Friday it is

Week in review:
I started the week by getting my adrenaline going at a kick-ass concert.
I got a visit from some old and dear friends.
I met some new people.
I watched and listened to the rain.
I continued to dream and pray and hope for more, for better.

Ponce de Leon Ave. - Butch Walker does Raleigh

At 6:30 a line of die-hard fans had already rooted themselves to the pavement leading to the door of the Lincoln Theatre in downtown Raleigh on this Monday night. Lincoln Theatre is a small box of a venue with a mural splattered on one side of a hot rod Lincoln with none other than the other Lincoln -- Abe himself -- seated inside. The venue is oddly located, next to no other clubs or bars or even restaurants or shops. It sits essentially alone on its block on Cabarrus Street, a parking deck looming across the street and the peaks of tall downtown skyscrapers peeping over top.

At 6:30 on a Monday in March, dusk had yet to settle in, and so joining the queue of music lovers seemed a little strange in the daylight. For me, I've always equated shows with night, as though I need the envelope of darkness to satisfy my secret craving for music. But with my sister and some of my oldest and best friends I took my place in line and felt the surge of anticipation move through my veins like it always does when I go to a show.

At 6:30, standing in this line, with some of my favorite people in the world, I snapped pictures, freezing the moment in time. I scuffed my feet on the pavement. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and grinned.

And at 7 p.m., the doors opened. The crowd filed through the doors, past the merchandise tables, past the bar selling overpriced bottles of beer and to the small floor in front of the small stage. I took more pictures, drank a beer, laughed, fell into the moment.

And at some point, after I gave up looking at the time, Butch Walker walked onto the stage and seated himself at the piano, pounding out an emotional rendering of the beautiful ballad "ATL." He sang his heart out for about an hour and a half, showcasing his talent on the ivories, as well with a guitar and even the drums.

In skinny blue jeans, a brown leather vest and a Native American-esque clunky silver necklace, he looked every bit the rock star. The gray knit cap he wore for the first few songs was doffed to reveal a mop of sweaty brown ringlets that clung to his face or swung about slinging sweat.

He poured sincerity into every song and delivered vocals that seemed practiced and as though from a throat well cared for, when in all likelihood his prescription is cigarettes and booze and late nights. A guitar that refused to remain in tune caused the singer some consternation, but he took it as an opportunity to joke with the crowd and reveal his trademark good nature.

His following may be small, but it's loyal, and his Raleigh fans demonstrated that, singing along with him, bouncing up and down, smiles plastered across their glistening faces.

They loved him and revered him when he did a sing-along version of "When Canyons Ruled the City" for a closer. Hands waved in the air, back and forth and back and forth. The crowd crooned, "na na na na, na na na." "That was awesome," Butch said in congratulations.

He played a number of tracks from his new album, "Sycamore Meadows," but he also threw in some old favorites. It was a good mix for a crowd of fans that likely equally love the old and the new. And one of the biggest hits of the night was a cover of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." Butch sang, the crowd sang too, and I'm pretty sure Elton would've been proud.

Grind it, brew it, smell it, drink it

Melodies of angsty indie bands and lovesick guys with guitars weave in and out of and over the conversations of college students.

"Did you see my facebook status?"
"Okay, this is cram central guys."
"The homework is due when?"

The rich aroma of coffee lingers. Wooden tables hold outrageously-priced cups of White Chocolate Mocha and Chai Lattes and books splayed open and wrinkled sheets of notebook paper. Laptops sit open-faced, giving off their blue-ish glow. Fingers type furiously the English papers, the physics homework, the love letters, the instant messages.

The tentacles of iPods reach up to ears that don't want to hear the conversations or the angsty indie bands or the lovesick guitar guys. The dress code is simple: hoodies, t-shirts, jeans.

Welcome to your local university coffee house. The House Blend is on special.

I Want a Sunday Kind of Love

So, it's Sunday. Which is awesome. Because I've got my coffee. And my slow start to the day. And my conversations with God. And it's sunny.

American Idol, what what

So, love me, hate me, judge me, whatever, I love me some American Idol. It's seriously an addiction for me. I really don't watch that much television, but each year, when Idol starts revving up, I'm on board once again.

I guess it's a mix of reasons that draws me: it's that I'm a lover of music (although some would argue that AI is NOT a program for music lovers) and can't get enough of it on any given day, it's that I'm a sucker and I want to learn about these wannabes and commiserate with them and hate them along with the rest of America and it's that it's entertaining.

Anyway, I wasn't the biggest fan of this year's group until they sang Grand Ole Opry tunes on Tuesday, and pretty much everyone stepped up his or her game big time and belted out some good stuff. I'm undecided as to who my overall favorite(s) is/are, but I am definitely lovin' me some Anoop Desai, Kris Allen, Allison Iraheta, Megan Joy Corkrey and Lil Rounds.

I was way excited when Kelly Clarkson was on the show the other day and sang her latest single, "My Life Would Suck Without You," which is so sickeningly pop through and through, but I LOVE it. And I was equally excited when Carrie Underwood was on the show last night to duet "I Told You So" with Randy Travis, and it was beautiful.

I think it's a pretty solid Top 10 this year. I'm looking forward to seeing how things go from here.

Here Comes the Sun...maybe

As much as I loathe the hot, hot, hot that's inevitable of summers in the South, I do find myself longing, at least, for the warmth of spring. Spring taunted us with a sneak preview of its warmth and wonder recently, and it's left me aching for more.

Weekend before last, the sky morphed in shade to a brilliant blue I can't recall having seen for quite some time. Sun pierced through and, like a drug, it pulled dozens of men and women and boys and girls to the same park at which I sought freedom from the winter blues.

It was perfect. Temperatures warmed the skin as they soared into the 80s, and breezes swept through the trees, as if on cue, just when it started to feel a little too warm.

I spent parts of both Saturday and Sunday afternoons, weekend before last, lazing about at the park. I collapsed onto a park bench and drifted away to the songs on my iPod and then I stretched out on the steep grassy side of a dam, begging the sun to kiss my winter white skin. Then the next day, I spread out a blanket next to the water and read Faulkner. I felt very poetic.

Please spring, do come back.

Life and death and all that's in between

I saw life at its pinnacle one day at the park, as sun streaked down from the sky between trees, glinting off the water of the lake that flows through it. Old men and women and teenagers and moms and dads and tots walked and bicycled and chased after jubilant dogs. The world was alive.

I saw death and felt the pain of it course through me and flow out of me via torrents of tears. A beloved mentor, friend, hero passed away, kissing cancer goodbye.

I reunited with some of the people who mean the most to me and simultaneously fostered new friendships.

To feel better, to feel normal, to take charge, I baked chocolate chip cookies, ran until my legs felt like rubber and sang at the top of my lungs.