September 2003 Archives

Recovering from this week's odyssey...a numerical review.

3: The number of Guster shows we saw this weekend - Burlington, VT on Friday night, Philadelphia, PA on Saturday night, and Lewiston, ME on Sunday night. Who books these tours, a monkey with a dartboard? Honestly, look at it on a map...I usually like things V-related, but driving in a big V may have to be an exception.

1244: The number of miles put on our 2002 Saturn VUE (there's that V again) this weekend, including minor detours to Middlebury, VT (my alma mater, where we picked up some apples from a farm stand for Viv's mom), Princeton, NJ (the home of the aforementioned Viv's mom, which served as the Hotel Valenzuela for the eight millionth time this year...I don't know how she puts up with it) and a quick stopover in Andover, MA for a shower and change of clothing before jaunting up 95 once more to the Bates show.

3000/65: The maximum recommended distance and speed limit for the compact spare tire that had to be put on our poor car after getting a flat tire somewhere between exits 10 and 11 on the Maine Turnpike. You haven't lived (and for a while we didn't think we would) until you've changed a tire in the relatively small emergency lane on a highway completely devoid of street lights (blame the energy crisis of the 70's). Fortunately we were able to change it in about 20 minutes, interrupted only by a visit from one of Maine's finest..and I'm not joking about that. The state trooper was very nice and made sure that the two women I was with weren't the ones who had broken down and were then accepting help from some random guy who happened to stop for them - because that's sure what it could have looked like. I felt weird standing there talking to a state trooper with lights flashing in the background and a tire iron in my hand but it didn't occur to me to put it down and look less threatening. Not that I'm particularly threatening to begin with.

90/87: Two highway signs which indicated the route number I was taking and also served as more or less of a speed limit as well. For the record, I did not reach 95 miles an hour on 95, nor did I break the sound barrier on 787. Someday, perhaps I'll drive a car that can exceed Mach 1.

1/2/3: The number of tapers in Burlington, Lewiston and Philadelphia, respectively. There's hope for Guster taper-dom yet.

3: The number of people in our room at the Burlington hotel.

2: The number of shampoo packets and towels provided because I said there were 2 people in my party and didn't feel like paying for an extra person. Nothing like squeezing out a few droplets of shampoo after two women use the shower before you, and then using hand towels to dry yourself off.

3.75: The price, in dollars, of my tasty breakfast sandwich at Nectar's in Burlington, commonly known as the bar that gave Phish their first regular gig back in the mid-80's. The home fries were $2 and could have used a little salt, though.

13: The row number for our seats in Burlington. I sat dead-center. You couldn't have asked for better taping seats. Even Gordon, Guster's sound engineer, commented on how well my recording must have come out.

1: The number of people I saw already stumbling and falling-down drunk, throwing up in the trash can in front of us at the Philadelphia show. I fail to understand the point of getting as royally fucked-up as possible before a show.

8,000,000: The number of times a select few hooched-up chickies walked in front of us at the Philadelphia show. I think they were utterly oblivious to the fact that a show was going on. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Guster gets their money from their ticket sales, but the whole "I'm here to be seen, not for the concert" attitude mystifies me. And while you're at it, can you please put on the rest of your shirt?

6: The number of times Sam Roberts implored me to "put your fucking hands together" or "move your fucking feet".

0: The number of times I put my fucking hands together and moved my fucking feet (or my garden-variety, non-fucking hands and feet, for that matter). If I want to put them together or move them, I'll do it, thank you very much...but you've gotta earn it. Otherwise, it's like going to a third-rate basketball game and being told when to cheer, clap, etc. I'm surprised they don't flash "breathe in/breathe out" on the scoreboard.

90,000: The approximate temperature, in degrees Fahrenheit, of the inside of the Clifton Daggett Gray Athletic Building, on the campus of Bates College, in Lewiston, ME.

15: The number of feet high the other taper in Lewiston was running his mics.

8: The height off the ground of the speakers in Lewiston. I guess the guy wanted to hear what the concert would sound like from the Mir Space Station.

50: The height of the imaginary mic stand that Guster's sound engineer pretended to be raising when he saw the 15-footer. He had his arms out two feet wide at the base of his imaginary stand to get it up the last few stages.

1: The number of times I had to resist hauling off and smacking said other taper for referring to my mics as the "Honda" of microphones. His were apparently the "Acura" of microphones (Neumann KM150's, for what it's worth). Not a good way to start a conversation with a fellow taper, for future reference - insulting the equipment.

1.5: The number of hours after midnight when we finally arrived home. So tired.

Under any other circumstances, I usually welcome a call from my parents no matter what time of day it is. But when the phone rang at 9:15 this morning and my mother was on the other line, I somehow knew it wasn't with good news...

My grandfather and namesake, David Hudson Smith, passed away early this morning, just three months after my grandmother. Grampa was always the quieter of the two but I was always amazed at his level of physical activity...some of my favorite memories of him are playing tennis with him when he was 70 or 75, still able to run my brother AND me all over the court, seemingly effortlessly. Even up until a couple of years ago we'd regularly descend into the basement of their house and play a few rousing ping-pong matches. The ceiling was so low that we had to look around the lamp shades to see each other when we were standing up straight, but put a paddle in his hand and he was a wizard no matter what game it was. And of course he played a mean hand of pinochle too.

My other favorite memories are those that he's perhaps most well-known for to others - playing the piano and organ. The happiest of course are the Christmas visits where he'd sit down with Gram and play duets together and the rest of the family would sing along. The most bittersweet was watching him calmly playing all of the music at his beloved wife's funeral three months ago. And the proudest moment - for me, anyway - was about eight or ten years ago, when he gave a concert (for his retirement as church organist, I think) at a local auditorium and the place was packed to the gills with friends, family, parishioners and admirers. I remember him striding onto the stage, looking dapper in his white suit, and playing an incredible variety of music - classical, contemporary, slow, fast, somber and playful, including one of his own compositions, I'm pretty sure. During the applause at the end I couldn't help but beam with pride that it was my grandfather up on the stage, still wowing the crowd after all those years.

Goodbye, Grampa...

Your workplace is not a day care center.

Do not let your six-year-old play on the electric typewriter as if it were an entire rhythm section.

Do not let him sit under your employees' desks and throw their shoes out into the middle of the floor.

Do not let him make an ungodly racket by diving his action figures into a box full of binder clips. Over and over and over and over again.

Do not make us tie his balloons for him so that he can use our office space as a practice volleyball court.

Thank you for your attention.

Just in case you needed ideas...

This past week, for the first time in six years, I've been DAT-less. My portable DAT had been acting a little finicky lately, making tapes that wouldn't play back on any of my home decks. So with a slight sense of dread and nervousness, I packed it up and sent it off to the repair wizards at Pro Digital and just waited. Today I finally heard back from the surgeon and it appears that all is well. Heads are realigned, screws are tightened, inputs and outputs are tested...all for one hour of labor plus shipping costs. So my D8 should be back from rehab by Tuesday, just in time for Guster's Big Gig in Boston at the FleetBoston Pavilion. What a relief.

This is a wonderful article my friend Chris just forwarded me, written for the Washington Post last week. I spent 20 minutes reading it at work - it's just that good. Makes me want to have kids just to teach them about baseball, since my wife has already absorbed just about all of the knowledge the author imparts to his daughter on their baseball journey...

Anyone interested in some plastic shelving? I no longer need it now that I've got my swanky storage cabinets from Lowe's. These suckers hold 136 DATs per small drawer, and eight spindles of CDs in the bigger bottom drawer. SO much better than the plastic stuff I'd been using. And they're modular, so I bought another one and filled it with shelves for my home decks. Also humored the wife and bought some doors for the front of it so the electronics aren't just spilling all over the place. You know, so as not to show off.

Got some major use out of the drill this weekend. I feel all manly and stuff. It's nice having a Philips head bit for the drill, too...saves my wrist a TON of twisting. There's no way I would have gotten this all together so quickly with a regular screwdriver. I wouldn't be able to type right now. The cabinets are a little wobbly so we went back to buy some L-brackets and wood screws to firm them up... also got some caulk to fix the tub in the bathroom. When did I turn into such a handyman? This transformation is rather frightening...all of a sudden I can fix stuff. Weird.