Sweatin' to the Oldies

I am proud to say I've been to quite a number of awesome shows in the past year. And I just have to announce that, were I to give out the very prestigious 'Best Concert I've Seen 2008' award, it would go to GIRL TALK. Hands down. (cue 2 minutes of acceptance speech music)

Now, Girl Talk isn't for everyone. But this show is a must-see event if you are a fan of any or all of the following:
- Dancing
- Running in place
- Getting on Stage
- Naked DJs
- Confetti
- Forties
- Watching skinny-jeaned emo hipsters grind to Tupac and Kelly Clarkson
- Singing along
- Sweating
- Waving your hands in the ayer like you just don't cayer
- Glow sticks


I'll be the first to admit that the above list is not something I prefer to be a part of on a nightly basis. But damnit, if I didn't leave that concert happy, sweaty, ears ringing, and ready to buy any Girl Talk ticket no matter how far away or how much I'd have to pay.

Destiny's Dressing Room

Journal entry of a 21-year old woman from Germany who's about to marry an American journalist. She's been a devout journal keeper her whole life and this is her last entry as a single woman -- written two hours before the wedding.


The clock in this room makes it all seem so simple. One hour I am a single girl with dreams of singing on stage and finding true love. A minute later and I am Mrs. William Carthington, American housewife and mother. At least that's the way the clock sees it; she doesn't share my emotion or the complex issues I take up with marriage. I try and see her point of view and she looks down at me, pointing that stern finger and reminding me I only have two hours left until this life I know becomes another. That's how, as she puts it, time has its way with things.


We have a silent conversation, the clock and I. I tell her the stories of my childhood, all the moments that have led up to this one. She already knows them but she has to listen anyway. I tell her about old boyfriends, my schooling, my childhood home and how the cupboards were empty more often than not. I recall the day my father came home to tell me about the American man who'd come to write a story about the restoration of our city. He said, with a gleam of hope in his eyes, that he'd planned for us to meet.

We sit still in this staring contest. We try to picture my new life in America. In an hour I will have realized the dream my parents always had for me. The untouched numbers on the clock represent this certain yet unfulfilled future. And soon these two halves would no longer be two, but would be together as one - the circle of my life that anything but my own.

I see my face in the mirror; it is void of emotion. I watch myself as she calmly continues through the motions -- she straps on her shoes, smooths her dress, and pins up her hair. Her hands are bound in this motion that cannot be stopped. She moves foward in this circle, this version of me, but I am not with her.

So, just like the hours before this, the day before that, the years before them, 'round and around we go. I sit in waiting just like the women who sat in this room with this clock before me. And the woman before her. I look up one more time and take this last chance to wonder -- did any of them reach out and stop the progression to go off the grid? Did any make their own path instead of following the one that was laid out in front of her? And if she did, did she end up better off, richer and more fulfilled for having struck out on her own?

What if I chose to be the girl I am rather than another tick-mark in this worn-out cycle of tradition?