The Rock Star and I made our annual pilgrimage to Hyde Park yesterday for a day of epic tune-age at the Hard Rock Calling Festival. This year, we were lucky enough to score tickets to the sold out final day headlined by none other Mr. Bruce of Springsteenshire. Not only were we graced by the Boss himself, but supporting him was the Dave Matthews Band, who I’ve been darn near gnawing my own foot off to see since 1995 when I first got hooked on Under The Table and Dreaming. So it was with some sense of anticipation that The Rock Star and I headed in to London, stopping along the way to collect an old friend, Kara, and her husband Jon, who were in visiting from the States and also managed to get tickets to the gig.

As I’ve gotten older, I find that I’m beginning to suffer from a touch of agoraphobia; big crowds kind of make me a little tense. However, since this was our 3rd year running in Hyde Park, the familiarity made it much more bearable and the fact that all four of us were happy to watch the concert from a long was back on a blanket made it even more so. Our first year, when we managed to get up front to see Aerosmith, I had my fill of fence grabbing, and am now more than happy to luxuriate at the back with the sight of actual patches of grass between me and the people next door.

Since we arrived around 3.20 or so, we didn’t have to queue to get into the grounds and immediately set up camp after purchasing 2 burgers and chips for which I didn’t get any change out of a 20. (Note to self- EAT LUNCH NEXT TIME BEFORE WE GO.)

The first act of any note was James Morrison. Although I’d seen his name on the Last FM “If you like John Mayer, you may like this guy” list, I wasn’t aware that I’d actually ever HEARD anything by him until the chorus of his first big radio hit (”You Give Me Something”) when a lot of the audience went “OH. THAT guy!” right along with me. To give him his dues, although his music wasn’t entirely my cup of tea, AND the fact that he was struggleing with a voice that was obviously on it’s way out after a hard weekend, (I’m assuming him also probably put in an appearance at Glastonbury) he put on a bloody good show. In this age of pitch correction and a lot of performers who are truly incapable of live performance, I completely enjoyed his set. His radio songs, which I found slightly wishy-washy were no match for some of the grittier numbers he pulled out which obviously had a great deal of blues influence. It’s a shame that the listening pallate of the British public in general isn’t broad enough to appreciate some of his other work.

While the Dave Mathews Band is probably one of the hottest tickets on the US summer concert circuit, they’re not nearly as well known here in the UK. Their county/rock/jazz jam style doesn’t fit well into the stack it high and sell it cheap disposable pop mold, so they don’t get a lot of air time. (Although even I sometimes glaze over during a 20 minute saxaphone and fiddle safari) I got hooked when I was 19 and spent my semester abroad at Cheltenham with Under the Table and Dreaming on constant repeat on my Sony discman. Since I was broke in college, going to concerts was a virtual impossibility and by the time I DID have any cash, I was living in Blighty were virtually no one had HEARD of DMB. So, I was fairly excited about finally getting to see them after 14 years of fandom.

And I must say, they didn’t disappoint. Matthews makes a slightly awkward front man, to the extent that it makes him seem like he’s had a knee trembler with Mary Jane just before walking on stage (which is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility) but his performance can certainly not be accused of lacking intensity. While they careened headlong into some of their better known stuff with abandon, (Ants Marching, Two Step, Crash) they also got the crowd behind them for some of their newer tracks off of Big Whisky and the Gru Grux King, like Why I Am and Alligator Pie. Halfway through the set, I abandoned our camp at the back of the ground and did a quick reconnisance mission to the front of the proceedings, just to say that I’d actually SEEN Dave Matthews rather than simply seeing a large screen with his mug on it from 300 yards away.

Of course, the Main Event was yet to come.

While I’ve always respected Bruce Springsteen for just being a bit of a musical legend, I can’t say I actually know the lyrics to any of his songs or have the ability to recognize them from their opening riffs. But after seeing him in concert, I can safely say that The Boss has at least one new fan.

The energy in Springsteen’s performance and that of the supremely talented E Street Band was little short of extraordinary. (Although after running up and down the stage steps several times, he made an impassioned call for an elevator of some sort. “I’m f**king 60!” he declared.) In reading reviews of other recent performances, the one common factor in all of them seems to be the fantastic showmanship and extreme enthusiam displayed. I suppose it just boils down to the fact that it’s fun to watch someone do a job that they absolutely love.

Watching Bruce Springsteen, it’s easy to see his influence in other iconic performers. Bon Jovi springs to mind immediately: The evangelical style, the music that evokes images of long, dirty roads, dark, smoky bars and abandoned steel mills. Although, if Bruce is a bottle of Kentucky Mash, Jon Bon Jovi is a whisky sour with a twist of lemon, a cherry and a pink umbrella. Bruce-lite, as the Rock Star put it.

The effect of The Bruce on the crowd was nothing short of miraculous, as if his sermon like entreaty at the beginning of the set to “take away all the fear that’s out there and build us a house of love!” had actually been taken to heart. Due to his presence this year, the festival was far more crowded than previous years. More people usually means more PISSED people. More scuffles, people being carried out on stretchers, etc. But this year, the nature of the crowd, while still fairly intoxicated ( one very talented and completely wankered individual next to us did a rather fabulous “Worm” to raucous applause ) was supremely joyful. The atmosphere of the concert spread all the way to the back gates and toddlers and grandmothers alike boogied down to the strains of Born to Run, Glory Days and The Rising.

Just for a little bit of a taste of the action:

A summer evening well spent.

Okay, just for the record:

1) Falling asleep during a facial tattoo? Not going to happen. I have 7 in various locations around my body and there is not a chance I could have slept through ANY of them. Wishing that someone would knock me the hell out, yes. Actually being able to lapse into unconsciousness, no.

2) No tattoo artist ANYWHERE is going to give someone an extensive facial tattoo without MAKING DAMN SURE of what the client wants. What, do people think he was just having some FUN? Doing something like that as a joke would cost you your career.

3) What kind of raving lunatic goes to a tattoo artist that DOESN’T SPEAK YOUR LANGUAGE?

The artist says:

He said she knew ‘exactly what she wanted’.

He added: ‘She was awake and looked into the mirror several times as the procedure was taking place.

‘The trouble all started when she went home and her father and boyfriend threw a fit.

‘They are saying things now like I doped her or hypnotised her. What rubbish!

‘She asked for 56 stars and that’s what she got.’

If you want to pull a Kat Von D, you’d probably be damned sure that no one at home is going to disembowel you after it’s finished, forcing you to tell a rather outrageous lie.

Since the Rock Star and I will be leaving these shores next year, he’s be compiling a “bucket list” of things he’d like to do. (Not that we’re never going to be back or anything, but I imagine most of our visits in the future will be family based, leaving not much time for tourism.) Although both of us are footballphobes, The Rock Star has expressed an interest in attending a Premiere League match. I let him know that I wouldn’t be completely hostile to the idea.

The Rock Star: you really want to go to a soccer game?

Me: Yeah, why not?

The Rock Star: cool!

Me: If anyone f**ks with me, I’ll just nut them.

The Rock Star: LOL

Me: That what one does, yes?

The Rock Star: it is.

Me: good, i wanted to make sure I had the etiquette right.

For anyone acquainted with the British entertainment industry, this is a character that could not possibly have escaped your radar; the larger than life, blustering, bearded boomer, Brian Blessed. I post this simply because I spent nearly 5 minutes in fits of laughter. The man is a legend and his performance on the seminal TV quiz, Have I Got News for You proves it. All hail the Blessed!

Pig Flu didn’t get me. But I have tumbled headlong into the disorienting embrace of jetlag.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to experience my homeland in the summer time. Over the last few years, our American sojourns have occurred during the festive period (either Thanksgiving or Christmas) and while I love the woods where I grew up, there is something tremendously melancholy about loads of bare trees waving their naked braches in the cold. In addition, if I want to freeze my ass off, I’ll just go outside in the UK around mid June.

I had completely forgotten how summer utterly transforms the area. My parent’s yard looked more akin to Eden than Frederick County when we pulled in the driveway on the way home from the airport. It was a veritable wonderland of big, blowsy blooms and green as far as the eye could see. The Prawn has eyes only for Grams and Pop Pop in the moments after we arrived, but I could hardly stop gaping at the yard and drinking in the summer smell that we are so sadly lacking where we reside.

I should reverse gear and mention that our trip over was once again very smooth, despite the presence of a toddler. We are fortunate in that we have a rabid Sesame Street addict on our hands and with this currency, we can buy any amount of good behaviour. Even nearly 8 hours worth. Yes. I know. Very bad parents, but very happy ones. However, this experiment led us to discover that an iPhone has a pretty astonishing battery capacity if you don’t mind watching videos in 4’ x 2’. To make extra sure of no gaps in our Sesame Street delivery system, we had videos on BOTH of our iPhones AND both of our laptops. With the Prawn safely anesthetised, I was free to watch the goggle box as well in the form of “Benjamin Button”, (note to self: DO NOT WATCH OVERLY EMOTIONAL MOVIES IN PUBLIC PLACES. The stewardess that came around with orange juice midway through the flight asked me if there was anything she could do for me. Doofus.) “Anchorman” and an episode of “Flight of the Concords” (which, by the way, is simultaneously funny and deeply unfunny at the same time.).

We were lucky to get mostly fabulous weather for our visit. Of course, the time change wrecked havoc on the Prawn and the first morning, the Rock Star found himself blearily blinking at her in the kitchen at 4 am. This was also the setting for one of her best quotes of the trip. The Rock Star had just turned on the coffee maker, which began making it’s burbling noises, startling the Prawn.

After just about jumping out of her skin, she declared. “Okay. Not scary. Just man having a wee.”

First of all…I HAVE A CHILD WHO NOT ONLY RECOGNIZES THE SOUND OF SOMEONE HAVING A WEE, BUT CAN TELL ME ABOUT IT. Secondly, I think perhaps that we need to have a chat with Boy Racer about leaving the bathroom door ajar when he uses the toilet in our flat.

The Rock Star and I took a little grown-up excursion to the beach during the second week of our visit. We wondered how the Prawn would take being abandoned with her grandparents for two days, but truth to be told, we ended up missing her far more than she did us. Oh, those two other people that are usually around? What were they called? This was pretty much the Prawn’s reaction to our absence.

I’ve not been to Ocean City since Senior Week way back in the mists of time when I graduated from high school. (During this visit, Virginia and I found a truly depressing photo of us taken during that week and wondered WHY IN THE HELL we weren’t wearing itty bitty bikinis when we both had the bodies for it.) My memories from those three days aren’t very clear. This isn’t due to alcohol consumption (I was in a slightly sanctimonious phase at the time, apparently) but rather just because I’m old. Virginia reminded me that aside from the reading on the beach and eating junk food, she and I and our third compatriot in mischief spent an evening building a giant sand penis. (Maybe not quite so sanctimonious.)

The Rock Star and I refrained from any sand sculpture during our visit. Sadly, we got the worst weather of the week for our visit and spent most of our one full day at the shore either indoors (we went to see “Star Trek” in a cinema who’s heyday was probably in the mid 50’s, but enjoyed the film, nonetheless.) or walking the boardwalk in sweatshirts. Luckily, the day we arrived was fairly warm and clear, so we indulged in lunch and drinks at Hammerjacks. (I fully indulged my margarita cravings on this holiday since bartenders on this side of the Atlantic seem to be thoroughly incapable of making one that doesn’t taste like grass clippings.) Of course, we also got caught in the mandatory, mid-afternoon downpour. By the time we decided maybe we ought to take shelter, we were already soaked through and trudged the 20 blocks back to our hotel, squishing merrily as we went. (this rainstorm necessitated the purchase of new shoes on the Rock Star’s part as his took nearly 4 days to dry completely.) In the absence of decent weather to sit and read on the beach, we mostly just wandered about aimlessly, (a pursuit that’s curiously satisfying after you have children) ate utter rubbish and discovered a hideous dead puffer fish in the middle of the night by way of my almost stepping on it.

Our encounters with the natural world were not restricted to our journey to the beach. The Rock Star left his shoes on the front porch and when he brought them inside to put on again, he neglected to do what every child raised in the forest is taught to do if your footwear has been outside for any length of time without you; turn them upside down. This resulted in a rather girly scream and a swear in front of the Prawn when the bottom of his foot came into contact with a VERY large toad who then disappeared under the couch, prompting all of the adults in the room to go a little crazy, much to the delight of the child, who spent the chase laughing like a loon. (I was having a shower at the time, however, I could hear the commotion.)

Several days later, we made the unsavoury discovery that the baby birds in a nest on my parents front porch had become cocktail snacks for very small snake. My mother demanded that the offender was removed from the scene of the crime, much to the chagrin of my father, who’s dislike of snakes is well documented. (So much does he dislike them, when he DOES manage to capture one, he’ll put it in a sealed bucket and drive it almost 10 minutes away before releasing it. Therefore, a family phrase, “being driven to Libertytown” has been coined to mean getting something distasteful as far away from you as possible.) The Rock Star, ever game for new experiences, offered to wrangle the serpent, armed only with a bunny shaped oven mitt. Being deemed too small to be deserving of a roadtrip, the offending reptile was released in the woods. However, only hours later, my father nearly stepped on what can only be described a “much larger” identical snake who was obviously coming to protest the treatment of his offspring at the hands of a long-haired, oven mitted buffoon.

Of course, no trip would be complete without some good times luxuriating in the company of family and friends. We got to spend some good times with Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler as well as a quick visit with another high school chum, my parents neighbors (who I’ve known since I was 7) and cousins various. The Prawn heartily enjoyed playing with all of the children of said individuals. Virginia’s Boy became “ MY BOY” to the Prawn, which registered quite high on the cute scale. She also enjoyed frolicking with her first cousins-once-removed in their paddling pool. It’s always satisfying to see your offspring getting on nicely with other people and not having to worry about uttering phrases like, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU: NO BITING!” At least not yet.

Our flight back was an unusual one. As we took off, we were keenly aware that the next time we landed on American soil, it would be as immigrants. (Well, two immigrants and one citizen) Although we’ve always known that we were going to migrate back to the States, we’ve now decided that 2010 is the year of the big move. We spent some time on our visit pootling around local communities that we’d like, which was equally exciting and daunting, as there is so much that we need to get done over here first. However, as they turned the lights down in the cabin, we were just pleased to think about the prospect. We were also pleased that the Prawn decided to sleep for nearly the entire flight. (As did I, miracle of miracles)

So we now find ourselves back home in our little flat, having to deal with day to day issues like that strong mildew smell that seems to be coming from the sink, but can’t be beaten by drain cleaner, the creeping damp in the bedroom and the small mountain of laundry piling up in the hamper.

Cest le vie. Back to the routine.

I assure you, I did not perish of Swine Flu. However, the normal flu was bad enough, thank you very much. However, it does make one appreciate the merits of a full week in bed.

I am currently on holiday in the US, soaking up the seriously glorious weather, putting on a few pounds and preparing to go to the beach with the Rock Star SANS PRAWN for 2 nights, so as you can imagine, life is good.

Normal service to resume soon.

…for yet another dose of pant wetting hysteria. Clearly, since the economy has been showing small, green tendrils of recovery, it was time to get us good and scared again.

Exhibit A: SARS. IT WILL FREAKING KILL US ALL.

Not so much.

Exhibit B: Bird Flu. OH MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, YOU GUYS, THIS IS THE BIG ONE.

Bird Flu what?

Exhibit C: Swine Flu. I KNOW WE WERE WRONG ABOUT THE LAST TWO, BUT HONEST TO GOD, FOLKS, WE’RE JUMPING OUT THE WINDOW RIGHT NOW INSTEAD OF PERISH IN THE APOCALYPSE TO COME! *crash* AIEEEEEE!

Let’s take a look at the facts. The main outbreak has taken place in Mexico, a country in which 40% of the population lives below the MEXICAN poverty line, which, let’s face it, is probably a fair amount lower than the poverty line in Great Britain or the United States and in a city with sewage problems and a staggering street population. How many of these people do you think have access to health care? Clean water? Basic sanitation? Of course, what I am missing is the data as to the cross section of the population that is being affected by the Flu. Are they, as one might suspect, the poor? I find it odd that this information has not been made available. Not only that, but of the 100 or so fatalities, only 40 or so of those have been confirmed to have been due to the virus.

The information which IS being broadcast is that the cases of Swine Flu are rapidly mounting up in countries all over the world. As of yet, none of these cases have been fatal or even particularly virulent, tragically, apart from a young Mexican child in the US who was most likely brought across the border to keep her away from the illness.

The media is seriously in danger of becoming the boy who cried pandemic.

However, saying all that, I sit here with loathing in my heart, because I have the flu and I let them scare me. I haven’t been this ill in a long time. To borrow a turn of phrase from Dave Barry, this is the kind of sick where I can feel each individual air molecule smashing against me at speed. The duvet protects me some of the time, but they find their way in, the bastards, and cannon back and forth between the inside of the covers and any exposed surface of skin, which is unbelievably tender to the touch.

I can hear things happening in the flat. The Rock Star is a supreme nurse and babysitter, but I know that after two solid days, his veneer is beginning to peel a little and demands for “MORE SESAME STREET!” are often met with beleaguered acceptance, because he’s still got work to do and I can’t sit up for periods of more than 20 minutes at a time.

So, I lie in my bed, listen to the train of thought conversations of my daughter in the lounge and think fluey thoughts.

Have I got it? That guy who sneezed near me in Tesco yesterday; had he been to Cancun recently? Maybe one of the kids from Wren’s nursery?

God damn you, media. We will just have to see.

Rejoice and be glad, fellow handmade-ites for today is Etsy Day!

Today is the day when it was decided by sellers on Etsy that we would like to spread the good word about the wonderland of fabulous handmade merchandise that one can find on our site. In this era of big business and mass marketing, it has NEVER been so important to support independent artisans who beaver away tirelessly in sheds, backrooms, front rooms, and every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse that is available for purpose. Poor Robin is just one of MANY shops having sales or offers today, so pootle on over to check it out.

So, to that end, spread the good word, my people. Preach the gospel. Become an Etsyvangelist for the day. Hallelujah!

Here’s a very small offering of some of the scrumptious things that you can find in our wonderful little world!

Wednesdays are the Rock Star’s day at home with the Prawn. The Prawn is most definitely a daddy’s girl, right down to the bone, but she sometimes knows when to stick up for me.

Prawn:  “Daddy has a big mouth!”

The Rock Star: “Well that’s not very nice is it? How would you like it if I said you had a big bum?”

Prawn: “BIG BUM!”

The Rock Star: “Does Prawn have a big bum?”

*Prawn sticks bum up in the air*

Prawn:  “YES!”

The Rock Star: “I see.  Does daddy have a big bum?”

Prawn: “YES! Daddy big bum!”

The Rock Star:  “Right. What about mummy? Does mummy have a big bum?”

Prawn: ” uhhhhhhhhh … ”

Prawn: ” ummm … NOPE. Mummy SMALL bum”

My child is only 2 and knows when to tell the right kind of lie.

I’ve having one of those sunrise/sunset moments at present. The Prawn has discovered Sesame Street.

And when I say discovered, what I actually mean is, lives, breathes and eats The Street. There is not a moment of the day when she does not wish to be worshiping at the feet of St. Elmo. (And not the 80’s brat pack feature, although one might say that the unchanging nature of Rob Lowes good looks might have a slightly holy bent to it.) We only have about 7 episodes ranging from newer (probably 2007 or so) to older (late 90’s, judging by the “computer” episode where Telly Monster shows you how to load a floppy disk into a machine that takes up 3/4ths of the desk that it’s sitting on.) so needless to say the Rock Star and I are frantically trying to get our hands on more so that we don’t want to commit suicide.

I embellish. To be truthful, I’m fairly happy to sit down with the Prawn and watch Sesame Street as it still features a lot of the fun, grainy clips that I remember from my childhood. The trippy 12 song, with the latest disco beats and just-about- post LSD era animations of a pinball traveling through national landmarks came up almost immediately. And how great is it to see that at least half of the original cast is STILL PLUGGING AWAY after 32 years? And that all of the muppets finally sound the way they did before Jim Henson went ot the big, googly-eyed felt pile in the sky? (Big kudos to Eric Jacobson and Steve Whitmeyer) While all of this was incredibly exciting to me, the Prawn just wanted to know when Elmo was coming back.

It’s my belief that someone should study the whole Elmo phoenominon. Until last week, the Prawn had never seen Elmo. Never heard of Elmo. But the moment she was introduced, it was love at little, furry, red monster sight. I’m not really sure how to feel about Elmo, especially the “Elmo’s World” segments which are generally pretty inane, but there’s obviously something about him which causes immediate crack brain in children. (I actually think the biggest surprise about Elmo for me was the person who voices him. I was pretty sure it was a woman for a long time, but it turns out it’s an enormous black guy called Kevin Clash who does some directing on the show as well.) So how does he do it? Subliminal messages? Rays from space? Whatever it is, I wish he was sharing, because if I could hold the Prawn’s attention like that, I’d have it made.

But anyway, it’s all a little surreal to be watching a show that I watched as a child with all the same characters 30 years later with my own little girl on my lap.

ONE! ONE HAPPY MEMORY! TWO! TWO HAPPY MEMORIES! THREE! THREE HAPPY MEMORIES. AH AH AH!