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    Thursday, December 28, 2006

    When you're sad you're sad, but it ain't that bad...

    Singer-songwriter Rachael Yamagata sits at the bar in a pensive mood.

    At what point is enough really enough? If the fight of flight instinct is real, and if you really do forgo pain when you are well, trying to rescue something…well, what happens if you can't get yourself out of the state? What happens if you are clinging to your innocence / hope / bright eyed and bushy tailed enthusiasm for something so strongly that you are repressing all the damage done? Love people... I'm talking love. (I'm such a sap by the way, but who cares?)

    What happens if you excuse cruelty – genuine cruel gestures with some fathom of understanding and forgiveness because if they indeed registered as cruel nonsensical gestures it might just be too much to take? You just keep lifting the car off the fallen child to save the life in jeopardy. Bruises, scrapes, gashes, cuts – none of it is felt at the time or even matter. Only one goal. Save the child.

    Dammit. What if you can't get out of save mode? Because it's not about saving him, but rather saving your own light / naiveté / heart – whatever you want to call it. My question is – how much damage can one sustain in fight of flight mode before one, well, falls apart…and without even registering it?

    Fuck. Cary Bradshaw. Who / what /when / and why was she created? I've seen maybe 2 ½ episodes ever and as far as I can tell there she is reflecting on life, love, sex and of course - the city. Have I just become another tourist on a bus of NYC haunts looking for Mr. Big? No I tell you! I have not! I am not she. I know this because I'm not making millions for any episode I throw and I still don't look that good in hot pants. I never will.

    But really folks… I'm sitting in some French restaurant. At a bar. In NYC. Alone. There's French music playing. Hear me? French fuckin music playing for my fuckin mood (lord – I hope you don't let your children read my blogs…) – French fuckin music for my second glass of wine and I have one business meeting to go. My car is parked somewhere close when I ditched it in some failed attempt at finding my way through these streets and I know the attendant is going to yell yell yell when 3 hours turns into overnight, but hey – that's what happens.

    I don't know where this blog is going really. There's something about someone dining alone in a restaurant. I never do it. Hence, sitting at the bar. The stigma? It's not bad at all! I mean it's empowering to dine alone. I go to movies alone. I go on walks alone. I travel alone. Heck, I even have sex alone. What is my hang up with restaurants? Just watched "Sixth Sense" again and Bruce's wife dines alone at the anniversary restaurant (well, she's not really alone – I mean, dead Bruce is sitting right across from her the whole time...and she does have a script. So it's not like she's dining alone without assistance.).

    I almost lit a cigarette. Indoors in a New York bistro. Lol. I'm so sheltered.

    Lady next to me is delightful. She's offered me her olives. Man next to her – a traveler, no doubt, asked if I was her daughter. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable. Especially since I happen to be decked out in black dress, heels and raccoon makeup. Any gal young enough to be her daughter is a lady of the evening in training.

    Clearly, I'm friggin sad tonight. Not Mariah Carey breakdown sad, but Cary Bradshaw just before Mr. Big shows up almost at the end sad. I'm set for my mister. And he'd better be big.

    P.S. – blog entry sponsored by house cabernet at whatever French bistro is on the corner of something and something in the East Village.


    P.P.S. – the people next to me have just had the following exchange:

    "Are you happy?"

    "Well, I think it's a lot easier to be alone."

    "I may agree."

    "The lifestyle is just a lot less complicated."

    Fuck! I want to interject! Really badly. With all my hope / innocence and newly regenerated enthusiasm. It's all Michael J. Fox Back to the Future mom and dad kiss so he gets his fading hand back and downstroke electric guitar boom I'm back kind of a chord!

    Wait.. What's this?

    YEP. Just got it.
    She's offering a train ride.
    He's considering.

    They are leaving together.

    Mom and the tourist.


    "Sleepless in Seattle" songs have just started on the jukebox.

    I'm still here. Alone. But I've got olives.


    Posted by Rachael Yamagata

    The Time Machine

    Friday, December 15, 2006 at 9:40 AM

    I know where you are coming from and it does hurt. Then again, I hit movies all the time by myself, which is fine when you're in the dark and absorbed by what's on screen. It's the dining alone part that is often a hit and miss of observation (And in some cases...just plain evesdropping...but what can you do? The people are often just two feet away with voices louder than an airplane engine.). Hawaii...New York City...same deal. It doesn't matter where you are and what emotional state that you're in. Drop some strangers around you and everything is amplified. It doesn't help that the music in the background adds to the feelings inside. Or then again does it? It's often said that music is therapy for the soul. I know that when I found myself in various eateries in NYC, it was easier to handle the "alone time" in music filled places to eat versus no sounds at all (not counting the taxis honking their horns to avoid hitting pedestrians or police sirens off to another domestic).

    Rachael's music has had a home on our playlists and in our hearts since her debut release. Be sure to pick up a copy of her first album, "Happenstance" and keep an eye peeled out for Rachael's upcoming release. Her music has been featured in both feature films and television. The Time Machine is currently spinning her versions of The Beatles "Here Comes The Sun" and The Hollies "Jesus Was A Cross Maker" penned by Judee Sills and also covered by Warren Zevon on his 1995 "Mutineer". See what she's been up to lately at her website


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