So I was standing on the sidewalk today smoking a cigarette and a very normal looking person sidled up to me. Smokers are used to this, I thought they just wanted to bum a butt.
They looked at me and said,
'I haven't washed my bath towel since September'
Paused for a second, and walked away.
I just don't understand this.
​
Still coming down from the three‑night run at the Uptown Theater in Providence last weekend, and I just needed to put this somewhere people would get it.
Those shows were special. Not just “great setlists” or “they sounded amazing” (they did), but the kind of nights that remind you why this band has meant so much for so long. Walking into that room knowing it was going to be three nights, no rushing, no one‑off energy, just settling in with a crowd that wanted to be there, it already felt different.
What really got me was how loose and human it all felt. The playing was locked in, sure, but the between‑song moments were just as memorable. I laughed way more than I expected to. That Guster brand of self‑deprecating humor, the storytelling, the little asides that feel like inside jokes even when you’re hearing them for the first time. It never felt scripted. It felt like hanging out with old friends who also happen to be ridiculously good musicians.
And then… the emotional gut punches. Songs I’ve heard a hundred times somehow landed differently in that space, across those nights. There were moments where a lyric I thought I knew just cracked open and hit something deeper. I absolutely teared up at least once, maybe more, and I was not alone. You could feel the room breathing together during certain songs, that quiet, collective attention that only happens when everyone is fully locked in.
The three‑night format really mattered. By night two and three there was this shared understanding between the band and the audience. A little more trust, a little more risk, a little more joy. Providence showed up, and Guster met it with everything they had. It felt celebratory without being nostalgic, emotional without being heavy, joyful without being shallow.
I’ve seen Guster a lot over the years, and these shows are going to sit near the top for me. Epic in the truest sense, not because they were flashy, but because they made me laugh, made me cry, and made me feel very grateful to still be doing this with this band and this community.
If you were there, I’d love to hear what moments stuck with you.
If you weren’t… I hope you catch them the next time they do something like this.
Oh, and Eva absolutely kicked ass.
​
There was a moment in every Gen X classroom when you realized there were levels to this whole school thing, and you were not at the top.
That moment usually arrived in the form of a four‑color pen.
Someone would casually pull it out of their desk, heavy and confident, and suddenly the room shifted. This wasn’t just a writing utensil. This was a device. A tool. A signal. Blue, black, red, and green contained in one barrel like forbidden knowledge. While the rest of us were clutching half‑chewed Bics or pencils worn down to sad little stubs, this kid was color‑coding their notes like a junior executive.
And they knew it.
The click mattered as much as the ink. That deliberate, mechanical click before switching colors wasn’t rushed. It was theatrical. You didn’t just change from blue to red, you announced it. Something important was happening. A heading. A correction. Emphasis. Power.
Teachers said it was distracting, which was the adult version of saying, “I’m uncomfortable with the hierarchy this object represents.” But even they had to pause for a second when they saw one. You could spot them from across the room, that thick plastic barrel resting on the desk like it owned the place. Odds were good the owner also had nice notebooks, decent handwriting, and a parent who “worked in an office.”
We all asked for one eventually. Most of us were told no. Too expensive. You’ll lose it. You don’t need it. Which was true, of course, but deeply irrelevant. Because the four‑color pen wasn’t about need. It was about possibility. It was about imagining a version of yourself who had their life together enough to require multiple ink colors in a single day.
The kids who had them never loaned them out, and somehow that felt fair. You didn’t borrow a four‑color pen. You earned proximity to it. Maybe you were allowed to look at it. Maybe hold it briefly. Writing with it was out of the question.
Now they sit in office supply stores, hanging on hooks, modestly priced and completely attainable, you can get a whole box if you want. I could buy one right now. We all could. Adult money makes that easy.
But it wouldn’t mean the same thing.
Because the magic of the four‑color pen lived in the wanting, in the quiet envy, in the way it clicked while you silently vowed that one day, somehow, you’d be a person who needed all four colors.
And honestly?
I still kind of want one.