Yesterday’s plane travel was only slightly traumatic, which was a nice change from the previous trip. Our layover was extended because of the global warming weather over Houston, and the plane sat on the tarmac for a while, but once airborne, except for one WHUMP! midflight as we hit turbulence, it was uneventful.

I am shocked. I actually dressed up for this flight on the principle that it would be more convenient for Jim if he didn’t have to have someone dress my corpse for the viewing when the combined effects of the air travel and Eliza-wrath killed me.

So far, we have swam in the pool once, visited the ocean once, and splashed our feet in the water while sitting on the pool rim 4 times. The cats are TOTALLY not cool with the intruders, especially the little shouty one, but everyone else is having a good time, especially Grandma and Grandpa Texas, off whom Eliza has knocked the socks with a combination of slapstick comedy, pithy commentary (No!), and general cuteness.

Also: Texas is hot, yo!

Last night, Jim and I headed to Mohegan Sun Casinos for a much-anticipated double-bill concert of Damien Rice and Fiona Apple.

Now, I have gone on record as saying that I prefer my women musicians somewhat crazy; they’re just more interesting when they’re a little transgressive and impolite. But the damn chicks keep going overboard with it, and going full-tilt bug-out loony on me (See Exhibit A: Sinead O’Connor).

Last night Fiona Apple was so unbelievably bad that we might need PTSD therapy.

She started out a bit wobbly-voiced, which is not unusual — I’ve read that she has stage fright, and I’ve seen her twice before and know that after she gets comfortable, her voice evens out and she goes on to deliver the goods. Usually, that is.

Last night, she sounded like she was channeling Yoko Ono, and not in a good way (Wait. IS there a good way?). She shrieked and snarled in only the barest approximation of the melody, and while I certainly welcome a musician reimagining their music, this was more like a murder than a reinvention. When she wasn’t shrieking incoherently into the microphone, she was turned to her bandmates and roadies, shouting abuse at them. Their tense, head-down demeanor reminded me of emotional abuse victims, and I wondered how long she’d been at it.

And then there was the physical aspect of her performance. Between the spastic twitching, smacking herself in the head, and staggering around with her hair over her face, she seemed to be channeling the wraith from The Ring, except really coked up.

I have NEVER been so tense during a concert; it was an actively unpleasant experience. I think her handlers need to be thinking about therapy for her before she hurts herself, and/or someone needs to smack her and tell her to stop acting like a one year old.

If, as her legions of fans claim on her site, she was just pissed off about a bad sound mix, well, there are better ways to handle that. Such as, perhaps, turning to her techie and asking, “Um, can you help me out here?”

But I don’t buy that excuse. The opener sounded OK, and Damien sounded absolutely GORGEOUS. Besides, if the techies set your levels for how you usually sing and then you go all ape$h!t on them and start singing like a cadaver, I think it would stand to reason that the mix would sound off.

In any case it was the most unprofessional display I’ve seen, and that includes the Ryan Adams concert where he spent 5 minutes futzing onstage with the barrette in his hair. At least when HE got around to playing, the music didn’t sound like my cats beating each other up.

Anyway, the evening wasn’t a total loss, because as I said, Damien delivered the goods. Part of the fine Irish tradition of beautiful noise, he delivered a stunning interpretation of the whole wall of sound. Several times he’d begin songs as quiet folk medlodies strummed on acoustic guitar while he and his duet partner sang in achingly lovely voices, and then they added a cello, drums, bass, and then, WHOMP! he’d hit some sort of switch, trip the guitar into scary eletric mode, and just wail away.

If you’ve never heard him before, you must check out “O,” his first album, forthwith, in particular ‘I Remember,” which is a stunning little mini-opera of a relationship that ends with the best bassline EVER.

Tomorrow, Eliza and I are going to Texas to visit Grandma Texas.

It is a repeat of a trip we took in December, and below is what happened then, as I blogged it on Jan. 5, after I’d had a couple of weeks to recover:

Blogging as PTSD Therapy

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Someone found this site by googling “elephant hosta.” What?

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Someone else apparently found it by googling “baby butt photos.” Pervert!

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The parade of medical decrepitude continues. Now that I have made my peace with the bifocals (yes, it does take a few days to get used to them, but now I like them) I went to the dentist and he was all, “Dude, doesn’t your jaw hurt? Because I can tell from your teeth that you clench them, a LOT.” Apparently the clenching is responsible for everything from enamel wear to sore jaw muscles to my receding gum line. I was happy to hear about that last one, because it SO gets me off the hook for not flossing!

Anyway, now I have to go get a mouth guard.

What’s next? A colonoscopy?

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A short but sweet Eliza story

Yesterday, when I got home from work at 2:30, Eliza had still not had her nap. With vacation and visitors, her nap time has gone a little wonky, but she was still surprisingly sweet-tempered given the sleep deprivation.

She staggered over with her new book about Smiley Shark and demanded a reading. At the end, she said, “Mo!” I asked “Again?” “Geh!” she agreed. We did this 2 more times, then she turned around on my lap, hugged me, put her head on my shoulder, and said “Tie.” (Tired)

I asked if she wanted to nap, and though she said no, it was clearly a no spoken not out of conviction but because her job description as a toddler means that she must always say no to everything.

I put her in her crib and she was asleep before I’d left her room.

Eliza in Jim’s sneakers.