets included a limited edition shirt red and white baseball-tee-ish shirt but it was of a less solid material than the ones at the merch tables so I bought another.
It was a pretty successful trip by all measures. We found our way there, had a pre-show meal of various appetizers, and enjoyed the kick-ass seats down in the lower bowl. Glee was still in the darling days of its premiere season and this tour was really testing the waters as to how far the fan base was willing to go to be a part of the New Directions adventures.
Some memorable moments included: Lesley getting to high-five the Season 1 leading men, Cory Monteith (Finn) and Mark Salling (Puck) as they came running through the audience; the usherette/dancers dressed as Cheerios and handing out barf bags before the show; and the performance of their cover of Salt 'n' Peppa's "Push It" that wasn't released as a cast recording until the compilation at the end of the season even though it appeared in Episode 2.
This is still my most viewed YouTube video to date
***January 2013 edit***
The bloom had faded from my Glee fervor a long while ago but Season One will always be a fun and positive memory for me. Sadly, Season Two made show loyalty harder to maintain with spotty writing and improbable character twists. Even the music wasn't that good. (Especially in comparison to the Smash premiere season which delivered a more satisfactory story about musical theatre and the people involved in creating a show.) Season Three has been even more silly and unappealing. I have been completely unmotivated to follow Rachel and Kurt to NYC and the fact that most of the graduated class has reappeared in the halls of McKinley makes me paranoid about my own students never moving on beyond high school.
And then, like an unhealthy and worn-out relationship where the partners hold on out of nostalgia until one or both of the partners finally cross the line - physically, mentally, or emotionally - the show-runners of Glee irrevocably lost my support and viewership when they shamelessly ripped off the Jonathon Coulton acoustic cover of Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" in a recent episode. You be the judge:
In fact, with very little effort, you could probably find the sweet spot where these two versions sync up exactly (like a couple of Nickelback songs do) but the undeniable truth is that Glee stole Coulton's arrangement, timing and lyric changes while giving him no credit whatsoever.
So what does Big Butt Revenge look like? Coulton has cheekily covered the Glee cover of his original cover or, as he states on his blog, "which is to say it’s EXACTLY THE SAME as [his] original version" and is donating proceeds from the online purchase to charity. I've bought my copy and I'm considering buying copies for all my friends who have iTunes accounts. Maybe Glee won't notice that I've turned my TV off but hopefully they'll notice that their dishonest version is getting its butt kicked by the JoCo version on the Internet charts.
Yeah, so, maybe not so light a post after all... but better late than never.
I briefly mentioned my disappointment with the musical stage adaptation of Gregory Maguire's book Wicked back in September. (Funny how this week's posts have been referencing previous posts...) What I didn't mention at the time was that the stage production (as seen in London's West End) was also the single best merchandising enterprise EVER. The current online store is still very very good with the selection they offer but the lobby display back in 2007 was truly breathtaking.
Among the offerings, I found this baseball-style tee, a long-sleeved black tee with FLYING MONKEYS up one arm, black filigree wrought-iron jewelery with green Swarovski crystals (the "Elphaba" line), and a "Grimoire" created to document the development of the musical. And that's just some of the stuff I brought home. The music boxes, the witch hat umbrella, the souvenir brooms and stuffed flying monkeys... so much and more that I had to leave behind due to luggage or budgetary limitations.
The "Defy Gravity" message is perhaps the only element of the novel that carried over to the musical in a recognizable form. Elphaba's need to break away from the established order and re-make the world (no matter how she is perceived by the very people she wants to help) drives the plot and might be the only sympathetic note the stage show struck in me.
Personal limitations, our own and those of others, are interesting things to mull over. I was inspired to write this post by my father's annual Christmas letter which showed up in my inbox yesterday. My father is a smart man in many ways - bordering on brilliant when in the field of his expertise - but has never managed to recognize his own limitations. These include most areas of English language mastery - small talk, puns, Christmas letters - and relationships with women in general. From the time I was seven, I was put in charge of editing/proof-reading the Christmas letter. Twenty-five years later, having been a lone satellite household for almost fifteen years, I divested myself of the duty as (it seemed to me) his compositions were actually getting worse and I realized that my altruism had limitations as well that were affecting my health: My bad grammar ulcer twinged (FACT) every time I opened my emails from him. Furthermore, he now had a whole new troupe of English-as-a-First-Language offspring living under his roof who should be putting in their time as proof-readers. Apparently, this duty was and still is beyond their limitations in my father's estimation as the half-sister I contacted hadn't even read the letter before it was sent out.
With a conscious effort at minimal belly-button gazing, my relationship with my father is a primarily nostalgic one. I am his first born and, by that right, I got him when he was young, energetic, and when the world really was limitless. And Mom and him were ALL MINE for YEARS, something I realized recently is truly immeasurable in value. By the time my brother came along, Dad's vision had begun to shrink down to very specific goals and values. It's a sad irony and truth that the bigger his house got, the more his world narrowed. I miss the father I used to dig up the garden with and who taught me to play soccer and swim.
I happily give credit for a lot of my strengths and successes to my father's influence and example... and he would readily accept that credit as his due. In absolute truth, I wouldn't be who I am now if I hadn't been my father's daughter first. But his strongest legacy in me was never an intentional lesson - limitations need to be recognized if they are ever to be overcome. Otherwise, they act as herding influences, gradually eroding one's horizons and aspirations into something cold and tight and unsatisfying.
With a conscious effort at minimal belly-button gazing, my relationship with my father is a primarily nostalgic one. I am his first born and, by that right, I got him when he was young, energetic, and when the world really was limitless. And Mom and him were ALL MINE for YEARS, something I realized recently is truly immeasurable in value. By the time my brother came along, Dad's vision had begun to shrink down to very specific goals and values. It's a sad irony and truth that the bigger his house got, the more his world narrowed. I miss the father I used to dig up the garden with and who taught me to play soccer and swim. 
