It just keeps me hangin' on

We're still in Ann Arbor. I know, I know. It seems like we've been saying goodbye in fits and starts for months now and yet we keep not leaving. That's about to be rectified, however, as we depart on Monday to head back to St. Louis. Apparently, no matter how long I wait, our belongings are too lazy to pack themselves. I don't get it.

In the meantime, we're cramming in as much selfish, quality time with the remaining fellows as we can. It all feels slightly pre-funereal, but we're doing our best to ingest as much coffee from Espresso Royale as we possibly can.

Walking after midnight

Chris and I ambled home last night from downtown shortly after midnight. It was a beautiful, cool night and as we turned up our street, the perfume from the spring flowers and the carpet of apple blossom betals was so heady and strong we had to pause for a while and just breathe.

The Architect in Tribeca

It is, in a lifetime of pretty neat things, pretty neat to see a movie your friend made. Not a film/video school final project or an amateur job captured on their digicam, but an actual, bonafide feature length major motion picture. And that's exactly what I saw when Chris and I were in New York a week ago today. After a whirlwind weekend in Toronto, which I wrote about here, we headed to the pomme grande (grande pomme?) last Monday morning. Chris had a little investigative work to do, but the main reason we went was to support my old friend Matt Tauber by attending the premier of his movie, The Architect at the Tribeca Film Festival.

(File this under list of things you should not do: do not walk until your feet bleed the day before you get to New York. If you cannot make your way around this city on foot, without excruciating pain, then you probably don't need to be there in the first place. Learn from my mistakes, people.)

Still, I managed to hobble around a bit on Monday afternoon after checking into a compact but clean and well-appointed room at the Hotel Chandler. So what if you can't stand in front of the closet and open the door? The toiletries are Aveda! There's a snuggly white bath robe! The bed linens are Frette, which probably means something to the kind of people who spend money on bed linens! (Note: Because of my treatment for fibromyalgia, I can't use any topical products with plant oils in them. Thus, being offered free Aveda products is actually akin to torture. However, I made Chris use them all and then spent a while sniffing at him. It's how we roll.)

Kickin' it with the big kids at the Tribeca Grand

Monday night, we joined Matt for drinkie-poos in the lobby of the Tribeca Grand Hotel. I kind of expected to get stopped at the main entrance and escorted to the staff entry but, remarkably, they let us waltz right in along with the beautiful people.

Matt was there with his friend, producer Jon Stern, who was very nice and funny. And who happened to produce two indie films I loved, Scotland, PA and The Daytrippers. After a while, we were joined by Danny Leiner , director of Dude, Where's My Car? and Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle and, more recently, episodes of TV shows such as Arrested Development and The Sopranos. Danny and Matt are partners in their production company Sly Dog Film and directed their film The Great New Wonderful , which will be released in June.

Danny is, as Matt promised, a really nice, funny guy. He and Jon entertained us greatly with stories about working together years ago on a TV movie called Flashback. Then they talked a little bit about their current projects and it was, admittedly, somewhat surreal to sit around with people who, when they talk about movies, aren't just talking about what they've seen -- they're talking about what they've made and who they're working with.

For the most part, the Tribeca Grand lobby was quiet that evening, although it's sort of the unofficial hub of the Tribeca Film Festival, Robert DeNiro's post-9/11 artistic shot-in-the-arm for the city he loves so much in American Express ads. And sitting there I was suddenly painfully aware -- to the point of distraction -- that the white ankle socks poking out from the cuff of my jeans were ALL WRONG. I had, after all, dressed for walking around NY and hadn't known we'd meet up with Matt.

Of course, half the people in the lobby were wearing old jeans and ratty t-shirts. But they're movie people. They're directors and producers. No one cares what they look like. I, however, am a normal person, so I assumed that, in such fancy surroundings, I was supposed to look somewhere between unemployed-screenwriter and ready-for-my-screen-test talent. And my socks were bothering me.

So in the midst of joking around with movers and shakers, I managed to remove my socks and stuff them in my purse without anyone noticing. I think. Removing them didn't help much. It turns out that, in the world of said movers and shakers, I'm pretty much ALL WRONG. Which is okay, as we decided we'd play the part of Matt's unsophisticated and unassuming Midwestern friends. Someone has to.

Does it count if you walk the red carpet afterwards?

On Tuesday evening, we attended the show's premier at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center. Matt has basically worked on this baby for the past decade, when he first saw Scottish playwright David Greig's play of the same title. Falling in love with the storyline, Matt adapted and rewrote it, changing the location from Glasgow to Chicago, tweaking the characters and making it a more classically American drama.

The Architect is the story of the point at which the lives of two very different people intersect. Leo (Anthony LaPaglia) is a past-his-prime architect, resting on his laurels in the rich Chicago suburbs, falling increasingly out of touch with his family. His wife (Isabella Rossellini) is checking out of their marriage, his uber-tan daughter (Hayden Panettiere) is testing the limits of her budding sexuality and his son (Sebastian Stan) is coming to terms with his own homosexuality.

Enter a woman named Tonya (Viola Davis), an activist who lives in a housing project Leo designed decades before. She's struggling with raising her own two daughters in the development that is now controlled and dominated by gang activity. And she's agitating to have the projects torn down. She seeks Leo's support in this but Leo can't see that his design could possibly be flawed and fails to step outside of his own comfort zone to consider the reality of others.

It's a powerful situation, a really human drama, with a lot of conflict and potential. Viola Davis -- who you may not know by name but would recognize from guest star turns on shows like Law & Order SVU and CSI) gives a particularly passionate performance.

(Note: the day of the premier, I rode in the elevator at the Hotel Chandler with Davis and one of the other actors. I didn't know who she was at the time but I smiled at her and said hello and she just looked away. I guess she thought I was an annoying fan or something when really I was just an annoying stranger.)

If applause -- and the genuine tears of the guy sitting to my right -- were any indication, I'd say The Architect was well received. After the show, most of the cast joined Matt on stage for a brief panel Q & A. (Rossellini was absent since she had two other films going on at the festival, I believe.) It was kind of an odd set-up with a limited number of questions from the audience but moderately informative. Plus, it was just fun to see the same folks you'd just seen on screen standing in front of you.

Then we had some time to kill until the after-party so we wandered around Tribeca a bit, passing the infamous Nobu, and stepped into the cozy (if painfully understaffed) Viet Cafe. We did the small plates thing but perhaps didn't go for enough variety among the lemongrass crab cakes, Hanoi "pillow" dumplings and the spring rolls. Nothing was outstanding but it was plenty filling and the place has a good vibe.

Next, it was time to hit the after-party at the Tribeca Cinemas. It's not always easy wandering around Tribeca because, unlike most other areas of New York, the highway divides some of the streets so the maps can look a little misleading in terms of how to get from point A to point b. So it took us a little longer than we'd thought, but we got to gawk up at a number of cool loft buildings, so it was worth every extra step.

Got a lovely chance at the bar to catch up with one of Matt's oldest friends, producer and documentary film maker Maurice Bisaillon, who just finished the biography of Barack Obama for A&E's program Biography. He also previously worked on American Justice with Bill Kurtis which, of course, gave this fan of schlocky crime TV a great thrill!

It was pretty entertaining, watching the whole "scene" take place. It wasn't quite The Player, but there was a definite networking bent in the air and since we're so completely removed from that vibe, it was funny to observe. Though probably not somewhere I'd want to live, you know?

So we wrapped up the night with a quick goodbye to Mattie-poo and plans to meet the next morning for breakfast at the Soho Grand Hotel. Which we did, along with Maurice, Matt's sweet and lovely girlfriend Claudia, and two other friends of his from DC, Thom and Lisa.

Matt had to excuse himself during breakfast to film an interview with HDNet and, when he was done with that, the film's stars started arriving for their turn. I will say this about Anthony LaPaglia, who I got to check out from about a foot away -- he's far younger looking in person than those screen close-ups on Without a Trace make him appear.

In the meantime, we had a really nice breakfast and it was great to get to know Claudia, Thom and Lisa. All good people, doing good stuff. New friends! Yay!

Life after the film premier or How Normal People Live

After breakfast, Chris went off to do some sleuthing and I hooked up with a friend from St. Louis for lunch at the famed Shake Shak in Madison Square Park. Brilliant idea, that -- shakes for lunch! The weather was absolutely gorgeous and so I had a really nice time sitting outside and chatting in the sun and marveling that New Yorkers would patiently stand in line like that for a shake.

We were lucky enough to have a chance to hook up with Min-Ah (from the fellowship), who's in New York spending some time with family before she travels the globe and eventually returns to Seoul. I always feel like choosing a restaurant is such pressure in New York -- there are so many amazing ones that if you choose randomly, you could miss a potentially life-changing eating opp.

Min-Ah was meeting us at our hotel in Murray Hill, so Chris investigated some and we settled on Ixta, a really beautiful "cocina Mexicana" on East 29th Street with sleek decor and colorful accents in my favorite warm tones of oranges and reds. Turned out to be a good choice and we split a number of small plates, perhaps the best of which was an Ensalada de Noche - a salad adorned with calimari, jicama, banana, walnuts and a chili-lime crema dressing. Good stuff.

(It also had amazing sinks in the bathroom, these square concrete things filled with stones and a copper faucet like an open pipe that poured over the stones. I don't know why, but I have a thing for truly beautiful bathroom sinks and one day I'll become the crazy lady who takes her digital camera with her into restaurant restrooms. Beware!)

We walked Min-Ah to her subway stop and seeing her off was extremely sad. I really like her a great deal and with her return to South Korea, I'm not sure when we'll be able to see her again. Thank God for email, I suppose.

True New Yorkers would probably be appalled to know that we were back in the hotel in be by 10 o'clock Wednesday night, but we were just exhausted. In fact, I probably would have been okay with heading home that night.

But we had one more day to fill before our evening flight out of New York on Thursday and we spent the vast majority of it, yep, you guessed it -- wandering around, popping in and out of shops, and generally killing time NYC-style. (I bought only one thing: a summer pair of Merrell's which I considered a medical necessity.)

Then it was back to Ann Arbor. Back to face the very end of this experience and pack our things to head back to St. Louis on Monday. We've been around so much it seems strange and unthinkable in some way to head back to our old lives. I think we can handle it.

I feel like an amputee

Somewhere between the Detroit airport and LaGuardia last week, the power cord for my laptop disappeared from my bag. Thus, I've been feeling like someone stole my baby and haven't been able to blog about my fabulous time in the Big Apple. (I'm able to access things briefly thanks to a loaner cable from Gail G.) If the replacement cable ever arrives, I'll have regular access to my blogging set up again. And then I really won't have any excuses about why I'm not writing regularly. Sigh.

Miles & miles, Toronto-style

My feet hate me. I did it again. We arrived in Toronto Friday night and I spent Saturday walking mile after mile, through neighborhoods and city blocks and university buildings until the balls of my feet feel raw and my shins yelp with each step. And tomorrow we head for four days in New York. They don’t make shoes comfortable enough for all of this. Our brief weekend jaunt to Toronto was a bit of a last-minute affair. Kim, Gerard and Graham were heading North for a road trip that will take them from Toronto to Montreal to Vermont and into Boston to reunite with Rainey for a few days before the three of them head back to Ann Arbor. It’s a bit of a North-Eastern road trip, a chance for Graham to show the Aussies his part of the country. (Rainey often calls Graham a Canadian trapped in an American’s body.)

Anyway, Chris and I, already feeling the sting of Rainey’s departure, invited ourselves along to get a little more quality time in with the gang. Plus, we’ve been four hours or so from Toronto for eight months and hadn’t made the trip yet. So a little of Chris’ online magic got us a cheapie room at the Sheraton City Centre and we rented a car since it’s no longer a safe bet that the Saturn will make it out of the driveway without dropping any number of fluids and/or a radiator. Somewhere in that whole process, Lisa & Chuck decided to swell the ranks of those Northbound and we had a bonafide group on our hands. Chris and I took off Friday afternoon and with some ridiculously bad timing and a bad route (thanks to Yahoo! Maps and Mapquest), headed out of Ann Arbor and through Detroit in construction – at rush hour. It took us two hours, most of which was spent at a standstill, to get out of the area, by which the novelty of the satellite radio – and just about everything else – had worn off.

By the time we rolled into Toronto (and by rolled in, I mean, missed entirely, got lost, turned around and re-approached) and checked into the hotel it was after 10. I’m sure greater and younger folk would still have ventured out to find the nightlife, but we were drained and sought instead a quiet soak in the hotel Jacuzzi before bed. We shared the large Jacuzzi with a handful of youth group boys firing on a group of giggly, bikini-clad 16-year-old girls. Relaxing? Maybe not. Entertaining? Yes, in that “Man, I’m glad I’m not that age” way.

Saturday we woke up to an absolutely gorgeous day. Our room at the hotel had a lovely view of Nathan Phillips Square. Who Nathan Phillips is, I have no idea. But there’s a large statue of Wisnton Churchill in his square. I just thought he’d want to know. (There’s also a really lovely public ice skating rink but, what with it being empty and warm out, there wasn’t much happening there.)

I was worried about being cold since I’d smartly left my jacket back in A2. But the sun was shining brightly and it was an absolutely gorgeous day. Neither Chris or I had been to Toronto and we both wanted to go. We just didn’t have much idea of what to do when we go there. And so we explored the way we like to – on foot, wandering from area to area, checking out the people and the city and the feel of it.

Our hotel was really in a great location, right at the start of Queen Street West where the funky boutiques and small eateries start. We got a taste of those shops, along with streetside vendors and artists and a great whiff of my favorite store on earth, Lush. (The meds I’m on for fibromyalgia require me to stay away from plant oils and so Lush has gone from being a grand indulgence to a terrible, forbidden temptation.) I stayed strong and kept walking, past shops offering up everything from kick-ass prom gear to trendy jewelry to underground records to books. You name it.

There are also a number of restaurants along the way and, both of us starving, we couldn’t resist the smell of warm chocolate coming from a creperie. Thus, we stopped in to shore up our energy with a couple of lattes and crepes – Chris’ with pipin’ hot Nutella and mine with gloriously simple lemon and sugar. Eating this way gives me no energy whatsoever but, man, does it taste good.

Heading just a tad further west on Queen Street, we hung a right on Spadina Avenue and wandered north. Within a block or so, the shop signs start making the transition from English to Chinese and then you’re suddenly deep in the heart of Toronto’s Chinatown. Plenty of little shops with wares piled up front, everything from Hello Kitty backpacks to rubber flip-flops to barrels of ginseng and other mysterious dried herbs, prawns and beans.

The sidewalks were packed with people poring over produce outside the Chinese grocery stores, stooped old women picking over fifty-cent peppers to find the perfect one, turning over giant hunks of taro and selecting just the right melon. From inside the shops wafted the pungent, fishy odor of strange seafood. A few people sold still-crawling crabs to scrutinizing buyers and people came and went in all directions, weighed down with white plastic shopping bags bulging with fresh food.

There’s a certain everywhere-ness to Chinatowns. The scents, sounds (and sunny weather) were all reminiscent of San Francisco’s and if you squint just so and pretend the architecture’s blocking you in more, it could maybe be New York. But I love these places. I love the feeling of being so unfamiliar, of signs promising something I can’t read and wide barrels of things I can’t even identify. It helps me stay right-sized, if you know what I mean.

Chinatown led us right up the east side of the Kensington Market, a web of small streets offering everything good and odd and strange and wonderful across any number of vintage and first-hand clothing boutiques, coffee shops, pubs, health food shops, bakeries, cheese stores, etc. I wasn’t in the market (or in the mood) for picking through the racks of prairie skirts, blazers, tees and tanks outside the shops, but I loved walking among them. Many of the streets feature these beautiful little Victorian gems whose crumbling facades are cheered up with bright coats of paints, the lower floors turned into store fronts. Many of them have what I can only assume is original stained glass windows and decorate detailing around the eaves.

We had meant to continue further north to the upscale Bloor shopping area but I was working directions from memories and wasn’t quite sure how far we needed to go. We missed the mark and wound up wandering back eastward on College. It’s not a terribly exciting street, but we did get a feel for the southern boundary of the University of Toronto campus and a distinct balance (or argument, depending on your tastes) between distinctly modern and unmistakably old architecture.

Our plan was to meet up with the rest of the gang at 3 at their hotel, so we killed a little time wandering Yonge Street, one of the main thoroughfares of downtown Toronto. We’d hoped for a nice sunny café in which to grab a quick bite but between the shwarma shacks and pizza joints, couldn’t quite find something that would work. We wound up running out of time and ducking into the Pickle Barrel by Eaton Square mall, mistaking it for a small eatery before being led down an escalator to a labyrinthine dining room below. We were handed a menu on par in volume to the Cheesecake Factory’s ridiculous offerings and I picked out a fair sandwich I had neither time nor ability to eat much of before we had to head to meet the others.

I should mention that, at this point in the day, we had probably clocked about four miles or so and that my feet were already growling at me. In addition, I’ve been finding that if I walk long distances, my right hip gives me trouble. But the minute I say “hip” and “trouble” aloud, I sound 80. So never mind.

Chuck, Gerard, Kim, Lisa and Graham were all waiting in the lobby for us and we discussed briefly what to do. They hadn’t much in mind, although Birgit had suggested we check out the Casa Loma, a medieval-style castle built by some Richie Rich a while back. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that, having visited real medieval castles, this could hold much interest.

I had, however, read that the Harbourfront Centre was worth checking out, offering up shops, restaurants, entertainment, etc. And Lisa said she thought the castle was down on the waterfront too. So we decided to hoof it all the way down Yonge to the waterfront. Not a great idea. Not only is it a really boring walk, with the retail shops giving way to boring office buildings and, ultimately, the highway underpass but it’s also a long frickin’ way.

Gerard spent most of the way down pining (or was that whining?) for a gyros and, oddly enough, when we finally reached the waterfront there was a tiny gyros shack dwarfed by the giant Captain John’s ship & restaurant. So sustenance was found and everyone was happier. For a bit. Because, as far as we could see, there just isn’t much to the waterfront. It’s pretty and all, but other than a walk way leading along, there was little reason to have headed down there. Unless you like schlocky restaurants or are heading to a specific event at the theater. And we weren’t.

No one seemed to have an idea of what they really wanted to do or see, so Chris and I suggested Kensington Market. We headed back north, winding our way around the base of the CN Tower and the perimeters of the Sky Dome. The area was practically deserted. It reminded me of downtown St. Louis on a Saturday, with easy street navigation thwarted by behemoth concrete parkways, buildings and domes. Not much fun but, did I mention, the weather was beautiful?

Up Spadina we went, passing through the quiet fashion district, markable from that street only by a couple of fancy dress shops. And no matter how much I begged, Kim would not go into one of them and try on a big, frou-frou dress that looked like a sparkly pink meringue. Spoil sport! Thus, we kept going, through Chinatown again, and delivered everyone to the Market.

Chris and I bowed out of another go ‘round and took seats outside the Moonbeam Café at the Market’s edge as they split up and explored their own pursuits. Lisa and Chuck joined us after a few moments. Seems the vintage wasn’t as vintage as they’d like and Lisa was feeling a little beat too. The others walked through the Market and further north to Little Italy to scope out dinner prospects for the evening.

We got a quick break back to the hotel – long enough to put my feet in the tub and my aching neck on ice for a few – and cabbed it to dinner at Sotto Vocce at College and Clifton. It was a tiny, cozy joint, which made it tough to hear the conversation at times. The appetizers were quite nice but the boxes of Barillo pasta visible from the dining room raised my suspicion and, sure enough, the linguine dish I ordered wasn’t remarkable but filled me up well enough.

It was quite chilly by the time we headed outside, debating whether or not to brave the street car but deciding that none of us had the knowledge or the coins. Thus, we meandered slowly back towards our hotels, stopping for scoops of ice cream along the way. Delicious, if imprudent, given the temperature. Not that I cared, since my chivalrous husband had insisted I take his leather jacket.

I was surprise, but my feet actually held up just enough to hobble back to the hotel and collapse into a shallow but fantabulous bath. Depending on who you asked, and how much they wanted to make me feel good about it, we walked somewhere between seven and ten miles yesterday. Makes me feel better about the pasta and ice cream bit.

Now we’re in the car heading back home. We had breakfast with the gang at Fran’s Restaurant. Kim, Gerard and Graham have probably already arrived in Montreal. Lisa and Chuck were spending one more day in Toronto and then a night in a B&B on the way back. Chris and I are heading back to Ann Arbor for about 15 hours. Tomorrow morning, we board an early flight to New York where we’ll be visiting with some friends, attending the premier of “The Architect” at the Tribeca Film Festival and, if I have my way, not walking nearly as much as last time.

Rainey days and Tuesdays

Well, it's official. Rainey left yesterday, cramming all her stuff into their Camry and hitting the road for the 12-hour drive back to Beantown. I guess there's no denying it anymore -- the fellowship is, apparently, over. I can tell because I wake up in the mornings now and I'm no longer planning my day around a director's lunch, that afternoon's seminar or an evening dinner. I'm not mining my email trying to juggle plans with all sorts of different people. I'm not feeling the pressure of class deadlines.

We're all going to be petering out of Ann Arbor in the next few weeks. Tony heads back to Philly on Thursday. Min-Ah leaves for some time with family in New York soon and then heads out for a month or two of world travel before showing up for duty in Seoul. Graham, who drove back to Boston with Rainey yesterday, flies back to Ann Arbor tonight to concentrate on finishing up his screenplay. In May, he'll drive across country with Gerard and Kim, who will then spend some time in Malta and the far East before arriving back in Sydney.

Vindu will make the long drive back to California in the not-too-distant future. Thomas will stay in Ann Arbor until June, when he makes his way to England. Vanessa plans to travel in the Far East before coming back to Ann Arbor, gathering her things and cats, and then pointing herself back towards Miami.

Gail returns to Baltimore some time soon, although she'll be in and out of Ann Arbor. The Butters head back to their home in Ferndale which, while not actually that far from Ann Arbor, seems a million miles away in theory. After school gets out in June, the Lindsay crew goes back to Alexandria.

Not sure yet when and where Chuck and Lisa are heading; their adventure contains some variables not yet resolved. Fara and John Bacon, who both live in the Ann Arbor area, will turn their focuses back to their "real" lives here. Charles Clover's spending the summer here finishing up his book on Russian conservatism before he goes back to London.

Chris and I are already doing that thing, where we're deciding what we can start to pack. Nothing's made it into any boxes yet, but the promise looms there in stacks of books and piles of winter clothing. We'll spend a few days in New York starting May 1, to attend a friend's movie premier at the Tribeca Film Festival. Then it's back here to really pack for our mid-May departure and return to St. Louis.

So it's a strange transitional time for us here. We're here, but without the fellowship, we're not exactly here together. Plus, people are placing one foot firmly in their "real" lives and testing the waters of re-entry.

It doesn't help that the weather has been largely overcast and dreary today. Not one bit.

Oh, what a night!

I was already drunk by the time I arrived at my senior prom, a rather imprudent move that was highlighted by a prom videotape that shows me spending about twenty minutes breathing wine on my French teacher as I told her how much I loooooooooooved the language. It was just the first of many gaffes in a night that, perhaps fortunately, I don't actually remember too much about. I know that my date and I were each other's last resort and that he spent the entire night sitting at a table, basically not talking. I know that a bunch of us had a hotel room and champagne was involved, although sex wasn't. And I know that at the faculty-staffed after-prom breakfast I nearly became the stuff of legends when my safety-pinned skirt came undone and nearly wound up around my ankles.

Fortunately, there were no such moments at the first ever Wallace House prom. Instead, there was an awesome spread -- partly mined from graduation leftovers but also including the Zingerman's hummingbird cake I dream about (thanks Drew & Sally.) The place was decked out in candlelight and silver decorations and never looked so homey or beautiful. Furniture was cleared out to make for a dance floor we all took to, reluctantly or not, at some point in the evening.

The soundtrack was Kim's iPod, the result of hours of collecting our favorite (and often cheesiest) tunes from the 80s and 90s. And everyone showed up in their best dresses and in good moods, pushing aside the impending melancholy we're all struggling with. (Vindu, Vickie and Thomas were our MIA's, the former two out of town and Thomas, unfortunately, sick.)

Tremendous fun was had. Chris danced with me more that night than in our eight years together combined. I finally knew what it was like to be at the prom, madly in love with my handsome date, and feeling like I belonged there, among real friends and people I truly love. It beats that 1988 hotel ballroom affair any day. Some more pics:

Me and my handsome prom date.

The gorgeous spread!

Chuck cutting a rug with Mrs. Eisendrath.

The prom queen and king, Vaness and Charles, perform for us...

School's out for summer

Sigh. Graduation Day -- which, having been through several at this point, I think is by nature slightly anticlimactic -- is over. Everyone donned their best outfits and crammed into Wallace House to be feted and honored by staff, faculty, family members and miscellaneous members of the academic community. Charles gave a thoughtful (if not hopeful) state of the union about the year in journalism before handing out a variety of, uh, unique awards to fellows. They also received a lovely framed certificate and photo of the class.

Chris won the "Elliot Ness Award" for his sleuthing and commitment to fighting online crime, which seems perfectly fitting. On the other hand, Vanessa's "Belly Dancing Award, Amateur Division" puzzled most of us, including her.

Tony, Jamie and Fara delivered lovely speeches in an attempt to wrap up a year that is, in many ways, indescribable -- accompanied by a nice slide show Chuck put together. Though our three reps delivered very different speeches, each representative of the individual, the common theme among them was not the professional development or the contacts made or the academic achievement. It was the friendships we've formed.

I think we all know that in twenty years, we'll remember the people who influenced us and pushed us to grow far better than the study topic each fellow selected when applying for the fellowship.

There were more than a few teary eye in the crowd. (Besides Rainey, of course.) In fact, I claim two of them.

Then we made a big to-do of presenting the traditional class gift to the Wallace House. Bearing in mind that it's supposed to be something useful to the 2006-2007 fellowship class, we decided that a giant, high-end kitchen island with two beautiful red leather and chrome stools was the route to go. (Many thanks to Lisa for enduring all of our input in selecting the gift and arranging it's delivery.)

Amy Butters and the Butter Beans even decorated a couple of Wallace House aprons with maize and blue handprints. Perfect for cooking those gigantic group dinners the next round of victims don't yet know anything about.

We finished up the evening by refusing to leave the Wallace House, snacking on the delicious spread they laid out and lingering inside for while before gathering on the front porch. One last go on the porch swing before reality sets in. If there's one thing that was made clear by the day -- and here, I'm not braggin', just sayin' -- it's that we've been a truly unique class. Eisendrath mentioned in his talk that from day one, we've used the Wallace House to greater advantage and organized more group activities than any class before. Sunday brunches, Friday film nights, Thursday poker gatherings, tango lessons, wine tastings, Valerie Laken's narrative writing workshop, the Fairy Tale party, etc.

From the start, we've sought out each other and created opportunities to get to know each other in more intimate settings. Of course, not everyone attended every event, but there was enough variety that if you were willing to show up, you had the chance to get to know everyone. Kids included -- and that can be difficult in a class where the majority of us don't have any.

And our fun's not over yet. Tonight we're blazing new trails by having the first Knight-Wallace Fellowship prom, as planned by a stellar committee including Vanessa, Fara, Lisa, Kim and Min-Ah. (Forgive me if I've forgotten anyone else.) Sound a little cheesy? A little silly? A little weird?

You bet. And that's the Knight-Wallace Fellowship Class in a nutshell.

CLASS OF 2006 RULES!

And also...

He is now upstairs playing "It's the end of the world as we know it" at top volume. Sigh.

Off to a good start

Today is graduation day for the Knight-Wallace Journalism Fellowship class of 2005-2006. Chris kicked his day off by crawling back into bed, pulling the covers over his head and declaring, "I'm not going! They can't make me!" No, this won't be a difficult day at all.

Won't you be my neighbor?

It occurred to me this week that I hadn't taken a whole lot of photos of Ann Arbor during my time here. So as I headed to Wallace House this afternoon on a particularly beautiful and sunny spring day, I brought my camera along to depict some of the sights I encounter along the 1.5-mile or so stroll that takes me through part of downtown and across campus.

The resulting Flickr set is available for your viewing pleasure, complete with captions about the sights and, uh, a rather abrupt end as I forgot what I was doing right before I arrived at Wallace House.

Mission accomplished?

I wrote a friggin' screenplay. Now, I'm not the first person associated with the fellowship to complete this task. In fact, I'm, like, the fifth. But when I handed in this thick stack of hole-punched pages held together with somber-looking brass fasteners, I had an immense sense of accomplishment. A feature-length film! Something I never really thought about doing. A whole different approach to writing for me. Nice. It's good - and important - to feel such a sense of accomplishment about somethin as the fellowship draws to a close. Because otherwise I'm obsessed with the seemingly general sense of dwelling on what we didn't get done with our time here. Which is, frankly, just about everything else. Sigh.

I had some lofty goals coming in. Read (and understand) all of Shakespeare's work. Lose 800 pounds. Become fluent in French and Spanish. Write a book or two. Learn how to repair tuckpointing. Record an album of dance hits. So many dreams...

And yet here we are, now firmly entrenched in the Phase of Lasts. We had our very Last Seminar on Thursday, with Kevin Close, President and CEO of National Public Radio. He played to a packed house, including members of the academic community, and gave us an interesting talk on the state of news, in general, and public radio news, in specific. I'd tell you all the details but it was, of course, Off The Record. For the Last Time. Then we had our Last Post-Seminar Wallace House Dinner, served to us by the always-delightful Jenny of Katherine's Catering. They deserve a shout-out for keeping our gullets full throughout the year. If it wasn't for the food following next Thursday's graduation, I'd start panicking about our actually having to provide our own meals! If nothing else, we have been extremely well-fed this year.

It's a strange time for us. People are distracted by the notion of re-entry into their regular lives and there's a sort of detachment taking place as they stick one toe back in reality. At the same time, there's a sense of clinging to the time we have left together. I think it's all pretty much the norm for human beings. Considering human beings are crazy.

I'm torn, just like everyone else. I'm eager to get started on the next phase of our lives, because I think that we're going into it changed by this experience. I suppose it's possible to emerge from this -- or any other experience -- unchanged, but only if you choose it. Only if you decide not to grow and push yourself and learn from all the experiences, good and bad. (Although, in the interest of accuracy, the good have outweighed the bad drastically this year.)

And that is, as far as I can tell, the Last Thought in my head.

The world's worst blogger

Believe me, I'm racked with guilt. I haven't blogged a word in ages, as you well know. And it's not because we haven't done anything. We have! Really! It's just that I can't seem to find time to do it as we scramble to pack as much Quality Time with everyone into what is now our last 11 days. We've had a visit from Ferhat Boratav, the Editor in Chief of CNN Turk, who came to see us on our home turf. We were entertained by legendary political cartoonist Pat Oliphant who came in and whipped up sketches on command for us last week. And we had an interesting seminar with the managing editor of BeliefNet, the online religion mag, which offers up such handy tools as the Belief-o-Matic, in case you can't figure out your religious leanings for yourself.

Plus, we celebrated Thomas' birthday last week on April 6. Twelve years ago, the Rwandan genocide began on Thomas' 33rd birthday and he hasn't celebrated since. But this year his beautiful daughter Bush was in town and we threw a small to-do and I hope we gave him just a few, small positive memories to associate with the date.

It was a grand weekend, too. My friend Cathi came from St. Louis on Friday and we spent the weekend doing an eating tour of Ann Arbor. We started it off with a Friday lunch seminar at Zingerman's Roadhouse with Ari Weinzweig. (I have a huge corporate crush on that man now!) I may never need to eat again.

And Saturday night, we topped it off with Cosmic Bowling where we finally convinced Kim that it was an American white-trash rite of passage to experience and not actually punishment.

The weather is absolutely gorgeous today and we're off to lunchtime seminar with Andy Revkin of the New York Times talking about covering the environment. Then I've got to crack down on my screenplay which is due on Wednesday. Yikes.

In the meantime, we're scheduling all sorts of events for the week of graduation. Some of us are working on pulling together a yearbook, a souvenir photo album for everyone. Others are on prom committee, planning the party we'll have the day after graduation. And then there are those lucky souls who are planning the Fellow's presentation at graduation proper. Lots to do and, did I mention, so little time?

New York, and other fun things

I really thought I'd have time this week to update the blog with all the activities but it seems I can't quite carve out enough time for, well, anything. I suppose such is the nature with the end-of-semester crunch, not to mention the end-of-fellowship pressure. We've only a few measly weeks left now and, to punctuate that thought, it’s interview weekend at Wallace House. From nearly 150 or so US applicants, 36 of them will undergo the interrogation Chris and the gang suffered last year to see if they fit the bill.

There’s nothing better for taking the wind out of your sails than meeting your potential replacements. The fellows are on duty all weekend to meet ‘n greet the candidates and we spouses shall show up and do our part, too. It’s a strange mixture of feelings – proud and protective of the program that we have come to love and the inevitable sadness that comes with knowing we’ll be passing the gauntlet after graduation just 19 days away.

We are, however, doing our damndest to pack as much fun as possible into this last phase. Last weekend, a bunch of us took a trip to the Big Apple to check out the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times and The Daily Show. (I probably don’t need to tell you which option excited me the most.)

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit but, for all the traveling I’ve done, I haven’t been to New York since I was 10. My recollection then was that it was vast and overwhelming with throngs of unfriendly people against a dull grey backdrop. I’d honestly felt little to no reason to go back since then, some 25 years ago. I figured, everyone else loves New York. It doesn’t need me to jump on the bandwagon. And so I came to sort of a position of being anti-New York, all of it purely in theory. It’s too big. It’s too dirty. The people are rude. It’s unsafe. I don’t even like musicals. What’s the point? I wasn’t even that eager to go on this trip, although a glimpse inside the Times – including lunch with managing editor (and KWF board member) Jill Abramson – is tempting. But when I heard that Graham’s college roommate Jim Margolis, a producer for The Daily Show, could get us tickets to a taping, including a brief backstage tour, I was sold. I’m just that kind of Jon Stewart sucker.

So, last weekend began with the Butters girls’ fairy tale party, where we all dressed in costume and hailed the adorable princesses – technically, one princess, a cow and one Alice in Wonderland. It was good fun, especially when Tony showed up in a head-to-toe wolf outfit that scared the living daylights out of a few of the kids. Chuck had BeBe Butters practically quaking with his red-beaked troll get-up and menacing black cape. Chris and I scared absolutely no one as two of the three blind mice. (Yes, people inquired about the third, but we explained he didn’t get the fellowship.)

Afterwards, Graham, Chris and I headed to New York, to join Fara, Lisa, Vanessa, Charlie, Kim and Gerard who had all arrived the day before. (Jamie arrived Saturday too, I believe, but separately.) We made our way first to the Priceline’d Radisson Midtown at Lexington & 48. Wasn’t too bad, considering we were staying in Manhattan for around $100 a night.

We went with Graham to Katz’s Deli on the Lower East Side for dinner, meeting up with Jim, his lovely wife Leslie and a former roommate of Rainey’s, Ann Marie, who happened to be in town for the weekend. We ate giant piles of various meats on rye bread accompanied by the best pickles I’ve ever eaten. Then we headed off to the Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery for coffee ‘n cupcakes. I was disciplined enough to only eat ½ of one of the latter, but the mere sight of the display case with trays of beautiful brightly colored cupcakes covered with glorious sprinkles instills in one a strange giddiness and childish glee.

Sunday was our free day, so to speak, and Chris and I started it off rather late, with lunch at French Roast in the East Village. We met there with Gary Weiss, a former Business Week writer who has penned a number of books. The latest, Wall Street Versus America, cites Chris’ stock fraud series in the Post-Dispatch. Besides getting some excellent book-publishing advice, we also enjoyed a really delicious lunch.

After that, we walked. And walked. And walked. And I made the rookie tourist mistake – as I often do – of walking the first day until my feet were throbbing, which would make Monday more uncomfortable than necessary. But we had a grand time. It’s our favorite way to see cities, just to wander around and watch the people, begin to understand the layout. So we walked north from our hotel, headed west over to Fifth Avenue and gawked at all the retail institutions (Tiffany’s, etc.) and buildings (gothic St. Patrick’s Cathedral and garish Trump Tower).

It was a blustery day, a little chilly but not too bad until we emerged from the protective wall of skyscrapers to the mouth of Central Park and a sudden blast of wind took us by surprise. We then wandered around the park for a good long time, starting on the lower east side and winding our way across. We found Strawberry Fields, which is a much smaller area than I envisioned and, at this time of year at least, offers little to look at other than the “Imagine” tile mosaic.

Then it was back across the park and up to the Alice in Wonderland sculpture. It was late afternoon and starting to get dark, so we headed out of the park on the east side around 72nd (I think) and decided to treat ourselves to one of the infamous frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity 3, a favorite haunt of Andy Warhol, among others.

Our idea was that we might sate ourselves until dinner later with some fellows, but we underestimated both the distance to the restaurant and the wait. However, by the time we got our table, an hour after arriving, we were starving and fully exhausted, so we just dined there. Not a bad choice either – the hamburgers were surprisingly good. And, yes, the Frrrrrozen Hot Chocolate was worth it – a fantastic, rich, chocolatey concoction somewhere between a milkshake (sans fat) and a granita. Terrific idea.

Monday morning I skipped the Wall Street Journal visit in favor of a little more sleep and made my way over to the Times to meet up with the gang around 11:30. There, we got to sit in on the noon meeting, where Jill held court making on-the-spot decisions about the content of Tuesday’s paper. Then she took us up to the Executive Dining area (ooooo…fancy!) where we had lunch and informal discussion with her about newspapers in general.

Afterward, Senior Editor Bill Borders gave us a quick walk-through of the third floor, which houses their news room, for now. They’ll be moving to a new building soon. It’s quite an impressive layout, although the vast majority of seats appeared to be empty, no doubt vacated by hard-working reporters out tracking down ground-breaking scoops!

From there we walked over to The Daily Show studio which was, approximately, 800 miles from the Times over in the charming Hell’s Kitchen area. And when I say walked, I mean hobbled, feet throbbing and protesting with every step. Vanessa even stopped on the way to buy sandals, so punishing were her smart pumps. We’re such amateurs!

We had a long wait when we got there but it was the most beautiful day, so none of us minded killing some time in a little park adjacent to the building. People were already lining up under the blue Daily Show awning, accented with larger-than-life portraits of the correspondents in their best-reporter stance accompanied by tag lines. Ed Helms: Trustworthy. Rob Cordry: Acquitted. You get the idea.

Jim came to get us and gave us a quick walk-through of the offices, then we waited in the conference room until it was time to go in. As VIPs (we’re SO important), we were treated to really fantastic seats. The studio is much smaller than it seems on TV, thanks to the fancy swooping crane-mounted camera. But Jon Stewart isn’t. In fact, after reading a thousand times how tiny he is, I half expected a midget to come out on stage. He seems a perfectly normal size, frankly, except for his hair which is gigantic.

It really was a blast, watching the show, sitting just 15 feet from Stewart and within slapping distance of Ed Helms when he stepped out to do his bit. Thanks to a pre-show warm up comedian, the audience was well-prepped to produce thunderous applause on cue – something the fellowship group has come to excel at. It was all over entirely too fast and we spilled back out, reluctantly, onto the now-dark streets.

We split into groups after that. Chris and I were trying to position ourselves for a convenient post-dinner hook up with my old college friend, Matt Tauber, on the upper Upper East Side. Fara used to live in that neighborhood, so she accompanied us to Mexico Mama, her favorite Mexican restaurant, at 102nd and Broadway. Service was really slow but the food was good and the guacamole prepped table-side was fantastic.

Matt met up with us there. How funny to see people after 15-odd years. He’s all growed up! We headed across the street to a really lovely little café for some fantastic dessert and coffee. (Yes, I got a gigantic sugar headache and hangover, but really, sharing the chocolate mousse and molten lava cake was absolutely worth it.) I just wish I could remember the name of the place because the waiters were really lovely and it had such a cozy, relaxing vibe.

Matt and I met our freshman year at Webster University in St. Louis. We lived on the same floor and he’s one of the first friends I made in college. He stayed at Webster until, I think, our junior year when he transferred to Ithaca to finish his degree. Over the years, we’d lost touch completely but I’d heard tales of him from mutual friends. I knew that he’d started a theater company in Chicago and that he was very successful – and talented – at both writing and directing.

I also knew that he’d started working in movies in the past ten years or so and it was through his production company, Sly Dog Films, that I found him during a random and nostalgic where-are-they-now Google search. So we’d been back in touch for the past couple of years in a touching-base sort of way, purely email. And he just happened to be in New York that weekend we were there, so it seemed we had to get together and chat.

I’m really glad we did. Although it’s strange to see our teenage friends in grown up bodies with real jobs and all that, it’s nice to see people who have really remained true to themselves and who seem happy with the choices they’ve made. Matt is in post-production on his directorial debut, “The Architect” (Anthony LaPaglia, Isabella Rossellini) and his previous movie, which he produced, “The Great New Wonderful” (Edie Falco, Tony Shaloub, Maggie Gyllenhal) is going to be out in limited release in a few months. Very exciting stuff.

Tuesday morning didn’t offer time for much, but I had a quick breakfast with Fara at the Comfort Diner, a lovely lost-in-time joint, complete with chrome accents and long banquet seats. Then it was off to the airport and back to Ann Arbor again.

The week since then has been an absolute blur of activity. Wednesday was a great lunch with Charles Fisman, Fara’s former Fast Company colleague and author of the best-selling book The Wal-Mart Effect (http://www.walmarteffectbook.com/). He was a lot of fun and offered some fascinating insight on the challenge of reporting on a corporation so giant none of its suppliers will talk to you – as well as some great tips and insight on the book-writing process himself. Seems like a good guy.

Thursday’s seminar was an address on the state-of-the-union of newspapers from none other than Chris’ former Post-Dispatch editor, Ellen Soeteber. She was a fellow 20 years ago and was back in town to sit on the interview committee this weekend. We had a nice chat over dinner afterwards, along with her husband, former journalist, novelist and screenwriter Dick Martins.

Friday, I met with yearbook committee – which is composed of those of us who are insane enough to think a yearbook would be a cute idea while having absolutely no idea how much time it would take up. Then I had our writing workshop in the afternoon, where I was up for my first fiction attempt in years and years and got some good feedback and, perhaps more importantly for me as I consider MFA schools, some encouragement.

I raced off after that to finish a slide show I’d been working on for last night, when we held a Wallace House dinner in honor of Ferhat Boratav, our wonderful host in Istanbul and editor in chief of CNN Turk. I had many last-minute technical panics and the music we’d spent a lot of time picking wouldn’t play for some reason, but it went over swimmingly and we enjoyed a good, if crowded, dinner last night.

Now, I’ll go about my day. I’ve loads of writing to do for Screenwriting Class, plus I’m actually motivated to work on my short story and I know well enough to harness that energy when it comes. I’m feeling very excited right now, if a little stressed. You know that feeling you get, like you’re on the verge of something, some kind of change, but you’re not sure what it’s going to look like? I feel that.

And then I’m off to chase off fellowship candidates with a stick in the hopes that no candidates for next year means they have no choice but to keep us on for another.

Help save the youth of America

There was a time in my life that was Billy Bragg. I can’t say exactly when it was, not the year or time. What I do know is that I was in love for the first time and the boy had made me a mix tape (yes, of course, an actual cassette) and on it he put “She’s Got a New Spell.” Somehow, in my sheltered existence, surrounded by high school friends obsessed with past masters like the Beatles and Zeppelin, I’d missed Bragg. Now here I was, falling in love and finding Billy Bragg at the same time and there was no way on this suddenly brighter green earth that it was pure coincidence. I hadn’t before heard anything quite so raw and beautiful -- his brilliant, poetic, tender, funny lyrics delivered in that rough, working-class bloke English accent. Somehow, it all perfectly expressed the awkwardness and exuberance, the peculiarly deep and specific fumblings of love.

I was also in my teens, itching to matter and belong, aching to fight for something good and righteous and there Bragg was again, singing about unions and justice and war. When I saw him live for the first time, my heart had been split wide open in the way even people who don't know you can see on your face. It was April 1991, and I saw him at Graham Chapel on the campus of Washington University in St. Louis. We sat in ornate wooden pews to listen to his passions fill the hall and it was somehow both righteously ironic and rightly reverent to see him play in a house of worship. It was just Bragg and his pianist/backup singer and when their voices met in the tiny church to sing "The Price I Pay," it hurt so much I couldn't see straight and there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. Some years later I saw Bragg again at Mississippi Nights in St. Louis, just after the Mermaid Avenue recordings came out. There was a buzz in the house because the word on the street was that Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy – a native of Belleville, just outside St. Louis – might make a surprise appearance. It didn’t happen. But it didn’t matter.

Tonight, we saw Billy Bragg perform at The Ark in Ann Arbor. Somehow, in our six months here, every show I’ve wanted to see at The Ark has conflicted with a fellowship event or a trip out of town. And so while we lined up in the freezing cold at 6:45 for a 7:30 door opening, I wasn’t sure what we were in for.

The venue, as it turns out, is a teeny thing. With seating for 400, the vast majority is general admission and that meant that, despite not having tickets for reserved seats, we sat three rows from the small stage. When Billy Bragg came out, he was not more than six feet from me.

Something strange happens to musicians – they get older. Billy Bragg’s hair is graying and at my proximity I couldn’t ignore the laugh lines creasing around his eyes. But enough hasn’t changed that he’s a timeless musician, entertainer and, at times, political stumper. In fact, until both war and love are out of fashion, Billy Bragg’s job is secure.

It’s not all fun and games with Billy Bragg. In fact, his critics and detractors will seize on his mixing his left-wing politics with beautiful music, ignoring its rich tradition. Yes, he feeds us history and lobbies for a change in the way the world works – but he also tells us sweet and funny anecdotes about Woody Guthrie and Ingrid Bergman.

Still, I’m wondering if there will ever be a time when anthems like “Help Save the Youth of America” will be less embarrassingly appropriate. It’s been 20 years since the lyrics first called us to self-reflection and they’re perhaps even more jarring than ever before:

Help save the youth of America Help save them from themselves Help save the sun-tanned surfer boys And the Californian girls

When the lights go out in the rest of the World What do our cousins say They're playing in the sun and having fun, fun, fun Till Daddy takes the gun away

From the Big Church to the Big River And out to the Shining Sea This is the Land of Opportunity And there's a Monkey Trial on TV

A nation with their freezers full Are dancing in their seats While outside another nation

Is sleeping in the streetsDespite pleading guilty to a head cold – and his voice cracking in places to illustrate the point – there was no lack of passion (or corny joke-telling) in tonight’s performance. When he sang of love, Billy Bragg stripped away years of experience and my heart, young again, beat faster and lighter for just a moment. When he sang of justice, of calling for accountability for our leaders, I believed again that change was within our reach, and that we could have a good soundtrack for the revolution.

We started this week with a riveting Monday lunch seminar featuring Len Niehoff, attorney for the Michigan Press Association and University of Michigan law professor who specializes in First Amendment Law. In just presenting us with facts, he painted a grim picture of the government’s version of our freedom. He had me, intentionally or not, quaking in my comfy shoes about my rights, which are currently circling the drain.

So while Len Niehoff and Billy Bragg probably share a few of the same ideas, I came away from the former concerned and the latter hopeful, if only in the slightest way. That’s no commentary on the value or validity of what each “speaker” offered me. Both truths are grim and frightening, both require immediate and intensive action. I’m just saying that if you throw in a couple of love songs, nothing seems quite so impossible anymore.

Random observations at week's end.

1. While it takes me ten full days overseas before I'm ready to return home, it takes only five full days at home before I'm ready to travel again. 2. Screenwriting is fun. Fun!

3. People, we have a mere five weeks of fellowship left. The Final Four will happen again next year.

4. Zingerman's strawberry balsamic chocolate gelato is gorgeous.

5. I deserve the ridiculous look I get every time I order a non-fat decaf latte.

Newfound(land) glory

At one point, I thought the balcony might collapse. In the front row of the balcony section, I could see the lighting equipment shake and the railing was moving up and down, up and down, nearly a full one-quarter of an inch. It was possible that we would die. It would not, all things considered, be the worst way to go - in a collapse of the Michigan Theater balcony, a story that would no doubt become legendary in the special way things do on college campuses. But it would have been a bit of a bummer, seeing as we were in the middle of my first Great Big Sea concert and, when I wasn't staving off panic attacks about my impending doom, I was having a rollicking time.

My standards have changed drastically over the years. Great evenings don't require much from me. But spending some time with good friends (in this case, played by Graham and Rainey) and listening to some grand music ranks high enough that I'm more than happy to leave the power-drinking and bar-dwelling to the rest of the world.

I'm no expert in the traditional folk music of Newfoundland - although, after tonight, I'm considerably better versed than before - but it has a lot in common with traditional Irish folk music. Except, perhaps, Newfoundland has more songs about horses falling through the ice. I'm also generally one of those people who doesn't enjoy concerts as much if I don't know the music going in. And while I'd heard of Great Big Sea in the past, I'd only actually listened to a few of their songs which, on disk, sounded a bit to me like Elvis Costello heading up the Pogues. Which is not a bad thing.

But it's hard to express what a difference it makes if the band's fun. Now, I know there's a legacy of rockers-as-assholes, especially in a week when the Sex Pistols refused to acknowledge their entree into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I get that, especially when you're young and into self-flagellation, it helps to have rock gods who look down on you in the way you think you deserve.

There's also something to be said about musicians who are mostly that and who appear to enjoy what they do. There are few bands, I think, that honestly offer much point to seeing them live anymore. There are even fewer who are born performers, who put as much energy into each appearance as the audience does.

While it always makes my more "alternative" friends cringe when I proclaim it, my very favorite band to see live is Barenaked Ladies. Not only does their music play every bit as well live as recorded, but these guys have a hilarious on-stage presence. They indulge in banter with the crowd, improvise and dance and you're pretty sure you're not getting the exact same show in another town. It's almost, in fact, as if they appreciate you're there.

In my college days, bands like Poi Dog Pondering would take to the stage and own the whole thing, cramming themselves and their multitude of instruments into every corner. Now, while their music didn't always sound that great live, they made up for it in energy. They performed.

Great Big Sea is one of those bands. They switch off instruments and roles at a dizzying pace, so you're never quite sure who's the bodrhan expert, who best handles the accordian and who you'd turn to first in a tin whistle emergency.

There was no opening band tonight, which is rare these days. But that allowed Great Big Sea to deliver a two-and-a-half hour show with an intermission in between. The first half they dedicated to the traditional songs covered on their latest album before returning in the second half with a mix of traditional and, for lack of a better word, "rock" music.

Great Big Sea are not, even in their own compositions, the most original band on earth - but I think that's part of what makes them so accessible. Half of their repertoire follows the familiar beat of pub songs. If you've heard one build up to a frantic jig, you've heard them all. But that doesn't mean you don't want to hear them all anyway, and get up and stomp your feet in time.

And even the most hard-edged music critic might find it hard to resist the genuine and sometimes hilarious banter tossed back and forth between lead singers Bob Hallett and Sean McCann. Because, even if I didn't know if before, it turns out I'm a sucker for a Newfoundland accent.

In the end, the balcony didn't come down, despite the stomping feet and jumping bodies of hundreds of fans doing their best to challenge the architecture. We survived the night to spill back out into the cold of Ann Arbor, a little buoyed by that very simple thing, that unequaled satisfaction of just having had a really good time.