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I might as well be writing...

...since I haven't done a stitch of work in two days.

so I should talk about tom brosseau, as it was a week ago now that I had wandered into work still high from the time spent with him and mary... gorgeous, tall, sweet, wonderful talented tom brosseau. as usual, I'll start with a blow-by-blow, and probably wind up discussing every single second with you. but we'll see.

so last tuesday I leave work in the afternoon and head out to tweed. and for me, there's a degree of famousness involved - I mean, I know I'm not going to pick up mick jagger or anything, but it's that tangible thing that goes on in my world where I meet the wrens and talk about the concept of "break a leg" with luke temple and cary brothers asks me to come and check out his set in brooklyn.

and in this case, where tom brosseau sleeps on the floor of my apartment, after refusing to take my bed (without me in it) for about an hour.

so I'm in my new favorite hoodie that I'm wearing every day it seems, it's olive green and has these beige and blue flowery things crawling up part of it and it says "rock city" in big gothic letters on the back. erin and I found it in forever 21. who knew - so I'm in my hoodie with the sleeves pulled over my hands, with a little striped scarf and my new york sneakers. and I'm waiting, and I'm pacing, and all of a sudden mary jones and tom brosseau come off of the plane and through the entryway (and by the way, if you've never been, the waiting room at tweed is the size of my living room - there's about ten chairs and a rental car chick - seriously). and I'm all, omg, you're tom brosseau! hands over mouth as I try to sort of hold it together to remember that we need to walk to the car. and tom hugs me and mary is giggling and off we speed in my teeny little car, now filled with carry-ons and a band guy and his manager and a '63 martin in a hard case. it was total bliss.

so we listen to the decemberists and stop at sound check, where I proceed to hear a few teasing parts of songs I know off of "what I mean to say is goodbye" and that's when I'm really blown away. his voice is like a bell, and the space is empty, and he's onstage going, hey victoria, did you get yourself a snapple there? and I can't help but go, um, he's talking to me, you're talking to me, yes, did you want one? and he's giggling and all, no, I'm good, and mary is smiling at me because I'm freaking out, and it's just too good to be true. I'm in the space. with tom brosseau. and his manager. talking about snapple and where we want to eat dinner. in new haven. 'cause they're like, going to get back in my car and stuff.

!!!

so they do (get back in my car) and we tumble up the stairs to my apartment to drop off gear, and then back down to go out for dinner. I decide to take them to miya's, since you've got to do miya's, or mamoun's, or the pantry, or thai taste - just some kind of new haven staple - if it's your first time here. the conversation is easy and the lighting is dim, and we eat family style off of big plates with our shoes off cross-legged on the floor. drew takes care of us and we wind up leaving miya's with a $30 tab - unreal for the amount of eating we've managed to do. a quick stop back at the apartment, some wine and some postcards and much brushing of teeth, and we're back at the space with twenty minutes to spare.

donna and sal have made the trek from branford, and we all stalk one of the front row couches as the last two open mic performers finish up. some boys in local bands I believe, who really pulled off some gut wrenching stuff. and steve comes up to tell us a bunch of stuff about the space - and then there's tom. ambling across the stage, tuning, tall and blonde and sweet... he opens with a song about yodeling and donna and sal have been won over instantly, smiling and happy and curled up with me - socks and cups of tea and goodness.

tom plays for a good forty minutes, with stories and dedications and explanations and smiles. he played the first track off the cd for me, going "this one's for you, vic" because we're long lost friends now. vic and tom bombs (a nickname for a tom at our office, fondly re-adapted to suit our performer). I shoot away and he leaves us wanting, but happy nonetheless, and as the set finishes we wander around taking in the scene. every time you've been to the space there's some new thing on top of some other thing, like an army figurine on top of an old lunchbox behind a new painting on a piece of cardboard under a string of evil doll-head lights.

so the first part of our evening comes to an end, complete with soundboard recordings and poster stealings and strangers with cake (and later, a loaf) and we all pile back in the car to head back to my apartment. it's at this point I realize that they may want to go out or something, but they seem quite content to don soft socks and fill their wine glasses in my kitchen - and that's what we do. everyone settles in and checks emails and putters around and points at the things on my walls... mary's working, and tom and I are writing postcards. then tom is blogging and I'm taping things up on my walls - flyposting, as mary calls it. andrew bird and the barsuk compilation take us through the night, and there's showering behind plastic fishes and picture perusing and finally dim pink christmas lantern lights and soft rain lulling us to sleep.

I cannot believe, as my photo gallery says, that all of that actually happened.

the morning comes and everyone's smiling and rested, even me, although I've spent the night waking mid-dream and realizing that tom brosseau is asleep on the floor about two feet away from me, and it's like the night before christmas when you're small, where the anticipation just keeps you from going to the restful sleepy place. we dodge the monsoon and break bread at the pantry, where I've done a good job of pimping the california eggs benedict (for the fat kids: that's regular eggs benedict with avocado and grilled tomato in there, super delish!) but we all opt for lighter fare and brave the rain once more to get back to the car. I proudly serve up the willoughby's and taxi over to union station, where we spend about a half an hour trading addresses and emails and phone numbers - yes, PHONE NUMBERS! I hoped for emails at best, but much to my amazement, I was treated to tom's home mailing address and a cell phone number. which he apparently doesn't answer much, but still. and we're joking and laughing and I'm going, so I could just like, call you, if I wanted, and he's all, actually, I'd be dissapointed if you didn't! not in the boy-girl way, just in the new-friends way. and as luck would have it, tom just might be playing the week I'm in seattle in december with kristin and steve - which was met by grins and hugs of approval.

and then the all aboard call came, and suddenly everyone was gone.

so this catches you back up to the morning last week, where I came in fresh from the station, and we've got the pictures to prove it.

next up: the bliss of the frames at irving plaza in new york city. yum.

and perfect guitar-neck photography for all,

~vvb

Victoria Uhl