Clayton Brothers at Bellwether Gallery and Victoria's birthday festivities

I've been on vacation from blog land. A lot has happened. I became an adult. I've been waking up at 7am and I bought Bill Clinton's autobiography and am relishing every line. Additionally, while washing my face the other night, my youth came crashing further to the floor. Drying my face with a towel, my nose pierce, the marker that I sought out 12 years prior to declare myself 'different', fell into the welcoming clutches of my bath mat. The single material identifier that had seen me through my many phases of adolescence had disappeared. And for the first time ever, I didn't find the need to look for it.

It had been with me as a dead head (luckily that only lasted one concert at Shoreline where the mushroom people were definitely following me; after that I swore off Jerry and pot brownies), it had been there while I 'raved' (this ended somewhere between Ross discontinuing JNCO jeans and happy hardcore climbing the raver charts), as a wigger (does this count as a phase or cultural identity?), pop-punk groupie (went strong for a few years until Billy Joe got married and I lost my spiked belt), ska ska ska (I was confused - at first I thought they were my people yelling 'oi' 'oi' all the time, but then those catchy keyboard beats stuck and were much livlier then temple). Thankfully, before plunging too deep into adulthood, I was able to catch the opening of the Clayton Brothers at Bellwether Gallery and celebrate two nights of Victoria turning one year older and wiser.

Clayton Brothers:

Then to Derek Eller

Carl D'Alva:

Beatriz Monteavaro:

Kate

Josh's shoe

Then the festivities began

What the f@#k is this?? iPods perched on turntables. The dj said they didn't pay him enough to bring his records...or maybe he spent it on booze.

true. so Victoria had to get on.

Then me. I think the ladies were really feeling my beatz.

The chair was definately feeling it

Gry and Meredith

And then for Victoria's birthday finale it was off to the Water Taxi Beach bar, the 8th wonder of the world, an oasis of imported New Jersey sand, surely an afterthought in God's great plan, but the best afterthought any hot dog loving volley ball playing PBR drinker could ask for.

I seem to always end with a photo of Pat

{moscomment}

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