GOOD THING #2

Trey Anastasio's guitar work on
the Dave Matthews album Some Devil

Through his playing, the Phish helmsman brings an earthy wisdom to Matthews' breezily dark meditations on existence.

He kicks a song like So Damn Lucky into the next gear and takes the instant classic Up and Away soaring evocatively over the diminishing earth.

There's a Jerry Quality to the former, a Bob Marley Quality to the later. But it's unmistakenably Trey. Precision trippyness. A steady, coiling build to joyous release.

The song Gravedigger is another example of how crucial Anastasio's contribution is to lending a stately, but flourishing might to the album.

At times his guitar playing is reminiscent of those who have been best at tapping the uncluttered, powerful grace of the instrument: this is Clapton on Bell Bottom Blues; this is Paige on All of My Love; this is Harrison on My Guitar Gently Weeps.

In an album leaflet photo of Trey and Dave working out a tune in the studio, their faces aglow with nimble thoughts, we see evidence of the sparks formed by this musical fellowship.

There's potency to this music: one that must have been felt in the room.

Let's hope it inspires these two friends to embark on an even deeper collaboration. If Some Devil is any indication, it could be a musical partnership for the ages.

BLUBOX FASHION REPORT #1

That Army fatigue wifebeater from Calypso. Nice try.

As the government gets more manly, men are dressing and acting more feminite. Preemptive strike? They would never send over to Iraq a bunch of well-groomed Metrosexuals in Paul Smith loafers.

We're sorry to say that card has been played. Anyone remember all those hippie dudes? Long flowing locks, sing-songy voices, flamboyant tie-dyes, tasseled leather jackets. Yep, a generation of sparkle-dusted potsmokers played that card and loss.

Alice's Restaurant meet Akiko's Salon.

GOOD THING #1

Chicken Satay With Sticky Rice
at RICE (227 Mott St.)

It's a beautiful fall day. Nowhere to be and the wheels in our head are losing speed. Walking down Spring Street. Passing that popular rice pudding shop, a gift of amusement that never fades. Stopping into Rice, like a visit to an old friend not seen in an embarrasingly long time.

We feel blessed to snag the last empty seat. Happy to hear Van Morrison playing in the background. Happy to have ten different kinds of honey to put in our tea.

And most happy of all, to be mixing together the contents of our Chicken Satay and Sticky Rice into a highly pleasing mess. According to Blubox Intern, the Lemongrass Chicken is quite nice too.

Walking out to the street, leaving our old friend behind. Realizing the embarassment was all in our heads.

Like most things.

Blubox feels we have released a good portion of the vitriol which accumulated in the aftermath of the Grady Little Debacle.

So, we think it's time to end the incredible 2003 Red Sox season with one last memorable moment.

And that's sharing a post-defeat drink at the familiar Tile Bar in the East Village with those fellow diehards from lockhartsteele.com and slower.net.

And how lucky we were to find a virtually Yankee-free bar with a trenquilo air, a female bartender to nurse our pain with humor and draft beer, and a sympathetic jukebox playing that old Coldplay tune, Everything's not lost.

Perhaps it matters less how the Red Sox break your heart, then who you're with when they do.

Everything is not lost is right.

Grady Little is the most despicable kind of fool. He's the man who goes through his whole life blending into the wallpaper, seemingly content to work hard day-in and day-out and leave the spotlight to others. But deep inside he's the one who wants to be carrying the ring. He's jealous of the heroes.

So in the most critical moment, with the Red Sox winning the game, with five outs to go, he makes the amazing decision to leave his fatigued pitcher in the game, even though his bullpen has been pitching great this postseason, and bringing in the combo of Timlin/Williamson to pitch the last two inning has become a routine that has paid off every time.

But this is where one man, a man who appeared to appreciate the thankless, but dignified role of those who toil quietly in the background, dramatically intersects himself into destiny, going against the tried-and-true approach to make a call that is all HIS, making a call based on HIS instincts, a call that brings attention to his coaching, that makes him a legend... one way or another.

The seductive song of immortality must have been playing loudly, so loud that it drowned out 50,000 screaming Yankee fans and the thumping hearts of the collective Red Sox Nation.

Little goes down in lore. Sure, it's for maneuvering the Red Sox out of the World Series with five outs to go. He wanted this. He wanted this over what he feared most.

The smallest man must make sure never to go.

Blubox thinks Grady Little was entranced in his mind with an epic Story of how the future would proceed -- the hero-pitcher Pedro with a performance for the ages -- rather than looking with clarity at the situation in the present moment. Or maybe he's just a f*$&ing moron.

Watching Grady walking back from the mound, having just checked on Pedro in the 8th, concluding in his infinite wisdom to leave him out there, a sickening feeling grew in the pit of my stomach, the kind of sick feeling only the Red Sox can cause. How would the Buddhist handle this one?

Blubox has listened to 92.3 FM with too much frequency the last few months. Down deep we are thirteen and pissed.

Yet recently we find ourselves sick of all that my-life-sucks yelling and faux-suicidal angst. And we are stricken with a yen for sensitive pop music, likely to be found on 95.5, i.e. the station we quickly shut off when a friend calls so they don't ask, "Yo, is that Michelle Branch I hear in the background?"

An avalanche of great songs has buried me under a fluffy blanket of pop. First, there's that Jason Mraz song with the white geek half-rap about "the remedy" and the soaring sing-along chorus declaring that he will NOT worry his life away. Ayyyyee....

If John Mayer had introduced his second album with this gem, we would have subwayed our ass to Virgin, bought it on sale, and then sat in Union Square, listening on our headphones, hoping to slip into a realm of sight and feeling, detached from the bounding thoughts that buzz in your head. Instead, Mayer came out with a solid single, but not the tune you take into the shower with you.

Then we are lucky enough to find Dave Matthews going through (or tantalizingly into) his thinking-man solo artist phase. With David Gray and Pete Yorn failing to deliver on their follow-up albums, perhaps it will be Matthews who can echo the full of wonder and trouble songwriting found on such classics as Jackson Browne's Saturate Before Using and James Taylor's Sweet Baby James.

We are also big fans of the new Dido single, which sounds like the song in the movie after the goodbyes are said, with enough acceptance to brave going on, commencing with a voyage on a train bound for Spain.

And finally, we have to mention the new single by Outkast. The video is genius, a Top Of The Pops tv-studio performance seen through neon green psychedelic wraparound lenses, and the song has that exact mix of whiteness and blackness to make asses shake on a universal level.

So what does this all mean? Are we becoming less thirteen and pissed? We think definitely.

Maybe even next week.