Take your cat and leave my sweater.

Here's the thing: I love country music when it's mixed with something else. Pop country = my love. It's my secret music indulgence. Country is just good storytelling ("The Gambler" or "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town," anyone?); add an irresistable pop hook and some slick packaging, and I'm in. I don't mind telling you I love these songs:

--Keith Urban's "You'll Think of Me" (I'm listening to this right now.)
--Carrie Underwood's "Jesus, Take the Wheel" and "Before He Cheats"
--Rascal Flatts's "What Hurts the Most" (This one feels particularly embarrassing.)

The older I get, the more LCD I am. Sometimes it take a lot of effort to be a hipster above the musical fray. Though I've never been good at that: my love for Counting Crows surely attests to that.

In which I read a manga book...and like it!

Now that's one sentence I'd never thought I'd write.

I have a co-worker who is trying to break me of my genre-embracing habits, so he gave me a reading list and lent me a copy of Book 4 of Phoenix by Osamu Tezuka. Going into it, I thought: no way I'm reading this in public. No way I'm going to like it, either. Wrong on both counts. That book was seriously fantastic, artistically and thematically.

I lay down my genre arms.

Ok, not entirely: no troll-based fiction. Ever!

I have two ears and a heart, don't I?

Well-established is my love of song and dance. Not particularly for me to do either of those, but to watch others do them. So, inspired by the grand tradition of Grease, Grease II, The Pirate Movie, Stayin Alive, Footloose, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Shag, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, So You Think You Can Dance, etc., I took my Little Sis to a musical adaption of the book "And The Dish Ran Away With the Spoon" at a local children's theater. It was...well, the combination of eager young triple-threats and community-theater-loving parents with misbehaved children is a bit much for me. But it was entertaining and free, and I applaud the group who puts these shows on because the plays are free and they encourage literacy and the actors are doing it out of love. I think that's really cool.

That being said, the dog made the odd dramatic choice to play her role as Blanche DuBois in a dog costume, and the wolf sneered half of his face like Elvis. Gotta get your kicks where you can get them in community theater, I guess.

And speaking of completely unrelated music: is there another song that makes you want to dance in dewy summer grass as much as "Brown Eyed Girl" does?

I'll always love you though, New York.

Ryan Adams is sold out. I can't win for losing.

Cewl, as the Irish say.

I just saw the most ridiculously charming movie: Once. Go see it, go see it, go see it: if you're in Austin, it's at the Arbor. It has all the ingredients I need to love a movie: Ireland and/or Irish people; not-the-right-time love; music; music being the reason for living; montages set to music; and good writing. It's not a musical in the traditional sense, but the song lyrics do advance the plot. Which sounds like it could be a long narrative music video, but it's not. It works, is all I can tell you. Bloody fantastic. While my cold, cold heart hates rom-coms, it does enjoy a (musical) drama with a love subplot and a beautiful ending. Check and mate. I immediately came home and iTuned the soundtrack. Perfect for a rainy Independence Day.

The lead is Glen Hansard of The Frames, which I think is going to be my new favorite band. Oh, Irish bands, will you never cease to make me love you?

The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

Got into a debate at work today over whether the gambler in Kenny Rogers's song dies at the end. Of course he does; otherwise, the song has no poignancy. The gambler imparts his life wisdom and then merely goes to sleep? No. Dies in his sleep, leaving him time enough to count his money now that the metaphorical dealin' is done? I believe so.

The lyrics speak for themselves:

And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

So when he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.

Kenny: back me up. I love your chicken.

One shot, one beer, and a kiss before I go.

Ryan Adams, July 14, Paramount Theater. I must.

I have no problem doing most things alone--going to movies, out for dinner, moving to strange towns, etc.--but I find that solo concert attendance is a toughy for me. Kind of the last frontier. I've been to two: Pete Yorn and Ryan Adams. (Pete Yorn's first record--I feel the need to specify that.) You might think that going to a show alone would be easier than the rest, because music is essentially a personal thing, and it's not like you can talk to someone the whole time anyway. But music is also a shared experience, and that's the whole point of going to a concert (and also why I hate serenades, but that's a story for another day): turning to someone between songs and saying "I can't believe he played this one live!" and speculating what might song might be next. Because I mostly think, if you can't share it (et voila: this blog), it isn't real.

Ryan Adams's music makes me feel like there is always someone lonelier than me. There is strange comfort in that. His music makes me want to get in a bar fight and then make out with a stranger. It makes me want to be a farmer that has lost everything. It makes me want to move to New York and sit on a rooftop and think about my regrets. It makes me want to dance on a dance floor with lighting just like that one barn dance scene in Hope Floats. You know the one; don't pretend.

And I defy you to name a better song than "Come Pick Me Up." And he did play it the last time I saw him. And it was outstanding.

Somehow this is turning into a thesis on why Ryan Adams is worth going to alone. Eh, let's go with it. He is, I think, even though he can be a bit precious and somewhat diva-esque. I don't want to go by myself, really, but I don't know anyone who even kinda likes him, let alone Loves (with a capital L) him like I do (shamelessly, but not fanatically). Who wouldn't laugh if I teared up. Who would feel the same way I would if he played "Dance All Night" or "Sweet Carolina." But I won't not go for that reason, either.

The key is to look like you're just waiting for someone else to show. Maybe they are late. Maybe they can't find parking. Don't worry; they'll be there.

Any minute now.