author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Woo! Two concerts to report on. Feels like lots and lots more. Here we go.

Trippin Billies, Tuesday night: You know, I think I had more fun listening to this cover band at the Fox than I did at the actual Dave Matthews Band show at Jazz Fest 2005. The Fox was less crowded; I had somewhere to sit; and I was so close to the stage that I kept getting looks from the lead guitarist and from the violinist, as much as to say, "You're really into it, aren't you? Or maybe you're just insane?"

For me, there were two highlights of the evening. Most noticeably there was the violinist's solo. He sampled each riff he played into a repeating loop until by the time he was done he was playing with an entire orchestra of himself. More subtlely, there was the moment when the singer stopped pinching his voice in an attempt to sound more like Dave Matthews his-own-self, and just relaxed and sang like someone with a damn fine singing voice.

It isn't actually that hard to be a Dave Matthews cover band, as long as you can find a versatile saxophonist and a super-human violinist. And it helps if your vocalist has about a three octave range. Nothing to it, if you've got all that. Then you just play the songs, and no one cares whether you're actually the Real Thing or not, because the songs are so very happy-making. Me, I have about three or four songs I absolutely love, and all the rest of the songs I don't know all that well but I still want to just pick them up and hug them. Look, there's enough doom and gloom in the world; we need music that's life-affirming as much as we need cathartic wails and politically aware dirges. The latter has its place, but sometimes you just need to swing-dance, or smile wistfully, or jump up and down and clap your hands and sing.

Dresden Dolls et. al., Wednesday night: Which is to say, Dresden Dolls but also openers Faun Fables and Devotchka, and an unexpected burlesque-style strip tease in between the two opening acts, making the show feel like a classic variety show.

Faun Fables turned out to be a solo act, a lady in "Mediterranean pirate" garb who accompanied herself on guitar or with a complex percussive stomping dance of her high-heeled boots while she sang folk ballads, ancient Greek chants, and compositions of her own. The climax of her set was a melencholy lament during which photographs were lovingly displayed by candlelight, and at last the singer transformed herself into a framed photograph too.

Devotchka were a quartet playing music that sounded like a mix of Slavik and Latin on drum, upright bass or tuba (flugelhorn?) depending on which instrument that musician picked up, guitar, violin, and this weird old-time thing consisting of a miked up wooden speaker box with an antenna sticking up which the guitarist would jiggle to make a sound like a musical saw. Their act had a lot of energy. There'd have been more dancing if people weren't jammed in shoulder to shoulder.

As for the strip tease, what's to say? The music was "Experience Unecessary" and the stripper was wearing purple pasties with blue glitter.

Which brings us to Dresden Dolls. I had never actually heard them before, barring one song that Cate played for John and me. They did in fact play that song, "Coin-Operated Boy," complete with the "record skipping" effect halfway through, which was absolutely amazing to watch. The technical skill involved in that trick is nothing to sneeze at, and that skill was in evidence all through the show.

There was a very Tori Amos element to the lyrics, an emotional rawness unafraid to put itself in semi-shocking terms. A lot of black humor. A lot of cleverness that makes you laugh before you realize you've been handed a grenade. (Note to the audience: You know that song with the verses about sitting by the window in the morning and masturbating? If your only reaction was to fantasize lewdly about the singer, you weren't paying attention.) It was the kind of concert where I was glad to have someone I loved holding me. Some of those songs really hurt. But I'd still go see them all over again tonight and tomorrow and again if I could.

Besides the fantastic "record skipping" thing, there was the sorta-kinda duelling pianos bit (only of course it was one piano versus one set of drums) when she said to him, "It's so hard to take you seriously in that dress." There was "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" peformed by the keyboardist on the drums and the drummer on distorted acoustic guitar. There was the anecdote about how female musicians might respond when male fans yell "I want to have your baby!" (Someone yelled that at Faun Fables, too; she just said, "That would save me a lot of work, wouldn't it?")

And then there was me totally forgetting to pick up any CDs before I left, dangnabit! Guess I have some internet shopping to do.

And of course that's not even to mention the mountain flying cross-country I finally flew yesterday, or the progress on the novel, or how I might have to take a few days off from the novel in order to stay on track with the work-for-hire gig. Meh! More later, therefore.

Look, all I've had is one stinking martini. One! Stupid! Stoli's! Martini! Why the hell do I feel so damn drunk? I swear, it's like I'm getting whiplash trying to turn my head fast enough to catch up with my head turning. At which point all my thoughts but one fall out of my head. I hate being drunk. Maybe next time my martini ought to be an Absolut?

I'm at The Fox. I won me a Golden Ticket! Do you wanna win a Golden Ticket? Then you wanna get you on the mailing list. Sometimes they have these little trivia contests, and if you answer correctly, you get your name put in the hat, and then maybe they pull your name out of the hat. Apparently that's what happened, so I get to see Trippin Billies for free.

Trippin Billies is, as the name perhaps suggests, a Dave Matthews cover band. From Chicago. I can't tell you much about them except that they're currently setting up the stage. But I just had a lot of fun with the opening act, who I believe called themselves "GreenField". Their drummer was insane; their singer, however, was uninspiring. Still, somewhere in between, their lead guitarist was hitting all those riffs and harmonics that make the rock 'n roller in your soul lose its little mind. Much fun. Totally adequate. And I'm the drunk little so-n-so at the very stage-right verge of the wall-side rail bouncing around like a spaz and singing like she thinks she's some sort of back-up soprano vocalist.

(Well, I'm also the one with the computer. Duh.)

It's amazing I'm not committing more typos then I am.

Anyway. About the novel. Coral reefs? Apparently they happen in shallow, tropical waters. I'm not sure I'm allowed to have my mermaids living in a coral reef, therefore. *Sigh*

PS. Apparently, "Lighting Guys Do It On Cue." Hey, don't ask me, I didn't name the SSID.

PPS. Tomorrow, the Fox again! Dresden Dolls. Oh yeah.

Yes it does. November and all the insanity thereby entailed.

We've got a large, enthusiastic crew in the Colorado::Boulder NaNoWriMo forum. (If you're looking for me, I'm vortexae.) We met up at the Tea Spot this past Saturday for a novel-planning meet-and-greet, and attendence was about triple what I was expecting. And everyone actually talked about their novels, too! *Glow* What more could a Municipal Liaison and Forum Moderator want? It's going to be a fantastic November.

Now if only I didn't have two novels to edit and a non-fiction book to finish. Ah, well, nothing wrong with being busy, right?

Speaking of novels, Chapter 11 of Drowning Boy is about where I left it the other day, but cleaner. Editing as I go, and all that. I know where it's going, and where Chapter 12 is going, too, so it's just a matter of allotting time. That may or may not happen tonight; apparently my husband and I have a date with some friends and a game of Axis & Allies. I'll be more doing the heckling thing than the actual playing thing, so we'll see how far into the evening we get before things get thrown at me.

No, no no no. Chapter 11 is not the chapter when Brian meets the shark. Chapter 11 is when he meets the mermaids. And there is much angst. It's a pretty angsty damn novel. I really, really hope that it does not evoke the reader reaction of "I wonder if this author had a lot of angst to exorcise?" Because that would suck. Because next-door to that is the reader reaction of, "OK, I get it, I'm supposed to feel the angst here. Jeez, you don't have to beat me over the head with an angst stick."

Kinda like Fushigi Yugi. We got to the first Very Sad Part last night. Or second, depending on how much you care about the previous Very Sad Part. The authors didn't seem much to; they rather swept it under the carpet for the sake of another plot point. But the next Very Sad Part, we got to it, and for once I was the only person in the room not crying over it. I guess it worked for everyone else, but I felt as though the authors were hitting me over the head with a cry stick. "OK, this is the part you're supposed to cry at, see? What, you didn't get it? Well, we'll have each character in turn have a total meltdown until you do get it!"

Meh. But it works for some.

You wanna know what works for me? Mirrormask. I saw that movie twice this past week, once with John and once with a friend who totally needed to be dragged off to a good movie. I liked it that much. It was beautiful and magical and 100% good for the soul. If you liked Labyrinth, but you wished Labyrinth had a bit more psychological depth and a better lead actress, Mirrormask will be good for what ails you. Or if you ever wanted to actually step inside Dave McKean's head, this comes very close. There's eyes on legs, chicken gorillas, sphinxes in all sizes from tiny bundles of very cute menace to larger bundles of befuddled incompetence, creepy goo that comes out of walls and kills you, windows that open on things that aren't physically on the other side, and lots of circus music all in the right places. And Neil Gaiman wrote the script. Dude. Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean! When those two get together, miracles happen!

This is a Damn Fine Movie. Go see it now. Oh, don't give me that "but it's not showing in my state" excuse. Aren't you overdue for a road trip, anyway?

Addendum: Read this review of Mirrormask. Then follow the links and buy the soundtrack.

Finally. Chapter 10 is over. Brian and Mike have Had Words, none of them particulary pleasing to Brian, all of them fairly amusing to Mike. A couple of things have been revealed between the lines, and hopefully it's clear that Brian's missing them all because he is desperately trying to sail down a river in Egypt, and not because he rolled triple ones for his intelligence stat.

Great. Now, according to the revised outline, next comes the chapter in which Brian meets the shark, and I try very hard not to sound like I'm ripping off Diane Duane's Deep Wizardry.

Meanwhile, New Orleans. I purchased tickets yesterday to fly down to New Orleans, help Mom and Dad with the clean-up, and see with my own eyes how my hometown is holding up. Of course, now more than ever I feel kind of a fraud talking about New Orleans as my hometown. Orleans parish responses to the post-Katrina situation differ from those in Jefferson parish, to the point where it's almost like my parents in Metairie are living in a different country from folks in New Orleans. But, really, it's all home.

My parents have been struggling against the chaos beseiging their insurance company. Every other day, Mom would call with new indignities: her assigned adjustor was in Dallas, what good would that do? She didn't even know if they'd reassigned her claim to her home owner's insurance policy rather than her flood insurance policy. Could she even get started on fixing the roof, and with what money? Helpless me, all I could do was agree that life totally sucks and I wish thing could be better.

"Is there anything I can bring you from Colorado when I come visit? Celestial Seasonings herbals, anything?"

"No, no--well, actually," Mom said, "could you bring me an adjustor? Just go by your insurance agent's office, grab one, and put him in your luggage?"

"Er, well, I think they're out of stock..."

Just bullshitting, of course, but the thought that came out of it was, why didn't I go talk to my insurance agent? My parents and I use the same agency, and a Boulder office wouldn't be swamped like one in south Louisiana. (Ha! Swamp. Pun!) Maybe there was something could be done from here?

So I biked on over to the State Farm office on Mapleton. And I felt really stupid asking; I kept saying things like, "Of course I'm just clutching at straws here--but just in case, on the off-chance there's anything you can do..."

And the agent smiled sympathetically, and asked me for Mom's policy number. She made a phone call. She found out some stuff. She took notes. Then she called my Mom.

They talked on the phone for at least twenty minutes. She got all the details on the house, reassured Mom that in this unique, unprecedented situation she didn't need to worry about preserving evidence of damage or itemizing it all, mentioned what kind of unheard of things her office, all the offices, had been given authorization to do, and promised she'd do what she could today to get the ball rolling. I left the office feeling that at last I had done something, I'd finally been able to help. At least, I hoped so.

That night, Mom called me up to say Thank you. "You mean she really was able to help you?" Yes, yes she was.

So anyone reading this, if you have relations in the New Orleans area whose insurance claims are just stuck, see if you can get an agent in your part of the country to take a look. If you're in New Orleans, see if you can get ahold of a relative elsewhere who can stop by their local insurance office. Apparently it's not just clutching at straws.

But we'll know for sure how helpful things have been in seven to ten days--that's when they've promised Mom and Dad will finally get a visit from the adjustor. Then, if all goes well, they'll be able at last to start rebuilding their roof.

Oh yeah. Update. Quickest darn rejection letter in the Rockies, this story got. And no wonder. The place I sent it wants spec fic, not lit fic. Well, duh.

(I feel rrrrrilly dumb now.)

That work-for-hire thing? Yeah. The signed agreement is in the mail, and the editorial outline is open on my computer. Along with an interview release form to be given to interview subjects. 15,000 words. Hoo-boy. By the third week in October.

It's times like this when a writer sits back, glances at the calendar, looks up at the ceiling, and says, "Great Gods in alphabetical order. What have I gotten myself into now?"

Meh. No worries. It's just the usual pre-project panic. I get this way on November 1st, too. It's no biggie. Dude, I can do 15,000 words in three days. The rest of my allotted time I can use for research and editing and fact-checking and interviews and the inevitable additional panic attacks. It's cool.

Speaking of which, the NaNoWriMo forums are open and un-kerbluggled. By which I mean, the sign-in link works (John tried it out), the log-in link works (I tried that out), and posts are appearing at the speed of light. Boulder has its own regional forum this year for the first time; if you check it out, you'll see what we'll be up to this weekend. Come join us!

Now, about that novel. No, this one, not that one. About it, this:

Less is more.

Well and good. Only question is, which "less" is it that will serve best as "more"? That's what's taking me so fricken' long, dammit!

Wow. I didn't think yesterday when I was writing in the cemetery that today I'd be flying over it.

I had a pilot lesson today at Boulder Municipal Airport, specifically a lesson in mountain flying. I learned how you have to slow down when you hit an updraft, so as to stay with it, and I learned how to speed up when you hit a downdraft, so as to outrun it. This because a Cessna 172 from the 1970s doesn't command a lot of horsepower; if you want to climb over an 11,000 foot mountain ridge, you're better off letting the natural wind currents do the work for you. In order to catch those updrafts, I flew a lot closer to mountain ridges than I was strictly comfortable doing, and I kept telling myself I'd get used to it. I flew over Winter Park, and I flew within sight of Granby, but I didn't actually fly to Granby, since my instructor was under a time crunch.

And I did something that's totally a no-no. I flew a long final into Boulder. Dude. "Aren't we not supposed to fly west of 30th?" "Why not?" "Because that's pattern procedure." "Why?" "Um... because of noise abatement policies?" "Well, if you're making no noise, who cares?"

Me: *boggle* "You mean we're going to pull the power and glide in? From here?"

Instructor: "Well, we're still five thousand feet above pattern altitude..."

So we pulled the power and glided in from freakin' Nederland. I got aligned with the runway before I could even see the number on the runway. The instructor told me to make my radio call when I was over the cemetery, and I thought, Cool, that's where I took my laptop off to write at last night. The storage shed tower looks even more impressive and monument-like from 2,000 feet above ground level.

(We in fact underestimated the distance, and I had to put power back in while I was still over, I dunno, 16th Street maybe. I ended up floating a good way down the runway due to still carrying 70 knots when I got over the numbers. But still! What a view. Whattavyooooo!)

Then I came home and remembered exactly how exhausted I get after going a mile up in the air and coming back down again.

On the novel front, I am very annoyed with my characters. I had to erase some 500 words of last night's dialogue because it fricken' sucked. But I think what's going in now is better, so, OK then.

Coming soon: Weather permitting, a 4.5 hour cross-country flight on Sunday. This time, I'll get out my camera and take some pretty pictures. (Today, I'm afraid, I was a little preoccupied with, y'know, flying the dang plane.) This may mean no dust bunnies. We'll have to see.

And, from the department of "Oh yeah, that": Denver CityScene? CitySceneBlog.com? Not writing for them anymore. I was holding out bunches of skeptical benefit of the doubt, but once the players in the controversy started going at it, it was clear that Tim Gilberg was not someone I'd even want to sit down to coffee with, much less write for. Note to people accused of ripping off other people's websites? The "you'll be hearing from my lawyer" response will not make you any friends at all.

No dust bunnes for Niki. *Sigh.* My husband informs me that there will be dust bunnies next week, however, so I should not lose hope.

Why are dust bunnies a good thing? Well, that's for me to vaguely know and you to find out. Mwahahaha. More later.

So the boys' dialogue bit is moving along at a sloggity pace. Another 800 or so words last night, mostly involved with Brian snapping to the revelation that much of what he remembers as dreams weren't dreams after all. There's a lot of dramatic stuff in italics which, were it represented cinematically, would be in sudden, two-second long flashbacks distracting Brian from the current conversation. Sort of cliche, that. Sorry. Maybe today I can clean up the melodrama and get to the end of the chapter.

Last night also involved Writing In Strange Places. Sometimes I just want to get out of the house, away from the familiar, and put myself somewhere else specifically to write. It's an elaborate sort of ritual, a means by which the everyday mind gets jump-started into writer mind, and it really helps when my usual writing places--the kitchen table, the bed, the IHOP, the Tea Spot--get mentally fouled up, associated with web surfing and game playing instead of writing.

I thought maybe I'd go sit among the pumpkins at the grocery store, because sometimes you just have to sit in a pumpkin patch and that's as close as I'm going to get. But the store hadn't quite closed yet, and the fluorescents under the grocery store awning looked uninspiring, and I ended up in the North Boulder Memorial Gardens instead.

I'm not sure what it's really called. It's a long stretch of land in the crook of Diagonal Highway where it turns left from used-to-be-Iris onto also-known-as-Foothills. John and I came to walk here the night before he left town for his Las Vegas start-up software company adventure, back in, oh, 2001-ish. The place isn't lit at night, and I came in from the treeline to the west rather than the walkway from the south, so I had to keep an eye out for the flat depressions where memorial stones lay, thus avoiding a sprained ankle. I headed up to sit on the steps by the central tower.

There's an ornate door in that tower, making it look like some special memorial monument or maybe a mausoleum. In fact, the tower is nothing but a storage shed. I know this for a fact because, as you can see in the picture, the door was actually open. It was cracked just wide enough to admit my hand with a camera in it. Taking pictures with the flash on, I could see there wasn't much more in there than a styrofoam box full of decorative trinkets of a plasticky dulce et decorum est nature.

Which is sad, because when a door you're accustomed to being locked suddenly stands open before you, what you really want to find on the other side is, like, Narnia.

So I sat there on the steps and slogged away at Chapter 10 until I got too cold, at which point I packed it up, headed in, and put myself to bed, where I continued the Chapter 10 slog. Bed is a cool place to continue writing; I woke up with vague dreams about what Mike was saying to Brian. They weren't comfortable dreams, and I can't remember exact words, but the feeling was right, so that's all good.

Slogging. Working on the novel at the speed-of-slog. This is the sound that working on the novel makes: Ssssllllaaaaaawwwwwwgck. (That little "ck" at the end is the inevitable death rattle I'm sure is waiting for me just around the corner.) But there has been Progress. Chapter 10 has moved on from the point where Brian lays eyes on Mike, and has reached a point where they have actually exchanged words. See? Progress!

I put a post up at Denever CityScene this morning. Go me. Not three hours later, I think, I'd received an informative little email telling me about this. Hurrah, I've wandered into the middle of Controversy! What, didn't you know that was one of my super powers? Anyway, the jury's out on whether any wrong-doing is actually in the offing, or if maybe we're just dealing with a really clumsy attempt to generate web traffic. I don't plan on doing anything rash until more is known.

Tomorrow: More slogging, with dust bunnies!