You’re on the Uprise

Yesterday was just like any other day. I had my normal cup of Red Hook Roast coffee while I walked Mosie our usual path around the corner of Dekalb. I got dressed while Lucius played in the background and quietly praised my expensive boutique workout classes when my pants zipped without much effort. I walked a mile to the subway, the same path I take everyday, and made a mental note to finally try that South African place I keep eyeing. A rising sense of rush came over as I watched bikers race in business pants with their briefcases attached to the side of their city bikes. Horns echoed while red lights acted as downtown Brooklyn’s morning dictator. I looked down at my espadrilles and thought, I should walk faster.

I raced down the concrete stairs of the subway station, bolted through the turnstile like I had somewhere really important to be, and skipped the final steps to the platform just as the B train left screeching like a lightening bolt with the speed of a snail. I waited 5 mins for the next train while I pretended like it was a real hassle so to fit in with the other commuters. The crowd of straphangers grew denser, each one taking turns looking down the barrel in anticipation for their next bout of habitual morning tasks. I began to question the train’s schedule just as its light peaked through the darkness.

We all boarded, too eager to permit current passengers an easy exit. We filed in like ants marching to a crumb and piled tight with an awkward I don’t know you this well disposition. I peaked over a burly man’s shoulder as we rode across East River and gawked as the Manhattan sky line came into view. Kanye was playing in my ear buds per usual. 

It was a normal day. It was exactly like the day before.

I walked up from the subway at 42nd street in Mid Town. The Chrysler Building was beaming in the sunlight, a new AM New York was thrown into my hands, and the crosswalk was filled with people already checking emails on their iPhones. Bryant Park’s fountain made a fresh come back from its winter break, but mostly – today was exactly like the day before.

And the day before that one.

I walked past the same street performer I saw yesterday. He sat with two hamsters, two rabbits and a parrot all piled on the same ratty, tan carpeted cat tower they’ve been sitting on year round. A sad dog sat next to the tower with another rabbit on the sidewalk. The city streets seemed to fly by them, almost as if they were an island of stillness. New tourists crowded around – making it seem like the sedated animals were something really thrilling, but they were all the same as the day before.

I walked up to my office building, swiped my card to pass through security, rode the elevator up to the top floor and thought – how is this weird, hectic life so normal to me now? I’d already forgotten the time I didn’t feel like a local here.

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Yesterday a friend said to me, “Aren’t we living the dream?” My mind began to race with everything that was currently on my things to accomplish list as I tried to place this dream he was talking about.

What dream?

In a slew of days, weeks and months small changes in life merge until you can no longer see where you started, only where you are. When I look back at the starting point, I can hardly remember what led me here. This was my dream since I was 16 years old, and while I celebrated the moment when I found out it was coming to fruition, I haven’t celebrated my time here. My time actually getting to live the dream out. I think a lot of us forget that. We work and work for something to happen, and never return the acknowledgment that we achieved something. 

I’m constantly looking forward for what’s to come, etching out in my mind what I need to do to get to the next now, that I forget all of the feats that led me this far. I forget to enjoy where I am.

I guess what I’m trying to say (mostly to myself) is, just because you’ve made it to your dream doesn’t mean you’ve finished living it. Don’t let a big feat feel like a small feat when you spent years getting there.

Stop chasing and start living it out.

 

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Daddy Issues

People have told me you don’t need dads or moms (or anyone for that matter) to live a fulfilled life. Maybe that’s not entirely wrong, but it does seem incredibly sad and lonely to think about a life without people who know you and genuinely care for you.

Those caring roles seem to naturally stem from parental figures, but I’m realizing I also have the ability to choose those people – or allow them to choose me.

My dad left when I was about 8 years old, I could get into specifics, but I don’t have the time to waste crying about that shit for a whole day – so I’m just going to say he left, and I’ve basically been fighting for his attention ever since.

I know, I know – this is such a common issue and I’m not special and I need to grow the eff up.

But I think that’s part of the whole problem. People are always telling me others have it worse and I should be grateful for what I have. But this whole dad issue has been rocking my boat for 20 freaking years, and maybe it’s because I keep thinking it shouldn’t be rocking my boat.

In the future, I’m sure I’ll experience something far worse that will make me realize this shouldn’t have plagued me for so long, but for right now – in this moment – I am upset about a very common issue that I’m sure more than 1/3 of the world experiences.

When I was a kid, I thought the more cool things I did  – the more my dad would come around. Deep down, I wasn’t into being on the cheerleading team or whatever other social sport was popular at the time, but I thought the more events I had – the more chances my dad had to show up. It turned out to be a shoddy plan filled with lots of disappointment, but I kept up with it through high school, always hoping my name would be called for the squad or homecoming court. Not because I actually wanted to be on the team or named pretty by public school kids riddled with pubescence, but because I wanted an excuse to call my dad and tell him to come see a game or walk me down the football field.

I know, so desperate.

When the sport/popularity contest didn’t grab his attention, I decided to go all in with prayer. I threw out my secular CDs, broke up with my now hubby to “focus on Jesus”, and started spending my weekend nights reading the bible. I even canceled my senior cruise to spend one month on the mission field – somehow justifying that if I was a better Christian I’d get what I wanted. I drank all the kool-aid possible, and spent every day praying that my dad would come around, or at the very least not die. (I’ve always had a fear of him dying) I took it as my personal responsibility  burden to not let him ruin his life, and at 18 years old, the weight of that shit got pretty heavy.

For the past ten years, I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t have daddy issues – I thought I left all that behind with my fake ass high school years, but here I am, 28 years old, still crying over a dad that was only actively in my life for 8 years.

I don’t get it.

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You can’t spend your whole life thinking about a few years that weren’t that great.

My recent trip to Italy became the soul searching trip of a lifetime. I called my dad before I boarded the plane, even though he didn’t know I had a trip planned. I cried when he didn’t answer – which is why I usually never call in the first place. As the plane took off I thought about what he’d really know about my life if I died.

Morbid, I know. I’ve got daddy issues. TAKE IT EASY ON ME.

I realized he doesn’t know where I live. He doesn’t know that I’m enrolled in Lit Crit courses, or that I even have an interest in writing. He calls my husband Michael. He doesn’t know that I’m not sure about the whole Christianity thing, or that I had two miscarriages, or that I graduated summa cum laude, or that I genuinely like the taste of whiskey. If this plane goes down, he would still think of me as the seven year old driving go-carts through our woods.

Worst of all, I would die with him thinking I voted for McCain.

Our first stop was Venice, and it hit me on our second day there that I wasn’t going to keep focusing on a few years that sucked.

I have a good life, and I need to stop worrying about what happened before I got here.

I don’t know what happened in Italy, but I gave up trying to save my dad, and I gave up searching for his attention. I realized I can dictate what comes in and out of my life, and I made it my personal agenda to start that right away – in Venice where I felt altogether disconnected from the world around me, yet completely cognizant of the people I want to be in my life. Call that egocentric, or snobby, or whatever you want, but when I figured out there are some things I can actually control – I thought it best to start building a life I love.

I have people who chose to be in my life. Why am I focusing on the one person who didn’t?

It’s a strange concept to accept when you’ve been eager for the love of a specific person, but there are other people in this world who will care about you. Sure, it would be nice if it was that parent you’ve been trying to grab the attention of, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s important to be aware of the relationships you’re missing out on while you’re waiting for the one person who keeps letting you down.

Daddy issues are weird, especially when you’re almost thirty and you thought you’d be over it all by now. But the truth is, it’s a constant struggle to understand why someone who should want to be in your life isn’t.

I had a few bad years, but I’ve had just as many good years. Escaping the constant feeling of rejection isn’t me not being true to myself, my background, or my family. It’s me choosing to create a better life with people who decided a long time ago to be by my side.

Some people call that giving up, others call it moving on.

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I Didn’t Get into Grad School [and other failures]

Wednesday I received an email from Pratt Institute. It said something along the lines of:

Dear Cap,

NO.

Okay, they didn’t say it quite like that, but that’s what it felt like in my gut/heart/tear ducts/legs.

Pratt was supposed to be my “sure thing”. I’ve applied to a few other dream schools, but Pratt was my safety net. To be honest, I’m still really confused why I got rejected. I mean, I may be a hot mess in real life, but I look pretty dope on paper. 

I got the email mid-way through my 13 hour work day, which meant I had seven hours to somehow figure out how to fake being okay and keep my shit together. I left work around 8:45, took a 35 min train ride home, walked a mile through a dark park, opened the door to my apartment, and headed straight to my bed to cry.

This wasn’t my normal Cap Cry. This was one of those devastating cries.

The ones where you feel like your life is ruined and you’ve got no future and everything you’ve worked for has gone up in smoke and you’re trying to live a life you can’t handle and you’re about to break from exhaustion and if you have to go to one more god damn PR meeting you’re going to break down in the middle of your office like a two year old who can’t reach their goldfish.

FOR REAL. EVERYTHING SEEMED LIKE SUCH A BIG DEAL. 

I cried for a solid hour still wrapped up in my wool coat, work shoes, and dress pants on my bed. I think at one point I even screamed “I just wanna write shit that matters!” (#kanyedramatic)

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Today, I’m still sad. I woke up with a little less faith in myself, a little less pep in my step, and a very bitter heart.

I couldn’t figure out why I felt so defeated. My career is always filled with rejection. I write something, send it off, get no answer, and try again.. and again.. and again. Sometimes it pushes me to work harder – sometimes it makes me want to build a tree house in Canada and change my name to something really hippie and carefree like Margot Sunshine. (Not sure why Canada is part of the escape plan) 

The blow shouldn’t have hit me so hard. I’m actually lucky to be doing PR for a great company, but there is still a side of me that just thought I wasn’t ready to give up on the end goal.

I’d actually just asked a friend – “When do you stop trying?”

I’m still curious. When do you realize what you want to do and what you can do are not always the same thing? I thought I would never settle, and while I’m lucky to have a great job – the idea of grad school made me feel like I still had a promising future. It made me feel like I was still on the path of becoming a writer.

Now, I feel like I’m done.

I think it’s okay to accept that some things don’t work out. Sometimes life does feel unfair. Sometimes your input doesn’t necessarily match up with the output. Sometimes you have to accept failure.

I’m not suggesting you give up on your goals. Try with everything you have to get what you want.

But if there comes a time when you realize you’ve given it all you can to no avail – It doesn’t mean you won’t be happy.

It just means you have to build a new dream.

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The Etymology of Cap

I filled out one of those random Facebook questionnaires today.  I usually keep scrolling when I see those, but my stepdad specifically tagged me, which made me feel obligated to share pointless facts about my life.  The first series of questions asked three names people call me – Capper, Cap, & Doddle Bug.

I can’t really explain any of the nicknames.  I mean, I know stories of where they stemmed from, but I think they slowly became more and more elaborated over the years. So, I’ll spare you the sketchy deets. The just – some older gentleman at my childhood church was called Cap.  He and I were besties. 

My mother claims she named me Catherine Aimee (Ahhh-Meee) because she wanted me to have a “classy” name.  Turns out, as you grow up – sometimes you don’t live up to your classy name and people have to make up boyish alternatives that better suit your all beige.. all jean.. all sneaker lifestyle.

Hi Cap.

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No one ever gets the name Cap right on the first time, which means I usually have to pretend I’m cool with being called Cat or worse – Cathy.  Eventually people start catching on to the “pppp” sound, but some slow rollers are still missing it three + years down the road. #awkward 

Side note:  Close friends call me Capper, which is an instant reminder that they know EVERYTHING about me.  My heart gets warm and fuzzy when I hear Capper.

No one in NYC calls me Capper.

My mom, sister and brother are the only people allowed to call me Doodle.

I usually introduce myself as Catherine because, as I said above, no one gets the “P” on the first go.  I tend to just let people figure out Cap on their own.

What I’m trying to get at is we don’t just come out being the person we’re meant to be.  It takes a lot of work and a lot of mispronunciations to get people to understand you.  Right now, I feel like I’m living a steady “Cathy” life.  No one in NYC really catches on to my vibe, and the writing gigs are kind of none existent.  In NYC, I have to show people who Cap was before she was Cap, because they didn’t see me get here.  I’m basically starting at Catherine Aimee and trying to deconstruct from there. But I don’t have 27 years to do it.  I’ve got like 30 seconds.

ITS ROUGH Y’ALL.

I just wanna transition from Ziggy Stardust to Major Tom without the hassle.  (RIP BOWIE)

The other day I was talking with my mom about how to be who you want to be in life.  I mean, you can read lots of motivational books that may help, but what really gets a person to go out in search of themselves?

I think we’re always evolving.  Some names aren’t always as glamorous or fun as others, but they make the final you that much more unique and weird and more understood.

Here’s to making people in NYC catch that “p”.

 

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Five Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Eighteen

As a 27 year old at the Christmas table this year I suddenly felt old enough to give all of the annoying advice I hated hearing at 18.

I say this all the time, and I’m sure its not a novel idea – but there’s some creepy side of me that wishes I could go back to 2006 and coach myself through those younger years filled with confusion, self exploration and that rough realization that this world is HUGE and we are SMALL.

I know I can’t go back to Cap in 2006, but I’m gonna make you suffer through what I’d tell her anyway…

Just look at me as that annoying Aunt whose place card you keep moving around the table because you’re sick of hearing her talk. 

Continue reading “Five Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Eighteen”

Iron Sky


I like to people watch.  I’m that person you catch missing train stops, running into brick walls, and falling over pavement because I am awe struck in my made-up story of the unlucky individual sitting/standing/reading/sleeping beside me. I pretend as though I get people, even when I have no idea who they are or what they’ve been through.  I make up stories about where they’re headed in life, where they came from, and what they’re running from.

You could say I’m a silent narrator of the human race, but like – a really bad one. 

To some extent, I believe we all pretend to understand people.  Maybe its to relate to one another, or to feel a connection, or maybe its just so we don’t feel so distant in such an immense world.

But an individual’s true story will never fit into the template you’ve created in your mind. 

The attacks in Paris, the people of Iraq, and the Syrian refugees prove this.

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I will keep the following  as PC as possible:

There are many cultures, but only one human race.  We are all a part of this, and I hate to be the one to tell you – but to believe in equality means to believe it past the confines of your religion.  To believe in love, to believe in freedom, to believe in the right to live goes far beyond your family and friends.

It seems easy to freely state a belief in something, but to see what your belief means beyond the familiarity of your current practices can be challenging.  To have the core of your morality truly tested, you have to break away from your comfort zone.  To close borders and cast hate, but pray for peace is only creating more of a disconnect.

I will not pretend that I know the answers to the current state of our nation and the world, but I know for us to gain any true sense of unity – we have to practice a more compassionate lifestyle.  A lifestyle that seeks to understand, rather than judge.  A lifestyle that hopes to open doors instead of close them shut.

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Big Girl Panties

Hey yo. Hey yo.  Haaay Yooo.

I feel obliged to tell y’all that Cap found her big girl panties.  They’ve been buried somewhere under lots of fear and uncertainties, but they surfaced yesterday in the form of floral prints, jazzy colors, release parties and modern décor.

I know, so stylish.

I think I’ve died and gone to grown up heaven. 



When you’re in school, no one tells you how terribly awkward and uncomfortable the limbo stage is after graduation.  It’s so easy to be a dreamer in school.  It’s easy  to think about all of the epic, meme worthy jobs and experiences you are going to have because you don’t really have to figure out how to go about getting there.

In school, I had such a wide array of plans.  Ultimately, I just wanted to be able to write, but I was game for anything.  After two months of applying for jobs, and slowly feeling like I was destined for life as a #schlump, a friend over at Southern Living gave me the best advice.

Advice so simple it became the most frustrating thing I’d ever heard.

I emailed Travis at my low point.  I believe the opening line went something like…

HOW DID YOU DO IT?!  TEACH ME YOUR WAYS.

Travis replied coolly.  “What kind of stuff do you want to write about?”

“ANYTHING!” I said.

“What do you want to write?”

(cyberspace crickets)

I was so caught up in telling people I was an English Major interested in writing that I somehow forgot to come up with a game plan.  Sure, I knew I’d kill to write short stories or screenplays… but #lyke what was I going to do for a real job?

You don’t really graduate school with a column in Vanity Fair or a book deal.

It was the getting there that was really throwing me off.   I kept taking shit jobs that weren’t getting me any closer to the dream.  It was really difficult to realize that even in limbo – you have to have a game plan.  You have to know what you have to offer, understand your interests, and find a way to make a job out of it.

But that’s really hard to grasp.

Because for four years you probably heard everyone tell you the world is your oyster, and it is.

It’s a big effing oyster that you have to figure out how to navigate.

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What I’ve learned through this limbo is that you have to be true to yourself.  You have to understand where your strengths are and you have to have a game plan while you make your way to your big game plan.  Do what you know you like, but not just frivolously.  Do it with passion and with a compass locked in on your end goal.  Take risks.  Explore your options.  But you have to eventually narrow down your choices.

Figure out how to do one thing well – not a lot of things half assed.

Be willing to step out of your comfort zone, but don’t disregard what you really want.  People are going to be eager to take advantage of your naivety.  They are going to want to cash in on your willingness to do “anything”, because they realize you are desperate.  But don’t be desperate.  I mean, you can be in real life, but not in the job world.  Know what you want, know you’re good at what you do, and write (or whatever you do) what you would want to read.

Also, never trust a man who wears a broken watch.  Just trust me on that.

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You Wild Thing

People always tell you the sky’s the limit.  I’m starting to think that notion is pretty terrifying.  Dreaming is fun, but every once in a while you realize your dreams have remained dreams for too long.

That’s where I am now.

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Truman Capote said:

“It’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.”

I get that now.  Who knew a romance like Breakfast at Tiffany’s had so much relevant truth?

Sometimes I wonder if “reaching for the sky”  is just a ploy to convince us to work diligently with false hope.

You know, like one of those pyramid business schemes.

It’s like an info commercial is narrating my life.  “Keep going”, it says.  “Don’t give up, that’s right… sell another.  Invest all of your savings.  Go ahead, DIVE IN!  THE PINK CADILLAC LEVEL IS NEAR.”

But you never reach the top of the stupid pyramid.  Instead, you’re lost somewhere amongst the steep steps to success.

The only thing that makes this track feel differently, is that I actually believe in it.

The only faith I have is knowing that reaching towards something is more fun than having no aspirations.  Maybe there will never be a day when they stop being dreams.  Maybe I’ll live a life constantly wanting more – like the wild things Capote talked about.

But I don’t mind being a wild thing.

wild thing

Living in the emptiness of the sky is rough.  Still, I’d rather know what the sky feels like.  I’d rather go through the failures, the pain, the feeling of complete loneliness than live a life thinking the sky was different.

Chasing after what I want hasn’t been what I wanted.  I’ve wanted to give up everyday.  I’ve felt inadequate, I’ve felt like a shitty writer, I thought I had no vision… the list is endless.

But I still value all of those feelings.

I value wanting to give up, because it makes the not giving up feel even wilder.

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A Lesson in Triple Zoom

Lately I’ve been attempting to study for the GRE. Some days I clock significant study time, other days I make 40% on the question sets and decide to devote my life to critiquing myself and everything I suck at.

Yesterday that critiquing came in the form of this photo:

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I’m a dancer by nature. And by dancer, I mean I’m a master at the white girl clap and flaring my arms about with occasional drop it like it’s hot moments. When the music is perfect my body can’t resist the shoulder pops and fishing reel.

I think that’s the aftermath of being a cheerleader/Cotten girl for most of my #lyfe.

In the excitement of the night I forget the world can see me act a fool, but the following days carry an imminent showcase of that dancing moment in a more public light. A light without jazzy tempos and bass drops. A light with lots of flaws captured in a photo and readily available for the Triple Zoom Test that my favorite #synergy girls taught me.

The Triple Zoom Test determines if any given photo is worthy of social media sharing. It has become our new standard. We zoom in three times, as you may have guessed, and assess the damage. Many times, the Trip Zoom leaves an image marred in my memory for days.

ie:

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The resemblance, y’all.  I can’t stop laughing.

The Trip Zoom is something to fear. I’m talking scarier than the G train after midnight.

At first I loved the photo of me dancing, and thought it perfectly showcased the night of my  sister’s wedding. I was in Louisiana with my entire family in one room, endless whiskey, and a killer band. In that moment life was good.  Really, really good.

When I saw the photo on the wedding site I instantly saved it. I went to Insta with intentions to post, but first tried out the trip zoom test.  It failed (obvi), and I refrained from posting it.

Later that day I tried to pinpoint when I became such a diva. I’m not J. Law. My flaws aren’t cute, but they don’t matter. No one is triple zooming me but ME.

I hate that we (when I say we I mean me) let impossible standards become a new norm. I constantly talk about how little I care about what others think, and how we should all be ourselves – then my actions don’t match up. It’s like I know what I should be doing, but I can’t get my act together.  So, here’s to showcasing the flaws along with the beauty. Here’s to selfies that people will actually recognize as you – not some wannabe, insta famous girl.

-Cap

A Fan Girl Reviews Edward Sharpe

I’m not usually one for reviews, but after the concert I just watched – I feel like the world should know a few things.

First – Alexander Ebert is a musical raconteur.  Everything from the effortless open, to the walk through the crowd, to the Total Request Live style playlist, to the New Orleans vibe second line farewell made me (and the entire crowd in Prospect Park) fawn over him.  I went wanting to dance; I left wanting to be his best friend.

Alex Ebert

Many of the recent concerts I’ve attended have been filled with far too much production, but not Edward Sharpe.  The show didn’t feel as though I was watching a marketing ploy, or witnessing a hipster trend.   It felt as though I was meeting someone, and that someone just happened to be a musical genius.  I enjoy an eclectic mix of music, so I’ve seen a strange array of shows (ie: rap, punk, pop, jazz, indie… the list goes on).  I’m a sucker for a full band and packed stage – so there’s rarely a show I don’t enjoy.  However, there are very few I leave thinking:

HOW? HOW?! ARE THEY EVEN HUMAN?  

Paolo Nutini and Radiohead were my standing favs, but Alex just pushed his sexy, hair-bunned self somewhere on the top.

From the start, I could tell this show was going to be more like a jam sesh in a friend’s basement – and I was totally down. The show seemed to gradually bloom into activeness.  There was no announcement, no crazy chanting, not even a burst from the side curtain.  The band just simply wandered out on stage.  Nothing was hurried, there were no feelings of agendas or time restraints.  It just flowed.  For a while, I wasn’t even sure Alex was on stage.  I thought I saw his infamous white jacket swinging about, but the fumes from the girl’s Mary Jane in front of me made me worried I had things confused.

The show, while obviously deserving full attention on the band and lead, seemed to focus more on the group and experience as a whole.  Throughout the entire show, I felt as though I was VIP.  The camera for the JumboTron in the backdrop was positioned from the back of the stage, and showed the crowd through a distorted fish lens that looked as though it was filter with the Lark Insta setting (my go to).  It was as if we were watching the show through the band’s eyes – like we got to be a more significant aspect than the typical singer vs. crowd set.  At one point, Alex sat on the corner of the stage and let other band members perform songs from their personal collections.   He asked the lighting crew to turn the spot light off, and coolly mentioned that this show “wasn’t about him”.  The reaction from the crowd must have made him question his significance, as he quickly followed with a laugh and hesitated, “Well, I guess it is.”  

Still, despite the realization that Alex Ebert is the real focus, the entire show felt like it was about us – the crowd.  He did some typical crowd interactions like grabbing cameras for selfies, but even that wasn’t on the same basic bitch level as  most concerts.  After a few hand shakes, sing-a-longs, open mic moments and selfies, Alex did the unthinkable.  At least for my mind.  He jump off the stage and made his way to the very back rows.  I was seated somewhere near the front – so I was instantly frustrated with my luck of seats.  But Alex didn’t disappoint.  He followed through the crowd – stopping to let us all gaze into those baby blues while we planned a life with serenades and dope baby names like Harriet and Margot.

That could have been my own, personal take on the crowd walk experience.

When he made it back on stage, I thought my heart would explode from the perfection of the night.  He continued the show, stating that he wished he had more time to play.  However, the city wouldn’t allow the music past 10:30 pm.

So Foot Loose of you, NYC.

In an effort to squeeze all possible entertainment in, Alex began taking request for songs and playing snip-its of each.

This is where the magic happened.

Fans first requested Lets Get High.  The band began playing the first verse and chorus, then asked for more request in hopes to play as many bits as possible.  Someone requested Brother, and I must admit I was initially frustrated, as the song was not one of my personal favorites.  However, Alex shared the background story to the song – expressing how it was about a friend who led them to NYC and died shortly after.  His reminiscing shed light onto another facet into the complexity of the band, and showcased yet again that he can capture a crowd with more than just music.

As mentioned earlier, he is a raconteur on all levels.  Brother, easily became my favorite performance of the night.  It’s also currently tying with Truth for my favorite song in general.

Finally, (thank god) someone requested Home, and the little basic bitch fan girl in me was jumping with joy.  The crowd was instructed to sing the intro, then Alex asked the audience if they had stories to share.  MY HEART WAS OVERFLOWING.  I love other people’s stories.  He walked around passing the microphone as fans shared the various stories that brought them to NYC, to Prospect Park and to our night together.  Some explained that it was their birthdays, or that the songs brought relationships back together.  Two guys even popped marriage proposals.  I felt like I was living in a weird sitcom/movie mix of Friends and Wes Anderson.

As if that wasn’t enough, the band closed out the whole show with a killer second line that felt wildly reminiscent of my home town.

Not to mention, the second line send off was a nice deviation from typical encores and endless chanting into the dark abyss.  This felt real.  It felt like no one wanted to say goodbye, but the goodbye was too beautiful not to experience.

Thanks for making all my fan girl dreams come true.

-Cap