Yesterday was a busy day. In the morning we went XC skiing, and in the evening we went to the Pogues show. These 2 activities are discordant, almost contradictory, and I cannot muster one single unifying theme except the incongruousness.
XC Skiing
New Hampshire’s thick snow cover is steadily disintegrating as spring presses its warm, wet nose against the Northeast, so we headed to Waterville Valley to enjoy one last hurrah on our XC skis. We were eager to test the new ski gear that we acquired recently at clearance sales before we have to pack it all away in storage for the next 8 months.
My new XC skis are skating skis. Skating is a XC technique that resembles ice skating on the snow. Skating requires exceptional balance, stamina, and a willingness to go fast.
Here it is: the last XC ski picture for 8 months, I promise (barring any April snowstorms)…
Pogues
I fell in love with the Pogues in college. The Pogues were one of the few musical groups that my ‘Irish-American pride’ friends and I agreed on. They didn’t understand why punks liked this band featuring an accordion, tin whistle, and banjo, while I didn’t understand how anyone but a punk could like a band featuring Shane MacGowan.
So I wasn’t surprised that the crowd at the Pogues show was an eclectic mix of ratty punks and spiffy celtic folk music fans. Since I’m too far removed from my punk days to dredge up any credible punk clothing, I dressed more like the latter, wearing a collared white shirt under a black jumper and knee-high black boots. We arrived early at the House of Blues in Boston, still breathless from skiing, because I was determined to get a good place in front the stage. And we did — slightly right of center, 3-people deep behind the security barrier. We were close enough to be able to inhale Shane MacGowan’s secondhand smoke and (theoretically) count his teeth as he took swigs from a whiskey bottle.
The Pogues got on stage shortly after 9pm and started off with “Streams of Whiskey.” I was one of the crazy people who yelled every lyric, danced furiously, and cheered every time they announced the next song because they played all my favorites — “White City,” “Thousands are Sailing,” “Turkish Song of the Damned, “Dirty Old Town.” Halfway through “The Body of an American,” a guy interrupted my singalong cries of “I’m a freeborn man in the USA!” to attempt to hit on me — as my husband stood right next time me, completely unaware and engrossed in the show. He purported to be Irish and called himself a “son of Ireland.” I ignored him. Later, during “The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn,” a mosh pit started next to me, and I was so infused with energy that I was briefly absorbed into it, joyful and free, holding my own against these raucous young men. The show ended after 11pm, just as my legs muscles were on the verge of turning to jelly.
Here are some pictures from Mr. P’s cell phone, including Shane with his whiskey bottle.
