Today was a perfect day.
A rare day when I finished work at 3. The sun was shining so I left early, came home, and rode my bike to the gym. On the ride home, I passed by Edith Macefield's house. She was the little old lady who captured Seattle's attention by refusing to sell out to a developer for a reported one million dollars, so she could live out her days in the house she'd lived in for 42 years. Back story here. She died two days ago, and as expected, there was a makeshift memorial in front of her place.
Further down the Burke Gilman trail, I came upon this site:
The Fremont Solstice parade is this weekend and the traditional belly dancer brigade was out practicing their routine. I love this town.
From there, I headed to the PI where T-Dog was waiting for me with a pitcher of Maritime IPA. After a few beers, my man Greg showed up unexpectedly and kept the party going into the evening.
The chronicle of a lonely do-gooder family doctor who survived.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
It was a beautiful.
Looking around the lobby, I could identify with every gently aging hipster and there wasn't a single douchebag in three hundred dollar jeans anywhere in sight. The only people under the age of 35 were the children of the concert goers who were encouraged to bring their families. I was reminded, once again, why I love this town.
We had bought our tickets well in advance for the actual show scheduled later that night. But the local independent radio station sent out an email a few days ago inviting donors to a special on air noon time performance at the Triple Door. So there we were among the 100 or so nursing bloody marys or sipping coffee on a Saturday morning while the band did their sound check. A few minutes later, I would be sitting comfortably 10 feet in front of one of the best American bands going right now.
Most of us were older people with careers, financially stable enough to support independent music, but young enough to proudly admit to having our minds shaped by bands like The Clash, The Pixies, and Sonic Youth. Many, like me, probably played in basement bands on the weekends, not because we harbor fantasies of being rock stars but because it's a riot.
You'd think a bunch of upper middle class wannabe hipsters going to see the current heart throbs of the indy music scene would be sorta sad. But as these people danced themselves silly with their 4 year olds, they wore their tattoos and leather and beer guts with grace. The energy of the band, the total lack of visible corporate sponsorship, and the genuine joy of the audience all made me realize how fortunate we are to live here in Rock and Roll City, USA. These are my people and I am at home here.