When I came home from Iceland Airwaves in 2012, I had prepared some hair of the dog. In this case it was tickets to see Neil Young with my mom at Key Arena on Saturday, and a show with my husband at El Corazon on Sunday. We were there to see Insomnium. I had forgotten Epica was on the bill until I stumbled on this picture.
My kitchen counter is lined with growlers from Reuben’s Brews. We empty them quickly then then they sit empty until my husband has time to take one back and fill it up. Sometimes the whole family runs up for the refill, but until recently it was always a quick errand. The tasting room at Reuben’s was too busy and crowded for a family with small kids to spend much time. Until recently. Continue reading
When I was in the second grade, my teacher read Old Yeller to the class. When she got to the end, she started crying and had to go get Mrs. Wilson to finish for her. From then on I felt smugly superior to my teacher. Don’t get me wrong. Ain’t nothing sadder than a dead dog, but get a hold of yourself woman. That was my attitude then. Continue reading
You’ve been gone a year, and I’m still sweeping up your fur.
There are two things I have to do whenever I’m near Leavenworth, Washington. I must eat at South, arguably the best Mexican restaurant in the state, and I must visit A Book for All Seasons. So even if the temperature hadn’t topped 100 F at our campsite overlooking the Wenatchee River this summer, sending us into town in search of air conditioning, I probably would have found myself browsing the warren of rooms in Leavenworth’s brilliantly curated independent bookstore. Continue reading
I never understood the idea of “small dreams” until I started receiving unsolicited advance reader copies (ARCs) of soon-to-be-published books in the mail, and felt like I had arrived. It wasn’t quite the same as being paid to read, to but not having to pay to read felt pretty close (Yes, libraries. But late fees.)
Of course, roses have thorns, etc. and I soon discovered that even small dreams have their downsides. Continue reading
My first trip to Reykjavik was for Airwaves in 2012. That fall it seemed like Icelanders wore a uniform, epitomized in Asgeir Trausti’s outfit of ox-blood red skinny jeans, chambray shirt, and beanie hat. He wore that outfit on stage for three of the five shows I watched that weekend. But for the last two shows he had a new sweater.
Later that day I walked down Laugavegur and saw this shop.
It shed a little light on the Reykjavik uniform. Icelanders, like most Europeans, have a sharp sense of style by American West Coast standards. But they don’t have many places to shop. I am not such a fangirl that I went into the shop, so I don’t know how much the sweater cost. (Having gone into a couple of other shops on Laugavegur, I can bet it was more than I would spend on a sweater.) But I might have gone home and bought skinny jeans.
Dancing with Adra Boo onstage at Ra Scion’s 2014 Doe Bay Fest set.
Last summer was all about the festival. I walked down the street to the Fremont Solstice Fair, traveled to a remote fjord in Iceland for Eistnaflug, to a remote island in the Strait of Juan de Fuca for Doe Bay Fest, and rode the bus to Bumbershoot, dragging my kids along to three out of four. When I left my day job, I knew that one of the sacrifices I would have to make, at least initially, was live music. There was no justifying the cost of tickets plus babysitter, especially when I am sometimes paid to cover shows. I would have to limit myself to work-related concerts.
As a result, I stopped following the concert calendars, which resulted in my missing many new releases as well. It’s just easier to miss shows you don’t know about. Then the kids were off for summer vacation, and it’s hard to seriously listen to new music with kids running around, so for the past couple months, I just let music go. During Solstice I hung out at the block party, but didn’t catch any shows; I followed Eistnaflug wistfully on Twitter, and plugged my ears at any mention of Doe Bay. Timber was supposed to be my Doe Bay consolation prize, but the dates conflicted with a family event.
At least I could count on Bumbershoot, I thought.
Light fixtures in the stairwell of the old Gamli Gaukurinn bar in Reykjavik.
No other animal had ever inspired in me so much fear; not the neighbor’s dog that chased me into the house when I was three; not the horse that threw me, blackening both my kindergarten eyes; not the hand-sized spider that crawled up my leg when I was turned the neglected compost pile behind my house. None of those creatures held the terror of the adolescent lionhead bunny. Continue reading
gemma D. alexander 