As I was saying, I’m busy September 22, 2010 because I’m going to see Pavement.

Ok. Background.

Please forgive me if I’ve told this rather un-climatic story before, either on this blog, or when we were hanging out and I was telling you about the more ridiculous moments in my young life, when, not only did I think I was really awesome, but you wanna know what? Maybe I was really awesome.

We were at this party. I don’t remember what year this was, but it was some point during my time at Boston University, and I’m guessing - due to the nature of the conversation I am about to relate - that we were in Allston or Brighton, student-heavy residential areas a little west of the main campus, where the bars were plentiful and the housing less expensive. It’s where the cool kids lived and partied and then went out for breakfast in an post-drunk-or-maybe-a-little-still-drunk stupor.

Anyway, I was at this party and let’s just imagine, for the sake of visualization, that I was wearing some corduroys I’d bought at the thrift store. And I’m getting a beer or something in the kitchen and I overheard some people talking about Pavement. Well, wouldn’t you know, I was a Pavement fan! I don’t know who’d gotten me into them…the always influential Matt Barbee and his mixed tapes, or maybe my brother, but no matter, I was a fan, and if there was one thing I knew as sure as I loved college parties was that it was really, really radical to a) know who Pavement was and b) be a fan.

I mean, it’s not like Pavement is some super-unknown band; they’re really well known in the world of indie rock, in fact. But for a young twenty-something, making her way at a large and diverse university, knowing about Pavement was, at certain parties, a good way of singling out the other music lovers. And then what you’d do is talk about the albums.

So I get in on the conversation and I’m talking to this girl who’s leaning against the door and is all “You like Pavement?” and I’m like “Yeah,” and we’re sort of drunk and life IS RADICAL. And she’s all, “Well, you know what their best album is, right? It’s ‘Wowee Zowee.’”

Now, people, everyone says that “Wowee Zowee” is the best Pavement album and I don’t know why. It’s full of short, weird little songs and I think the reason people say it’s their favorite is because liking Pavement isn’t unique enough and they want to try and be a little edgier. That’s just what I think, I can’t help it.

I countered that my favorite album was “Slanted and Enchanted,” which actually isn’t true anymore, but at the time, you know what? I wasn’t gonna follow all the “Wowee Zowee” lemmings. The two of us really got into it then, talking about the specifics of certain songs in sort of deranged, youthful analysis that I’m not even capable of anymore. Others joined the conversation and I semi-abandoned the people I’d come with. I’d become the cool girl who came to the party who loved Pavement, when I could have been a just another guest. A minor event, yes, but in the history of my musical past, a very nice memory.

So when my friend Jennifer called me the other day to announce that Pavement (the band sadly disbanded several years ago) was getting together for a reunion tour, and then found out that a few tickets would be going on sale early, there was simply no question, we had to get them. So we went online while on the phone to each other, like over excited seventh graders (if the Internet had existed in the way it does now when we were 13) and waited until the appointed hour and we got those tickets. Because it’s Pavement, and my love has never waned. I hope they play “Summer Babe.” And I know it will rock.

We’re having a little Internet situation at our house so this isn’t exactly going to be a proper blog post. Something’s amiss with our connection so right now I’m, um, borrowing from someone. It’s not exactly a surefire way to stay online. Yeah, I know, I could write in Word and then paste the entry during one of the 30-second-intervals I’m on, but I don’t know, that seems desperate. And my posting every day for three weeks wasn’t a desperation thing.

I’m kind of bummed because I was really excited to write about Pavement tonight. Pavement the band, who I am going to see when they go on their reunion tour in slightly less than one year. Slightly less than one year, guys! Is it too soon to say I can’t wait? It might be a little soon. OR NOT! More tomorrow.

From my couch.

Tonight.

Glass of red wine in hand.

“The Hills” premiere.

Will Lauren be missed? Will Kristin bring the drama?

Commence the discussion.

And follow me later.

I read in “Us Weekly” the other day that Jon Gosselin was at some after party for the Emmys. What? What’s he doing at any after party, Emmys-related or otherwise? Jon Gosselin! I thought you said you hated the press. Don’t you remember? Why are you suddenly big news in the gossip mags? And why do I read it so fervently?

BrickBreaker is awesome. IT IS AWESOME.

I give up. I read mysteries. I love them and I don’t want to read anything else. And you want to know why that’s ok? Because I did my time with the great works of literature. When I was a teenager I stayed up all night reading Thomas Wolfe and John Steinbeck novels like they were crack cocaine for the soul. And when I read “The Sorrows of Young Werther,” I underlined pretty much the whole book, thinking, every five seconds, “That is exactly how I feel, that’s just how I feel!!!”

I also want to read the new Dan Brown novel like you wouldn’t believe. I heard you can buy it in the grocery store.

Speaking of BrickBreaker, Nora practically had a nervous breakdown when I wouldn’t give her my BlackBerry today. It was one of those parenting situations where I tried to do the right thing in not giving it to her, thinking, “This kid has to learn that she can’t have whatever she wants whenever she wants it.” Then her little face crumpled and she let loose one of those cries that consists of a huge sucking in of breath and then “WawawawaWAAAAAAAAAAAH.” But don’t feel sorry for the little one just yet because guess what. She’s a faker. And it worked. I gave her my BlackBerry and the “crying” immediately ceased, replaced by the smug, ultra-serious look she adopts when she is emailing all her business associates or whatever she does with that thing.

You are good people who want to promote independent, creative projects. If you weren’t that kind of people, I wouldn’t adore you the way I do.

My best friend Jennifer (do you guys want me to post a picture of us in our first communion gowns when we were six, to prove to you the history and depth of our friendship? Because I will) is currently producing a film in New York City, but the project NEEDS YOUR HELP. Come on, everybody, let’s help the brilliant and talented women behind “Maria My Love.” Here’s a paragraph about the film (that I stole directly from their Web site and I hope it doesn’t get me into copyright trouble), which is based on a true story:

MARIA MY LOVE is about a 22 year-old woman who, in an effort to recover from the death of her mother to cancer, sets out on a quest to help people but winds up encountering situations more emotionally and morally complicated than she had expected to find.

You guys are totally intrigued. I can tell. So learn more on the project’s Kickstarter site by watching a video and reading a synopsis of the film. The minimum donation is $10. T-E-N bucks! Give ‘em 10! Give ‘em a thousand! Or, you know, do what you can.

Dear Mike,

Hi! How’s it going? How’s Chapel Hill? We miss it there. And we miss you and Jess.

Mike, you know what? I’ve always appreciated that we tend to have the same taste in certain things. In fact, we often hate the same things, which is kinda neat. Like non-useful hippies. And music! There is so much music that we both hate! The Decemberists. The Goddamn Fleet Foxes.

I trust your judgment. I mean, The Twilight Singers show at Cat’s Cradle? That was seriously incredible, and I’d never even listened to them before. One of the most memorable concerts I ever attended in North Carolina, Mike.

And remember when we went to see LCD Soundsystem? That was radical.

So when I was filling up my iPod for a recent road trip, looking at the albums J had most recently uploaded onto our desktop, I saw this artist called SND, and I was like, “Hey J, what’s SND?” and he went on to describe it as something like “minimal blip hop” or “blip bop” or “blip rock” or something - I don’t really remember if you want to know the truth - and then he said, “It’s Mike Swimm’s favorite album of the year!” and I thought, “Ok, could be promising.”

We don’t agree on everything, Mike, like I think I remember you once saying that New Order would have been a better band if there hadn’t been any singing, and I don’t agree with you there, but like I said, I trust your judgment. Therefore, I thought maybe SND’s album, which is called “Atavism” would be full of subtle, wordless songs that I could at least appreciate, meanwhile expanding my musical purview. Score!

I was pumped for this road trip. For the first time in a long time I was getting into new music and it was exciting. I put my iPod on “shuffle songs” and just let it go. Everything sounded so incredible and new.

That is, until this one song came on. Or maybe “song” is the wrong word. Maybe “piece” would be a better way to describe what SND (what the hell does SND stand for anyway?) is trying to do.

Mike, I know you like minimal blip blop or whatever, but come on.

MIKE.

COME.

ON!

Those SND tracks, that are, by the way, creatively titled “1,” “2,” “3″ and so on, they sound like, well, like someone gently tapping a metal hanger against the hood of a car. But more boring. I’m going to admit something here, and that is that I didn’t listen to any entire SND songs. The most I listened to was one full minute of one song and I had to force myself. You know why I had to force myself? Because SND makes music that sounds like this: duh duh duh duh duh dum dum duh duh duh duh duh dum dum dahdum, real quiet. And then the song’s over.

Ok, fine, maybe I’m not the right target audience or something. For instance, I’m the kind of person who likes Van Morrison, and I think, by law, that people who like musicians such as Van Morrison can’t like music devoid of all emotion. That was probably made by a guy dressed in black, sitting in front of a sound board, smoking a cigarette, reading “The Stranger.”

It’s ok, though. I don’t get it, but it’s ok. We’re still friends and we can agree to disagree on this one point. Different strokes for different folks, huh? That’s what makes the world an interesting place. I mean, you’re crazy. But life is awesome!

I hope everything is going well and we should plan a get together.

See you soon!

Cara

PS - I tried the Penne a la Vodka recipe from The Silver Spoon cookbook and, you’re right, it’s amazing.

We were in New York City a few weeks ago, having lunch with my parents who were in town, and everyone was having an engaging discussion about O. Henry’s short stories, when I looked across the table to where Nora was sitting and said, “Does the baby need more bananas? More bananas?”

“What happened to you? You don’t like anything,” my brother, Vinnie, all but shouted. “Anything that is remotely intellectual, you don’t have time for.” I laughed, because he’s right. As I mentioned in another post, my capacity for anything beyond the morning news - or the celebrity news - has faded in recent months. While I used to love philosophical, literature-infused banter, I now sit out such sessions.

Before I continue, I want to note that I’m not worried for my soul or anything. I mean, I like myself. I don’t think my intelligence is in jeopardy; I’m lost without a good book, and while I do devour mysteries from time to time, I never read trash.

But Vinnie’s right. Something happened. And one of the areas where my interest has faded is music, and that’s what I want to address in this post.

I used to be SO INTO music.

Now, I listen to NPR and podcasts (talk only) and when I get tired of NPR and podcasts and think it might be nice to listen to music, I end up choosing not to listen to music, because I don’t like anything enough to muster the energy and deviate from the norm.

I think some of this is because of the natural progression of age, which no one should be ashamed of. For instance, it’s not a bad thing that I don’t shun money and material goods anymore. It’s not a bad thing that I don’t burn incense.

And, I mean, I’m probably not going to listen to full Bob Dylan albums and think about how I wish I had been a child of the sixties. That’s just not going to happen at this age. But I would like to regain some aspect of what was once a real passion.

I used to browse the aisles in Alexandria local music store Olson’s (sadly no longer open) looking for good, new music. Just looking! Open to anything! I used to listen to the music on display. That’s how I got into bands like Uncle Tupelo. The simple act of discovery.

My friend Matt used to make me mixed tapes full of everything from hippie bands like Jefferson Airplane to offbeat modern-day acts like Jim White, which I still love. I used to put them in the tape deck and just listen. I’d give Matt feedback. He’d make more tapes. We talked about music for hours. For hours.

In college I went through a definite Bob Dylan (still an all time favorite) and Grateful Dead (Kill me now. I will never voluntarily listen to a drugged-out 45 minute jam session again) stage. Then I started more vigorously plucking my eyebrows and moved on. I listened to Pavement and Blur with my friend Mary. When I was a senior I bought a Yo La Tengo CD on my brother’s suggestion, listened to it, and fell in sudden, for-real, true love. I continued to pick up bands from other mixes, like-minded friends’ suggestions. Wilco. Spoon. Belle and Sebastian. Grandaddy. I read Pitchfork and went to lots of shows.

So.

What happened?

What happened was, slowly, surely - and I’m not blaming anyone but myself here - I gave up the reins. I met J (we talked music on that fateful night) and he was into music, too. We became an item and I stopped looking for good sources of new bands, because he was my source. I gave up, NPR became my go-to background “music” and I filled up my iPod with several comforting tunes and a bunch of podcasts. When J would play something for me in the car, my normal, bored response would be something like, “It’s not my favorite,” or “I hate it,” or, the best case scenario, “It’s ok, who’s this?” Woo. Hoo.

There is a book that just came out called “The Slippery Year.” I don’t know much about it, except that my mother recommended it to me and I recently heard the author, Melanie Gideon, interviewed on NPR (of course) and she was talking about her inspiration for writing the book; her husband had just purchased some enormous vehicle that he was completely excited about, and she suddenly realized she wasn’t into things the way that he was. That she no longer pursued the interests she once had. That she was lost.

And I was like, “That’s what’s going to happen to me!” Only I’m 31, and this woman is in her forties.

But the reason I’m writing this post is that there have been a few breakthroughs recently, as far as music goes. I’ve been listening more carefully, and I think I would like to hear more.

Perhaps the best part is that, at this point, it’s all new to me. I’m behind. I’m fresh - practically raw. I haven’t read a Pitchfork review in forever. Hell, I don’t even know what other music review sites people read nowadays. I have no idea what anyone is recommending. You can get jaded reading all those opinions and commentary, but I’m like a kid with an untouched bag of Halloween candy.

J has an impressive collection of music stored on our desktop, so yesterday I sat down and, before I had time to convince myself it wasn’t worth it, I filled my iPod with music I’d heard and remembered liking. The French Kicks, a band I discovered last year and - surprisingly, happily - loved. The song “Lights Out” by Santogold. Phoenix. The Thermals (which is interesting, because the lead singer of this band, I think, has a Colin Meloy-esque quality to his voice and listening to The Decemberists makes me want to gauge my eyes out). “Tightrope” by Yeasayer, from the “Dark Was the Night” compilation.

I am committed to this late summer music revival, which will complement other summer activities, like long road trips and gardening.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving up my beloved NPR, but since the part of me that hates everything has started cringing every time I hear Ira Glass’s voice, I think I have a few hours to spare for a long overdue musical education.

Ok. You’ve done the Moonwalk, you’ve listened to “Billie Jean” at top volume and you Twittered your heart out. What’s left when it comes to remembering Michael Jackson?

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

Rock for Kids, an organization that raises money to help provide music lessons for underprivileged children, has launched Web site www.ImissyouMJ.com, to pay tribute to the king of pop, as well as to help to raise money for the organization. The site s a collective photo memorial that includes 10,000 photo plots available for purchase. The plots come together to form a mosaic of MJ’s famous white glove.

A $25 donation allows you to submit your own photo into the mosaic and receive a copy of this poster once the squares have been filled. Proceeds go to Rock for Kids and the poster itself will be presented to the Jackson family as a tribute.

TIME.com has listed this as one of the top ten places to pay tribute to Michael Jackson.

Learn more about Rock for Kids here, and make sure to pass on this wonderful fundraising opportunity.

I suppose my philosophy regarding television is similar to that of many parents - not that it is all too relevant considering my child is nine-months-old - in that I don’t want Nora to watch a lot of it. I’d rather she be outside, be creating art, be reading, be playing with other kids, with us, writing her first novel, whatever.

But I don’t have a huge problem with TV in small doses. Really, I think it’s just fine. It’s a hallmark of the modern age, and I’m not gonna go around pretending it doesn’t exist. Plus, sometimes it is awesome. It is AWESOME. Like when I used to work at home on Tuesdays with Nora, and I’d have a deadline, and Nora would be making her way over to the dog bed to lie down with Cecilia, because that seemed like a good, clean, normal idea, and I’d put on our Baby Beethoven video (thanks, Sheila!) and it solved everything. Nora would sit still and I’d get my work done in time.

Also, I think there is something sweet and comforting about watching TV together from time to time. J and I love the prospect of staying in and watching a movie. I’d never really sat and watched TV with Nora before, but just a few weeks ago we were at my grandmother’s, up early, before anyone else. I was watching the news while the baby played with her toys, and upon flipping through the channels I noticed that “Sesame Street” was on, a show I haven’t watched since I was a little kid myself. I picked Nora up, sat her in my lap, and we sunk into the couch and watched Elmo and Big Bird and learned about the letter T.

I liked it because babies are busy people, constantly on the move, so it was rare for her to remain so still and quiet for more than five minutes, warm in my arms, on that rainy, early morning.

There’s a quality issue, too, I think, when it comes to television. Quality for the parents, really, as in I like some kids’ shows more than others. For instance, my reaction to Barney is an instant desire for a quick death, while Nora really liked it. So that’s not one we’ll watch together.

The “Sesame Street” episode was another story, though. Charming and funny, but also reminiscent of my own childhood. So this morning, I was once again watching the news as Nora played, when she banged her head on this toy she’s currently obsessed with. It’s a little plastic table with a variety of musical instruments on top (thanks to Sheila, again!) and Nora thinks it is the greatest invention that ever was. Better than her parents and better than Cheerios. She’s learned to pull up on it and as she’s not that steady yet, she slipped on the rug and bumped her chin on the table.

Her little face crumpled and she started to cry so I scooped her up and, while it is not normally my first inclination to console with electronics, I wondered, as she whined in my arms, if “Sesame Street” was on somewhere in the great litany of cable TV stations.

It was. And - success! It was like nothing had ever happened. Or more aptly it was like an old, forgotten friend had made his way back into her life, like, “Hold up, HOLD UP ONE SECOND, Elmo’s back? WHAT?!?”

I just watched the opening two episodes of “The Hills” (on demand because, I admit it, sometimes I don’t stay up past 10) and my favorite, favorite scene was where Heidi’s mom was telling her that she loves it when she comes home to Colorado, because she always seems more “grounded” and, meanwhile, Heidi is wearing this ridiculous hat with a feather on it attached by, like, a large, faux diamond.

Then I watched the teaser for the upcoming season and had to keep myself from shouting out loud with glee. Is it ok to get THAT excited about a tv show, especially “The Hills?” Yup. Something I’m proud of? Not so much.