tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31540976099666088632024-03-25T06:58:06.175-07:00Dia FramptonDia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-38288454037408230462013-02-19T10:48:00.002-08:002013-02-19T10:54:43.757-08:00The Album vs. The Single<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>The Album Vs. The Single</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I apologize that I’ve been a bit under the radar lately, especially with blogging. I will try to keep you more up to date, I promise! When I get in “album writing” mode, it gets hard for me to pay attention to anything else really. (Something I am working on, because I don’t think it’s very healthy!) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was in my car the other day, playing some of my music for a new friend that was new to my tunes, and as we were chugging along CA-2 Glendale North, he said, “That’s a nice song.” (Trapeze). Then “Billy the Kid” came on, and he said, “Woah. I didn’t know you did dance music.....When did t<i>his </i>album come out?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You see, therein lies my problem. “Trapeze” and “Billy the kid” are on the same album, my dear friend.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t get me wrong, my latest album, RED, is very dear to me. (However, for those of you who know me from The Voice, and think I am just “starting out,” no, no no, no. RED is my NINTH album out, if you count the EP’s and Live CD’s. I have been doing this for a long while). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">RED was created very quickly. We wanted a late winter release, and I was ready to work and write my butt off for it. (Yeah, I just said butt. I’m from Utah). I got to work with a lot of very talented people that I really looked up to: Foster the People, Isabella Summers from Florence & the Machine, Hodges, David H., John Mayor’s talented guitar player, Kid Cudi, (the fabulous) Blake Shelton, and the list goes on. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, when working with so many different people who come from so many different genre’s, you end up with what I ended up with: An album I am very proud of, but still, a very incohesive, somewhat scatter-brained one at that. There’s a track with Kid Cudi and I, “Don’t kick the Chair,” and then a track like “Daniel,” that is just myself and an acoustic guitar. Then there’s the heavenly, ethereal, “Hearts out to dry,” next to a country/pop ballad called, “I will.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In my mind at the time, I was just writing and writing and writing, and at the end of the day, for the album RED, I simply sat down, listened to the (60+) songs I had written, and picked - simply - the ones I thought were the best. Period. The album then went on to be produced, not by one producer, like I was used to in my days of being in a band, but by almost a different producer for every single track, lending to the lack of unity in the album.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">(Again, don’t get me wrong. I love RED, and am very proud of it. I am grateful to all the INCREDIBLE writers, musicians, producers, and mixers I got to work with and am working with some of them again; However, the album is not necessarily an album in my eyes, but a collection of songs.) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I put on a Bon Iver album, I fall asleep almost instantly. (I mean that in a good way). That entire album flows from one song to the next, and it always puts me in a half-asleep dream land. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I put on “Babel” by Mumford and Sons, I am transported to a foot stomping, hand clapping paradise, filled with banjo, quick-strumming guitars, and a heavy amount of kick drum. That album flows from song to song so well, you can barely blink when the song changes. It’s a story.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Tom Petty’s “Wild Flowers,” one of my favorite albums of all time, is an entire hour of well done lyrics, beautiful guitar lines, and a crooning Petty voice I’ve come to absolutely adore. It’s a full hour of perfect Americana and Rock n’ roll.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I’m going to the gym, and need something to pump me up, it’s Lady Gaga all the way. I absolutely love her dance records, (and her voice live is something amazing).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, what is all this rambling leading up to?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The Album Vs. The Single</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In this musical era, I feel like it’s all about The Single. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Do we have that ONE BIG song?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why not fill an album up with all singles?!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Well, you can if you’d like.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But this next venture for me, as I’m writing now, is 100% all about THE ALBUM. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s been very hard for me because.....I like almost all music genres. I mean, seriously, I like all of them. I absolutely adore folk music; Anything with a mandolin...awwwww. I love pop music. I love country music. (I used to yodel as a kid at the Utah Rodeo. I mean, come on!) I love Americana. I love dance records. I love electronic records. I love simple acoustic singer-songwriter records. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And I love writing all of it, (or attempting to). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I have hundreds of songs that I’ve written all stored away on my computer. The other day, my friend Ben and I got a little crazy and wrote a rap song together! Not kidding! (And it’s not the first time). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So as you can see, it’s hard for me to stay focused on one style, because I love and appreciate so many of them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, I am going to stay focused this time on THE ALBUM. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And I can promise you, hopefully soon, a new album, that is not a collection of songs, not a collection of singles, but a story, that will flow seamlessly from one song to the next. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m going to save my rap songs and country songs and dance songs for side projects or something! :) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I cannot wait to bring you guys the next Dia Frampton ALBUM, and I am forever grateful to you all for being so supportive, patient, and amazing. All your tweets, facebook posts, and chats, have never failed to brighten up my day.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hoping to see you soon at a show! :)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">XO</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Dia</span></div>
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Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-35279415255918265052012-06-02T21:49:00.004-07:002012-06-02T21:49:59.877-07:00Carlo Gimenez on Drinking advice & Instructions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Drinking advice for the young and weary by Carlo Gimenez (My awesome guitar player/ room mate / Best friend)</div>
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If only you knew how ironic this tutorial is. </div>
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<br />Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-41822490054216854302012-05-28T17:18:00.000-07:002012-05-28T17:18:12.932-07:00Farewell for now<br />
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As many of you may have heard, my older sister, Meg, is choosing to leave the band for a while and do her own thing.</div>
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I don't know how long "a while" might be. It could mean forever...or not. But I know that she knows she always has a place with us whenever she wants it, whether it's on stage, in the studio, or just writing songs together in the living room. </div>
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It's been a long (and amazing journey) of playing music together and creating. We started our very first band over 10 years ago in Utah! </div>
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I believe that she feels it is <i>her</i> time now: A time for love and discovery and art and adventure. (Even though she is leaving the band now, she is not leaving music. She will still write and create music, so keep updated with all of her ventures on her blog or twitter or face book). </div>
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Twitter: chandlerrobot</div>
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Blog: http://www.chandlertherobot.blogspot.com/</div>
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(If you want to read about her leaving, go to her blog first).</div>
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She will not be touring with us in June. Instead, our friend, the amazing Jimmy Welsh from Boston is coming out to join us. I think you guys will really like him! He is a hungry musician and singer/songwriter, and I am very happy and honored/excited to have him come out with us. </div>
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Nick, Carlo, and Jonathan will be on tour with us in June. And yes, I know that many of you know via Meg's blog that Nick (our drummer of 7 years) and her are dating and have been for years. I hope she doesn't mind me answering such personal questions, but a few have commented to me asking if Nick is leaving and if they're okay. Again, I hope Meg and Nick don't mind me harping on their very personal lives, but you guys are our close fans so.... Nick and Meg are doing very well. (It was his birthday yesterday)! Woot woot. And to answer many questions, Nick is staying with the band and you will see him in June as well. He is not leaving. Nick supports her decision, as she supports him in his every day ventures. :)</div>
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I was not surprised when Meg informed us she was quitting. It was sudden and hit hard, taking the breath out of me, but surprised....no. She's always been a very independent woman, and has so many dreams and goals and aspirations that are different than mine. Even though we are sisters, and very close at that, literally and emotionally (she's 2 years older) we have always been very different. Even playing in Meg and Dia, we wrote our songs very separately. (For example, on a 12 song album, maybe 5 would be written by me, 6 by her, and 1 by both of us collaboratively). </div>
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It is now her time to grow in a new way. Away from the van and trailer, and days spent traveling on the road. Away from the fast paced race of Los Angeles.</div>
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You can expect new music from her, new jewelry designs ( I have her latest one...and it's awesome. Shhh! Surprise). And just anything involving art really. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised by anything Meg decides to do in the future. She's an adventurer. I'm ready for that phone call of, "Hey. I'm opening up a restaurant. I'm auditioning for a movie. I'm playing piano in the orchestra of a broadway show. I've started my own business. I'm interning for a dress designer...." Any of that. I wouldn't be surprised at all.</div>
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She's always been very talented and seems to always succeed in anything she puts her mind to. Dedication comes with ambition, to her. She's never been one to say, "I wish I could do that..." She just does it. </div>
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That's always been something I've admired in her very much.</div>
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Maybe years from now she'll want a "vacation" and come out on the road with us for a few weeks. Or maybe you'll see her on the road in her new musical projects on her own, or at a jewelry convention, etc.</div>
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Keep up with us all :) We're a band of 5 best friends with so many dreams (different and alike) in our paths.</div>
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Thank you very much for all your support and love.</div>
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Sincerely, </div>
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Dia</div>
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<br /></div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-46109034891560521382012-05-12T13:55:00.004-07:002012-05-12T13:55:21.853-07:00The Road<br />
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I don't really know what to write about necessarily, but I do know that when one does have a blog, one should most likely keep it up to date. </div>
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I've been on tour for the past couple weeks opening up for The Fray.</div>
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It's been incredible, but the only thing I am feeling right now, with a 2nd show at Red Rocks about 6 hours away, is exhaustion.</div>
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I think back sometimes to my first tour. I was seventeen, I think. We didn't even have a van. We toured in a car. We booked it ourselves. We played in front of 0 people sometimes, literally. We played for 10 people in a bar. We played for 80 people at a house party. We drove a lot. I thought it was exciting. I didn't care about anything, I just wanted to get my hands dirty. It didn't bother me that we drove until 5 in the morning, only to pull over in a CVS parking lot. My parents loaned us money for gas & studio time. (We paid them back after 4 years). We slept in the park in Berkeley, CA on a drum rug. I woke up to a cop's boot in my side. </div>
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"Hey. Hey you! You can't sleep here. You can't even be here this early."</div>
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Early, I thought? It's night out. This is my sleep time. You can imagine their surprise when the bundle of blankets rolled over and a 17 year old girl peered back at them.</div>
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"We're playing a show here tomorrow. Can we just stay here?"</div>
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"No. You have to leave."</div>
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I woke up and rolled the rug back up. They watched me. I walked back to the car. My sister Meg was sleeping in the front seat, and our bass player was sleeping in there as well.</div>
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"We've gotta move," I said. But even then, I wasn't tired. I was thrilled. I was hungry for everything. I called up all my friends the next day and made up an elaborate story about how I almost got arrested, hand cuffed actually, but they let me go once they realized that I was a minor. Or maybe I even made it sound more incredible. Who knows. Bottom line is: I was having the time of my life. </div>
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Sometimes those memories float back to me when I'm feeling jaded. On the 13 hour drive to Denver I sat up front and listened to books on tape on my I-Pod. I looked at the flat country side of Kansas. </div>
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"Can we pull over? I have to pee." I say.</div>
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"Can you wait for a little bit?"</div>
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"How long's a little bit?"</div>
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"Like...20 minutes maybe. The next small town's that far away. Otherwise, we'll have to pull over twice. We're running behind."</div>
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The boys in the band have been annoyed by my small "girl" bladder for years now. Hey, I can't help it. Us girls pee more often than boys do. Look it up. It's gotta be a scientific fact.....somewhere. </div>
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We got to our hotel at midnight. I stayed up till 3 to try to cram in "productive" time. Writing. Reading. Blogging. Studying. I was too tired though so I just wrote for a little bit and went to bed.</div>
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As I'm writing this it almost makes me sick to realize how this blog just sounds like a pity party. A list of complaints. </div>
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I don't want you to think that is my intention. It's not, at all. I'm just being real, to be honest. </div>
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People see me and say, "How is it being a big rock star now?"</div>
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I don't get that. Last week at a show in Florida, a gentleman came up to me. He looked about 40 years old. He was with his wife. I was selling CD's at our merch table. He looked at me, leaned over and said some magic words that almost made me burst into tears:</div>
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"I admire your work ethic."</div>
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I smiled, sold a CD to him, shook his hand gratefully and continued on hustling CD's as best I could. </div>
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"Dia Frampton CD's! 15$! Dia Frampton CD's! I can help anyone over here!"</div>
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I was watching a basketball game with Carlo (my guitar player) the other day in the green room. It was a very popular team against a team we would call, the "underdogs." The Underdogs were ahead. (I'm not saying which teams because people in sports get pretty angry. Hah.) </div>
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"How are the Underdogs winning?" I said aloud to Carlo. "Against Team X, they're winning? What the?"</div>
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"They're hungry for it," said Carlo wisely. He's always full of some kind of one sentence "words for the wise." He says little, but whenever he does speak, it means a lot. </div>
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Some reason, those words hit right at home. I'm still hungry I thought. I always want to stay hungry, too. (What an odd thing to say out loud, but it's true). </div>
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I remember getting tours and freaking out, crying, laughing, jumping up and down. The first ever "Real" tour my band got was Sugarcult, back when I was 18.</div>
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"What?!" I yelled at my manager. "We get to open up for Sugarcult!? I - I know them! They're on the radio. They've been touring for years. We...we get to OPEN FOR THEM." I muffled the receiver and let out a yelp.</div>
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I remember getting the Angels and Airwaves tour. We were on another tour at the time and our manager called us and told our drummer, Nick, first. I remember that moment so well. I was laying under a blanket. I poked my head out.</div>
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"What!!!!??? Tom Delonge's new band!? Are you kidding me!" I freaked out for a good few days. </div>
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Tours came in quickly after that. We played maybe...250-300 shows a year sometimes. We toured non stop all the way up until I tried out for The Voice.</div>
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We've performed in every state (some 10-40 times) minus Hawaii.</div>
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When we got the Blake Shelton tour, that was a reminder of how excited I used to get. I screamed. I called my mom. I called my friends. I did an embarrassing dance in my living room which no one will ever see. </div>
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But other than that, sometimes it's hard to NOT be Jaded. I've been touring for 7 almost 8 years now.</div>
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When my manager called us and said we got The Fray tour, instead of jumping up and down, I sat down and asked him a bunch of questions:</div>
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How much will we get paid per show? Is that enough over the span of days to pay for gas and hotels? Our sound guys out with another band. We have no front of house. We have to fly people to the first show in Kentucky....if we pay for those plane flights and shipping gear out, will we break even after the tour or be in the red? We have no merch. What about merch? How long do we play? Can we afford to take out a guitar tech? Can we afford a sound guy? Are you sure it's okay you loan us money? What about a merch guy? Sure, I can help with merch, as long as it's not too loud. (I've lost my voice a couple times yelling over loud music and crowds at merch tables. Yikes!) We don't have enough CD's for the first few shows. It's a 30 hour drive out to Atlanta with our gear. Can we make that in 2 days? What's the merch percentage at venues? The grand piano can't fit with the stage room provided, and we can't afford to buy a keyboard right now.... What piano would I play? Sure, if we can find someone to "intern" as a tech, we might be able to afford that.... and the list goes on and on. </div>
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The Dia 6 years ago would have said only 5 words:</div>
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"WHAT?! THE FRAY? SERIOUSLY? YES!"</div>
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Don't get me wrong, the list of questions up there would have to happen at some point, but not right away. There was no screaming with excitement. What the hell was wrong with me?</div>
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It kind of reminds me of dating in a weird way.</div>
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When I would go on dates or meet guys when I was younger, say 17 or 18, all I would ask my friend is:</div>
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"Does he have pretty eyes? Does he work out? Oh really!? He's a musician! Cute! Does he dress well?"</div>
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Now, if someone were to set me up I would ask:</div>
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Is he financially stable? A gentleman? Does he smoke or drink? What religion is he? Is he honest and respectable? Ambitious? Does he want kids? How many? Is he organized and clean? </div>
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How our perspectives can change. (Ok, ok. So maybe that was a weird metaphor). Anyway, the truth is, I love The Fray. I watch them back stage performing every night. I've learned so much from them. I'm so happy we took this opportunity. I'm screaming about it now to make up for the loss of screams I had earlier.</div>
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Yahooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</div>
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We played Red Rocks yesterday. It was cold. After living in LA for a long while, and touring straight from Texas to Florida and then quickly up to Denver, I was not prepared at all for the cold. My throat felt like an ice cube as I walked out on stage. My fingers were stiff. I wanted to put on a good show, the best show, for all of those thousands of people sitting out in the rain. (Outdoors venue). It was...34 degrees I believe, and dropping as the night grew older. I let the uncomfortableness of the cold get the best of me. I got in my head. I could see my breath like little puffs of fog as I took in each breath to sing. I got off stage with a heavy heart. I didn't feel like I gave it 100%, and if I'm not going to do that, what the hell am I here for then?</div>
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I watched The Fray go out there. The lead singer walked up and down the stairs of the amphitheater. He sang his lungs out. He sang with the crowd. It was even colder when they played. It was raining harder. You wouldn't have known though....they were performing like the sun was shining.</div>
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I learned a lot from them last night.</div>
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And that's the key to it all. I'm still learning. I'm still taking baby steps to becoming the performer and artist that I wish to be; To be up there with the performers and artists that inspire me so much today. I'm still learning, and that makes this all okay.</div>
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Today we play Red Rocks again. I'm gonna give it 200% to make up for yesterday. And the 17 hour drive to the next show in San Diego? I'm gonna get some more books on tape, and remember every day to be grateful for where I am at, and even more grateful for my dreams and ambitions of where I hope to go, and who I hope to become. </div>
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I still have a lot of room for mistakes. I'm still learning. I'm still deciding what is and what is not worth it to me. </div>
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Music is everything to me. But when people say that, there is more. It's not just music. It's the 10 hour drives. The sleepless nights. Loading in our gear and setting it up in the snow. (Brrrr!!) The sacrificing of close relationships. Missing a friend's wedding. Missing a friend's birthday. </div>
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But, I decided the best thing to do is always stay positive, and remember what you are working toward. On a positive note, I get to be home for Mother's day tomorrow! I told the band, be in the van by 7 a.m. I'm driving us there! 10 hours from Denver to my small city in Utah, but I'm going to be there tomorrow at 5 p.m. eating dinner with my mom!</div>
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I'm exhausted right now. </div>
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But I'm so damn excited to play Red Rocks that I can barely hold it in.</div>
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With honesty and love,</div>
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Dia</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-33862263647089048432012-03-30T15:03:00.000-07:002012-03-30T15:03:32.594-07:00End of Tour Blog<div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm sorry that my "end of tour" blog is a few days late. The second I got home I slept the entire day, only waking up at 8 p.m. to eat some pho soup at my favorite cafe. Then I went back to sleep till noon the next day. I didn't realize how exhausted I was until the machine of tour stopped, and I could reflect, and put my tooth brush out on my bathroom vanity. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>You accumulate a lot of stuff on tour. You pack a small bag at the beginning, and at the end, you ship 4 large boxes to your house since it's cheaper than putting them on a plane. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I flew around a lot this tour. I hate air planes. I hate the air on air planes. I hate that you can't move your arms or lean forward at all. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(I apologize in advance for the scrambled way this blog has already begun, and for how it will proceed. My head is still somewhat in a clustercuss, and this blog has no specific purpose. It's merely a document of how I am now, and how tour was, looking back. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I've been on a lot of punk rock tours in my day. I started touring when I was 17. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(Yes, yes...I know, I know. This is where the few cynical douche bag teens get outraged and fly to their twitter formats and say, "She should not have been on The Voice. She was famous! She had experience!" All I can say to them is, maybe if you came into Crumbs cupcakes a year ago in New York, and came up to the counter and said to me, "Yeah, I'll have a mocha, skim milk, no whip cream." Well, maybe you wouldn't be singing the same tune. Yes, I was on MTV for 20 seconds while "The Hills" credits were playing. So that must mean, like, I'm like, rich and famous right? You'd be surprised how bands do financially. But hey, that's another story. But YES, I had and have "experience." Although, to me, the word "Experience" doesn't make me think that I know how to work a crowd of 500, because I'm still learning. To me, "experience" means that I put aside my entire life, gave up countless relationships, did 2 years of school in one so that I could tour early, left my family, gave up on college, put my money into buying my first microphone....Yes, I have "experience." I suppose if you think somebody...maybe a 18 year old person who works at a Dentist's office and just...well...loved to sing and decided to try out for "The Voice," deserves it more than someone who slept in a car when she was 17, traveling the US, playing in bars and houses and garages and parks and anywhere that would listen, deserves it more because that person is "inexperienced," well, touche. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm sorry I went off on a tangent. The last thing I ever want to do is come off as a bitter person who is super defensive. It's just bothersome, especially lately, watching other people on the show get grief for "having experience." And I don't want to play the -who deserves it more - game either. Music is beautiful and freeing. I don't care if a girl who's 15 and has never performed anywhere makes it to the big time. If she loves music and cares about her art, she deserves it just as much as the band who's been touring and trying to "make it" for the past 20 years. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, back to tour. First off, and I'm going to keep this short, I want to truly thank Blake Shelton for taking me and the band on tour. His support went beyond a reality TV show. He is one of the most genuine people I know. Watching him perform (and his wife, Miranda, who would perform at some dates when she came out to visit), was an incredible experience. They're both so good with a crowd, so passionate about performing and singing and telling stories through song. I am truly lucky and grateful that I got to know them and spend time with them. I will always be forever thankful to them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8HP-XfZGhDMHK5ryaj1Q-IILZGzcGdY2tYumDJ0j7spdrJkWEFIGG9HbtIBGPd3fIb7FGXd-MiKE6o2szdgeYtsGcegZg1F6l82oW1DnmnXlGMUg0LlkxgPQGKpdxhtq1rdp9COyAfV_Y/s1600/me,+blake+hug+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8HP-XfZGhDMHK5ryaj1Q-IILZGzcGdY2tYumDJ0j7spdrJkWEFIGG9HbtIBGPd3fIb7FGXd-MiKE6o2szdgeYtsGcegZg1F6l82oW1DnmnXlGMUg0LlkxgPQGKpdxhtq1rdp9COyAfV_Y/s320/me,+blake+hug+3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Blake & I on stage after performing "I will," or duet).</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, yes, I have been on a lot of punk rock tours. This was my first country tour.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6IRuXE6VV5TkBC5PBKDF48k0BW4vjklnJI38dGrrx_HPfb6hVOPpXRJP7eCPaR-wJFuMeS_gvlw3AuybCFzWRQ_bbfECLFHl8zYKfL2VIjJ1_D1Hf1oEtoqgwJpCL45n3fcizUvkF4-S/s1600/me,+jon+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6IRuXE6VV5TkBC5PBKDF48k0BW4vjklnJI38dGrrx_HPfb6hVOPpXRJP7eCPaR-wJFuMeS_gvlw3AuybCFzWRQ_bbfECLFHl8zYKfL2VIjJ1_D1Hf1oEtoqgwJpCL45n3fcizUvkF4-S/s320/me,+jon+stage.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Jonathan (bass player) and I getting ready for sound check). </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> I've never had more doors opened for me than on this tour. I heard this a lot, "Ladies first." It's kind of sad how surprised I was when I heard that, until a week in I got used to it. Most of the people on tour and in the bands are married. They spent their time jamming music and going to the gym and jogging and playing basketball when the weather was nice outside. There were no weird girls around back stage. It was a very classy environment. Something that is not easily come by. I've been on tours where the slimy guitar player from the band we were opening for was doing some chick not less than 2 feet away from me. The only thing keeping me "away" from all that was the tiny covering of my sleeping bag. Did he care or know that I was sleeping in the bus....well, no and yes. He was horny and she was a naive groupie and I was just some band mate that unfortunately had to be sleeping in "his terrority" that night, even though, I would like to think, my bunk should be ...well, my territory, right? So as you can see, there were a lot of times on tour where you feel anything but a lady. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And back then I was too shy and "too cool" to say anything. I didn't want to be the lame tight-wod (I don't think that's a real word) on the bus with all the bands, the person who ruins people's fun, and is like their parents. I was supposed to be cool...and one with "the dudes". I was supposed to drink more whiskey than they could, even though I couldn't at all and didn't like the taste. I didn't want THEM to disapprove of ME, did I? How ironic is that? That Dia is long ago though. If that ever happened again, I think a simple,</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Could you please go have sex with that scandalous broad out by the dumpsters of the venue BEHIND the bus, please, where you belong? Thanks," would do. Hopefully that would embarrass the girl enough that she might think a chance of herpes with her God-like guitar player could wait until she was of legal age. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>BUT it seems like I was too afraid and embarrassed to offend HIM...so I kept silent like the shy, soft-spoken wimp that I was. Isn't life funny sometimes?</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I'm going off again. Needless to say, my first country tour was full of respectful men and women, (I met some awesome girl friends!) and full of musicians just wanting to share music and basketball skills. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I met Kory, Justin Moore's amazing and very young piano player. He just started writing string arrangements and piano for movies. He has the most adorable country accent. (He's from Kentucky). Once I finish some songs, I'm going to send them over and he's going to put piano and strings to them. I cannot wait! He is so incredibly talented. He also gave me his leather jacket when it was cold outside and I was walking to my bus. :) Rare.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There's Roger, Justin Moore's guitar player. I've never seen someone play like him before. Period.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There's Philip, Blake's piano player. Incredible, and the nicest guy ever. He's been married for a year now and gave me relationship advice that I really took to heart. "Timing is everything," he told me one night over my pineapple malibu and his whiskey. "Really, it is. Especially in the music business when you're traveling and working all the time. You've got to wait for the right timing. Then everything falls into place."</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There's Gwen, whom some of you saw on "The Voice." Well, Blake took her on to be his back up singer for the tour. She is AMAZING, and I know will not be a back up singer much longer, although her and Blake's voices together sound like honey. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I could go on and on. Rob...what a bass player! Jenee....fiddle....always the sweetest person. Kevin, Blake's tour manager, who always made sure we were fed, had enough shower towels, and water bottles.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Let's just say, there wasn't ONE person on that tour whom I didn't love. What a classy group of people. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then there's my band. The band I've been with for 6 years. Being with 11 people in one bus for 3 months can get very tiresome. Imagine NO privacy...literally. And it can really get the best of you, or at least it did for me. I'd be doing my vocal warm ups literally in the bathroom, since someone was playing nintendo in the front lounge, and Nick was doing drum pattern warm ups in the green room, and our tour manager was in the back lounge I-chatting with his girlfriend in Japan while printing out set lists and advancing shows. Most of the time the showers were gang showers, which was tiresome and somewhat difficult for my sister and I. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hey...anyone out there?" I would call from inside the large shower room with 10 shower heads.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yup."</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah."</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Mmm hmm."</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, I'm coming out to get my underwear. Close your eyes or you'll see stuff you don't wanna!"</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So I'd run out in the little towel, that sometimes barely covered my bum, and grab my clothes. (There was no dry surface to set clothes in the shower room), and head back in. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But that's when you've got to have a positive attitude about things. (Something, that I admit, I didn't do very well consistently. I have a tendency to let stress and anxiety swallow me up and skew my perspective on things). </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's when I'd turn on all ten shower heads super hot until the room steamed up and start singing songs from "Wicked" really loud. I'd go dancing around in the fog, going from one shower head to the next, soap running into my eyes, and sing, "You can still be with the wizard! You can have all you everrrr wwwannnted!" </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Which brings me to another thing I hate about tour. Clothes. I don't mean this in a perverted way at all, but one of the most freeing things about being in your own apartment, is the freedom to walk around and cook eggs and toast in the morning in your underwear. To sleep in your undies. I can't stand sleeping in clothes. My shirt crumples up underneath me, or it tightens in my arm pit as I turn on my side, etc. Yuck. I hate it. I've decided that whoever sleeps IN clothes is weird, and is not to be trusted. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I learned that I've got to chill out a little bit. If we had to go into a radio station in the morning at 8 a.m. I stressed out about it the whole previous day. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It's an 8 a.m. performance...that means I'll have morning voice unless I wake up at 6 a.m. and start warming up...but I don't get to sleep till 2 a.m. usually, so that means I won't get any sleep at all and then I'll have more morning voice. And they want me to sing THAT song...that songs more challenging then others..and it's so early. They're going to think it sounds weird acoustic! </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And so on and so forth goes my brain. I hope someday that I can start to care less what others think, and just do my thing. Just be me. I know Blake would be ashamed, if after all that he taught me, I didn't pick up on that! He has such a love of life and people. He doesn't care what people think of him. He said it once, something like, "I've always been who I am...and now that more people are taking notice of me, it's like...some people want me to change, but no, that doesn't make any sense to me. I'm going to stay how I am." (Don't quote me on that! I can't remember exactly how he said it! All I can remember is how it hit me.) </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, I have to go now, cause I have to take my dog to get her nails trimmed and her teeth brushed. (My mom's dog that is). So, I don't really know how to formally end this weird, random blog. I'm sorry for how unorganized my thoughts are. I think it'll take me a few more weeks to get myself a little bit centered. It's time for me to practice Korean with my mom. Take my dog on daily walks. Start writing songs and short stories again. Re-draft my novel. Get back into shape and into yoga classes. Cook. Catch up on movies and TV series.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 26.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Whew.</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 26.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I really cannot wait to write a song again though. I really burnt myself out while writing "RED." I feel like my well of creativity was running dry for a long while there. But I'm starting to feel it again.... it's that moment when I realize, "Hey, I have something to say...." that a song starts building up inside of me. I'm not going to take this baby to any big time producers or let another song writer "fix" the chorus and make it bigger. I'm just going to write it for me, on my acoustic guitar, and save it in my journal for when the next record comes along. I'm not going to let anyone touch this one. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 26.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">XOX</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 26.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Now reading:</b> Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (for the 2nd time)</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Last watched: </b> The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (I'd give it 4 stars, even though I don't think I could watch it again...it made me feel kind of sick inside). </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Last cooked: </b> Korean burdock root, kimchi, lotus root, and seaweed soup</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Last called:</b> Jonathan (bass player) to ask him about relationship advice</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Last shopped:</b> Yesterday. I got 2 outfits for my twin sisters birthday coming up soon. I also took them to get their brows and lips waxed...it was a ...slightly painful birthday present. But hey, it's never too early to teach good hygiene. </div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Last craved:</b> Lemon custard from my favorite spot in Utah</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqlOmpcUCQzjlBVHNp60ROcM1gjYpPAlA6NbvxVZjUkrE_cYI9id8PWV8fYHI6OCoYXByvlRvxlvp_GjLiuW6wgFqAzSZG9D3-CqbCQOQz3R2fHgQOPOP1ITyJ4p342A4zJHbDvrIsixP/s1600/me,+ice+cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqlOmpcUCQzjlBVHNp60ROcM1gjYpPAlA6NbvxVZjUkrE_cYI9id8PWV8fYHI6OCoYXByvlRvxlvp_GjLiuW6wgFqAzSZG9D3-CqbCQOQz3R2fHgQOPOP1ITyJ4p342A4zJHbDvrIsixP/s320/me,+ice+cream.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Need to do:</b> Clean my room. Do my laundry. Finish my painting of the women on the beach with their umbrellas. (I really like Jack Vettriano paintings so I'm copying one!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDMnEb-u6wMz7Wnkdj-5cQCIPRZNx0gfkkUH8nx2aZiGEztH_oA9KJG45UJlpuCvKTnZlZihMBCw36wWmZEWYSZUzgdcCyHenqfhpjo7eMyhBqeMC5qTPmeh1zo4bY2TYl5679_zMEW2j/s1600/me,+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDMnEb-u6wMz7Wnkdj-5cQCIPRZNx0gfkkUH8nx2aZiGEztH_oA9KJG45UJlpuCvKTnZlZihMBCw36wWmZEWYSZUzgdcCyHenqfhpjo7eMyhBqeMC5qTPmeh1zo4bY2TYl5679_zMEW2j/s320/me,+painting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> Get a frame for my Tim Burton "Stain boy" poster. Shave my legs. (It's been 3 weeks). Clean my sink and toilet. Buy floss and face wash. Garden my plants!</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-71665073338071603212012-03-01T11:59:00.000-08:002012-03-01T11:59:13.409-08:00Show Time whether you're ready or not....<div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"So what can we expect from a live Dia Frampton show?"</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This question, for some reason, seems to be a very popular interview question, besides the "How has your life changed since The Voice?" (Answered that one about...a million times already. Ha). </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's a hard question to answer because, I don't want to say what I'm really thinking when they ask that question:</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Uhm....I don't know."</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">No one coming to a show or asking the above question wants to hear a flat out, "I don't know!" But the truth is, I really don't, and I think that's the beauty of a live show. You really don't know what to expect. It's organic. I could totally butcher a song, forget lyrics, trip and fall on Meg's guitar cable.... The mood of a live show changes all the time. The mood of the artist changes all the time. That's an important factor to take into mind as well.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There have been a lot of shows where I have "lost myself in the music." Shows that have been the best night of my life, where I've been genuinely smiling ear to ear, just so grateful to be on stage and even more grateful that the crowd seems to be just as happy as I am and also responsive. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But there have been other times, many other times, where that's not the case at all.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Like yesterday, I was grumpy and sick, my nose running, a full body chill, a cough that wouldn't be suppressed by all the Halls drops in the world, a sore throat, and...WHAT? I have to go out and sing in front of a crowd of people and pretend like I'm having the time of my life? </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There have been shows where not so great things have happened. I remember one show a few years ago, where my boyfriend and I of 1 and a half years had a terrible fight, and after a 2 hour phone call of tears and exasperated yelling, we broke up. Then my tour manager popped his head in the door and said, "Get your in ear monitors on! You're on in 20 minutes." What? </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Or what about the time we played a show up in Canada where 4 policeman stood guard at the side of the stage (during our entire set), waiting to take our dear Guitar player in for questioning. (Long story, but he was completely innocent...very long story). That was definitely not a relaxing show for him, nor anyone. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">What about the show I had the worst period cramps in my life....</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The show where Meg went to the hospital, drove to the venue, played the show, and then went back to the hospital. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The show where I was in one state, and my little sister was back in Utah in the emergency room for a high risk case of pneumonia....the doctor saying she'd have to sleep in the hospital for a few nights with the "red alert" on her?</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The show where all 5 of us band mates got in a huge fight the day before and were barely talking to each other...and then we had to go out and play together?......</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">What?</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Most people don't think about these things when they're watching a show. Not because they're ignorant, but just because...well, you just don't. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I sure as heck don't think about those things when I'm watching my favorite band.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And that's just it. Both parties don't think about those things. There is a secret ingredient us musicians should always keep in mind: Respect for the audience.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I enjoy it when an audience is captivated in my show (If I'm lucky! :)). I enjoy it when they're singing along, my lyrics engraved in their minds. I enjoy it when they laugh at one of my dumb jokes. When they politely wait outside the venue for doors to open. When they come early for a good seat. When they yell out a song request. When they cheer. When they get lost inside one of MY songs. It's an amazing feeling. They give so much when they come to a show. And that's why I (and my fellow musicians) must give back. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That's why every night when I go out on stage, I leave everything behind me. All my worries, frustrations with life, an argument with a boyfriend, missing my mom, sickness, fatigue, even hunger! Haha. There have been times when I've gone out on stage wishing for a delicious sandwich! Ha. When did I last eat...what?...5 hours ago!? But the crowd is the reason I dress up, pin my hair up, put my lipstick on. </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's just like when you've been in a relationship with someone for a while and all of a sudden, you stop caring. I'm not saying that you aren't allowed to sit with your loved one in your sweat pants, pony tail, & no make up on. (Aw, that sounds so nice right now). But sometimes when you're with someone for a long time you end up dressing like that all the time. You stop going to the gym, forget or don't care to shave your legs, to put his favorite perfume on. I mean...you've been together for so long it doesn't matter right? </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Wrong. Or at least I think so. It's important to "get ready" for your significant other. And take that and times it by 100 and that's how important it is for me to "get ready" for the audience.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Lipstick. Check.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hydrated. Check.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Vocal warm ups. Check.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Curled hair. Check.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">No alcohol. Check. (I don't mind drinking on stage for other artists, but I have seen some artists that have been so drunk they can barely make it through a song...and that...to me...is very disrespectful to their audience). </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">All my worries, cares, and grumbling...that's put away in a cupboard for the one hour I'm on stage. Because that time is yours and mine, together. For music. That one hour is for us to forget about everything else. I'll leave my cares behind if you leave yours:</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your job</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your mid term paper that you haven't even started on yet</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your rent payment that's due soon</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You just got laid off from your job</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your girlfriend dumped you</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You just got out of rehab</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You have a head ache</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You lost your wallet</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your dad never praises you, but always brings up the bad things</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Your parents are getting a divorce</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You're trying to quit smoking and your hands are shaking</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I never thought about YOU guys! I never thought that, hey, maybe someone in the audience is having a terrible day but decided to come out to the show anyways! Maybe someone in the audience is feeling sick, too. They're here. They are smiling!</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Let's make a promise from here on out. Live music concerts are a time to close your eyes, forget all your cares, and sing the lyrics to your favorite song louder than the person on stage.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That's what I do when I go to concerts.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When I go to a show of a band I love, I'm the girl in the back singing and screaming out all the lyrics loudly, waving my 5 t shirts I bought (The last show I went to, I spent $250 on band merch! Ha! I love being a music fan). I'll be the girl checking the seat next to me every 2 minutes, making sure no one took any of my 4 vinyls I bought. The girl making friends with the people next to me (or annoying the hell out of them). The girl who's happy to be there with a band that I know is also happy to be there! </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Cheers to live concerts!</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">XOXO </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia Frampton</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">P.S. My sister Meg at www.chandlertherobot.com released her 1st Thursday pieces today of Herman the Nerdbot necklaces. (She releases special limited edition pieces the 1st Thursday of every month). Catch March's necklace online before they're sold out. :) </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-43367249781142930022012-02-11T12:01:00.000-08:002012-02-11T12:01:08.111-08:00DAY OFF IN OHIO<div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px; text-align: center;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b>Day off in Ohio</b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A day off on tour is a very precious thing. On tour days kind of seem to blur together, and the simple luxuries you have at home are no where to be found. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was talking to Andre (Our merch guy) on the bus the other day, and asked him, "Do you like touring?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He sighed. It was 1 a.m. He had to stay up late counting out merch quantities with the venue and giving them their cut. (At most shows, venues keep a percentage of merch sales. The standard is usually 20%). Random fact. :)</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yes and no," he said. "I miss my family a lot. I miss out on events. Ya know, birthdays, art festivals, mother's day. But I like traveling a lot. I like it too when I'm surrounded by good people."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I smiled. "I miss silly things."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Like what?" he asked.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well, for example, on tour it sucks brushing your teeth. It's like...you have to go into the bay of the bus to get your suitcase out, dig for your toiletry bag, get your toothbrush out of the weird container, dig for a water bottle in the ice chest, and then brush your teeth outside with your one water bottle to last ya the time. At home, it's like...the toothbrush is hanging out on the bathroom vanity by the toothpaste by the sink!" </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He laughed.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I know I'm just being silly now, but after a few weeks of tour, the thing I miss the most is just having everything conveniently out. You need toe clippers, well, they're right here in the bathroom drawer! No big deal! You don't have to pull 7 other people's bags out to find your bag stuffed in the back of the bay to grab those suckers out.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I hope you don't take this as me complaining about tour. Because, obviously, I choose tour over any of the other stuff, from the small things like toothbrush convenience, to the big things, like missing my very large family at home in Utah. But everyday I would choose tour. Being up on stage is something I wouldn't give up, even though sometimes I get so nervous it scares the crap out of me. I still want to get right back up on the horse. Sometimes people ask me, "How did you overcome your nerves/fears." My answer to that: I haven't. I don't think I ever will. But what I have got control over...is how I let the nerves and fear control me. They're still there, lurking in the shadows, but I'll still go out on stage with a smile and a big middle finger to them. Sure, you're still here...but so am I. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Now, moving on to the present. Today is a day off in Ohio. I wake up in my bunk. It's hot. Someone's snoring. The humidifier is on but I can tell there's no water in it left. It sounds funny. The lights are all off. I peek out. Everyone's curtain in their bunk is closed. No way! Am I really the first person to wake up today? I look at the clock on my phone. 9:45 a.m. I am ALWAYS the last to wake. (Granted, I'm usually the last to go to sleep too. I've been busy with Korean Rosetta stone so I can better understand my momma)! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Wait a second...if I'm the first up...that means that I have a chance to be the first person in the hotel room...meaning, I COULD BE THE FIRST PERSON IN THE SHOWER! That's enough to even pull me out of bed. We have 9 people with us on the bus. 5 of them, myself included, are band. Andre- Merch dude. Rob - Tech. Chase - Monitor tech. Robert - Tour manager. We only get 1 hotel room. (Hey, we're on a budget here!) So...after 9 people get in one hotel room...the chances are, it doesn't look or smell that great later on. The 9th person to get the shower is never a happy person. Especially if all the guys shave in the bathroom. Geez, they leave their hair EVERYWHERE!!!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I quickly put some warm clothes on, get my laundry bag (Yes, laundry is a must on every day off!) and run into the hotel. I spot Meg on my way in. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Why are you up?" she asks astonished.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I want to take a bath....am I the first one in the bathroom?" (After one person has gone...baths are a no no for me. I just can't.....ew). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yup you are."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Excuse me," I say, as I scramble toward the elevator.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And as I'm sitting in the bath tub, a slather of honey on my face, (Home made mask!) and a little bit of lavender oil in the water, I think to myself...Awww, this is the life! How grateful I am for this bath! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I hear the door click open.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hello?" I call out.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Just me," Meg says. "Take your time."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Oh, I will. I do. I think about all the things I have to do on this special day off. A day off is a time to go to the gym, find some healthy groceries, wash and fold laundry, reorganize the messy bus, clean sheets, write blogs to you!, think of songs to cover, wear no make up (yes!) and watch my favorite gooshy mooshy chick movies in the back alone. Days off are nice days to have some time to yourself.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I turn on some more hot water. And all of a sudden I get really excited. I'm on tour!!! I'm on tour with Blake Shelton!!! I got to watch Miranda Lambert perform yesterday during his set. What a performer and singer! I feel like I've been learning so much this tour just by watching these people that I look up to so much. I don't think Blake will ever know how much it means to me that he's taken us on tour. If I truly expressed my feelings to him everyday, I'd just get annoying. It would be me bursting into tears screaming, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." But really...at the end of the day, I couldn't be more happy to dig in the bus bay, dig in the toiletry bag, and dig for the water bottle to brush my damn teeth! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">XOX</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">P.S. 97.5 WQBE played me song "I will" the other day on radio. I then quickly tweeted to my followers, "Please call the number to the radio station and request the song again." I later called up the station to say thanks for playing it. They told me that they had never had so many consistent callers asking for a song in a long while. They said I have great fans. It was at that moment that I realized how awesome you guys truly are. It almost brought tears to my eyes. I love you!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">P.S. My new merch store just finally opened! "RED" vinyls are now available too! Here is the link!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">http://diaframpton.shop.bravadousa.com/Dept.aspx?cp=53475_54575</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">For Tour Dates: (On tour now!)</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">www.diaframptonmusic.net</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNMv4lns0giHYykFKDvWR0Flj77AgeS9FMk6zETkWw87GGSenKnzbvYykL8QP4TeKA6dkpQvGUorCrO-zK1MWzpgOfuQ8HqAUOrIy1O1n8BQxf_l6ETjLcGKDhTGk1UL3PWlhFTcPhHME/s1600/me,+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNMv4lns0giHYykFKDvWR0Flj77AgeS9FMk6zETkWw87GGSenKnzbvYykL8QP4TeKA6dkpQvGUorCrO-zK1MWzpgOfuQ8HqAUOrIy1O1n8BQxf_l6ETjLcGKDhTGk1UL3PWlhFTcPhHME/s320/me,+dog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-17466471435966367862012-02-09T13:20:00.000-08:002012-02-09T13:20:42.165-08:00What's Cooking, Good looking?<div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I woke up this morning to a text from my little sister:</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hey. Do you have any good ideas for Valentines for Jordan? (Her boyfriend). I'm not sure what to get him or what to do... Thanks."</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then of course my best friend calls me up. She's been with her man for 3 years now.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I don't know what to do....I already got him art supplies for his birthday a couple months ago. There's nothing that he really ...<i>needs</i>....What do you think I should do?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;">At first, talking about Valentines' day made me feel a little bit grumpy. Ok, fine. A lot grumpy. (Nice grammar Dia. High five). </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, opened my bunk curtain and slithered out of my bus bunk. The humidifier in the hallway had been knocked over a couple of times in the night due to the bumpy road. The carpet was soaked, hence, my socks as well. (These aren't just any socks people. They have little faces on them and look like gophers. Yes, they make wearing socks way more fun. Yes...sometimes I am a child). I walked to the front of the bus and peeked out of the window. Pennsylvania. Tour date...number 23? 15? 30? It's hard to keep track of days on the road. Our rider of dried apricots, apple cider vinegar, hummus, cups, plates, almonds, coconut water, etc. had arrived already. I looked back at my phone and frowned. </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I went inside the arena and took a cold shower. Jonathan (bass player) said that if you turn on all the sinks in the bathroom and all the showers in the shower room (Yup, gang showers), that it gets luke warm. Eh, tepid would have been acceptable, but I think all the warm water was used up before me. Being number 7 out of 9 to shower comes with consequences. I need to start waking up earlier.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">However, the point of all this, is that after the cold shower, I felt an odd change of heart about the dreaded Valentines' day. I know, I know. You can tell me a million times that it's "just another day" or that "the flower companies invented it for money" but to me, it is a reminder of love and being loved. But putting that aside, I decided to channel all of my negative energy, into positive energy for my sister and my friends, and maybe even you! Now my "single and bitter" emotions shall hopefully dissolve once finished with this blog. And low and behold, I'm already getting more cheery. I love to help people plan things, especially for people special to them. So, with that being said......</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELXj9mBj3OllptjFncFul-w0qQpsZWG-OgPRzn3asFTo9oLzXLgC2jxQE4kOpS8O_QC0tpsIG-Ki-rEeyTnZ7s2RnePD6kmemSLRnI3zsv7QRTdayRJ4e1ZfzATMVtj-sNDrCCRurijgC/s1600/Me,+cook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELXj9mBj3OllptjFncFul-w0qQpsZWG-OgPRzn3asFTo9oLzXLgC2jxQE4kOpS8O_QC0tpsIG-Ki-rEeyTnZ7s2RnePD6kmemSLRnI3zsv7QRTdayRJ4e1ZfzATMVtj-sNDrCCRurijgC/s320/Me,+cook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've always thought the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, just like my momma used to say. However, don't think this counts you out boys. Whenever a man has made dinner for me.... he's definitely gained some points in my book. </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Presents are all fine and dandy, but if you are lucky enough to be with your special someone on this special day, I think you should buy some candles and rose petals, dig out your lace tablecloth, and wipe the dust from your antique candle holders. </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">With that being said, here are some of my favorite recipes that I have gathered over the years. (No, I didn't create any of them...and no...not all of them are vegan...but I cheat...sometimes!) I hope this inspires some creativity when you're thinking of your Valentine this year! XOX - Dia</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTCqt2OhGCQKuNiONIyeT5tdz9Awx9H9tfQZtF-i6Tn_2QY5QMW8haRnqgK3SB8jKFUQCa_-o2sOmGiKfaGDzEyvFTiXGO-ucHM74yj4QzJHcapzz9lIdEvDbgWnc1Wr2YIxP4sh3Tl94/s1600/me,+romeo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTCqt2OhGCQKuNiONIyeT5tdz9Awx9H9tfQZtF-i6Tn_2QY5QMW8haRnqgK3SB8jKFUQCa_-o2sOmGiKfaGDzEyvFTiXGO-ucHM74yj4QzJHcapzz9lIdEvDbgWnc1Wr2YIxP4sh3Tl94/s320/me,+romeo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">P.S. I don't know why some words are blue. Haha. Ignore them!</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Scalloped Potato Gratin (Tyler Florence) </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">4-6 large servings</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 18.0px Trebuchet MS; line-height: 21.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 7.0px 0.0px;"><b>Ingredients</b></div><ul style="list-style-type: disc;"><li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1 1/2 cups <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/cream/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">heavy cream</span></a></li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1 sprig fresh thyme</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2 <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/garlic/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">garlic cloves</span></a>, chopped</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Butter</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2 pounds <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/russet-potato/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">russet potatoes</span></a>, peeled and cut into 1/8-inch thick slices</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Salt and freshly ground black pepper</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1/2 cup grated Parmesan, plus more for broiling</li>
</ul><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 18.0px Trebuchet MS; line-height: 21.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 7.0px 0.0px;"><b>Directions</b></div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">In a saucepan, heat up the cream with a sprig of thyme, chopped garlic and nutmeg.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">While cream is heating up, butter a <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/casserole/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">casserole dish</span></a>. Place a layer of potato in an overlapping pattern and season with salt and pepper. Remove cream from heat, then pour a little over the potatoes. Top with some grated Parmesan. Make 2 more layers. Bake, uncovered, for 45 minutes. Sprinkle some more <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/parmesan/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">Parmesan</span></a> and broil until cheese browns, about 5 minutes.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;"><b>Note from Dia: Make sure you slice the potatoes REALLY thin. I use a machine to do this. (I'm a cheater). Dried thyme is fine, but if you can go the extra mile, scale your neighbors fence, outrun their dogs, and pick a fresh sprig from their garden, it makes a big difference. I bake my gratin covered with tin foil for 45 minutes, and then remove it, add cheese on top so that it crisps, and bake another 15 minutes. (One time I had to bake this baby for an hour and a half, so check to make sure it's completely done and the potatoes are soft before turning off the oven). This is fool proof boys! You got this! </b></div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">This next one is SUPER easy! I Promise. And very yummy....who doesn't like pasta? </div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 21.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;"><b>Creamy Farfalle with Asparagus and walnuts </b><span style="font: 13.0px Arial;">(Giada De Laurentiis)</span></div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">6-8 servings <b>(If you have 7 girlfriends or are from Utah this might be perfect for you!) </b></div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 18.0px Trebuchet MS; line-height: 21.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 7.0px 0.0px;"><b>Ingredients</b></div><ul style="list-style-type: disc;"><li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Salt</li>
<li style="color: #397ba8; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="color: #3d3d3d;">1 pound <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/farfalle/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">farfalle pasta</span></a></span></li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">3 tablespoons butter</li>
<li style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Arial; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d3d3d;">1 pound </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #397ba8;">mushrooms</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d3d3d;">, thickly sliced</span></li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1 pound thin asparagus, trimmed, cut crosswise into 1-inch pieces</li>
<li style="color: #397ba8; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="color: #3d3d3d;">1 cup <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/mascarpone/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">mascarpone cheese</span></a></span></li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Pinch freshly grated nutmeg</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">3/4 cup <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/walnut/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">walnuts</span></a>, toasted</li>
<li style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1/4 cup freshly grated <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/parmesan/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">Parmesan</span></a></li>
</ul><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 18.0px Trebuchet MS; line-height: 21.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 7.0px 0.0px;"><b>Directions</b></div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the farfalle and cook until <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/al-dente/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">al dente</span></a>, stirring occasionally, about 12 minutes. Drain, reserving 1 cup of pasta water.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">Meanwhile, melt the butter in a heavy large skillet over medium heat. Add the mushrooms and saute until tender and most of the juices have evaporated, about 5 minutes. Add the asparagus and saute until the <a href="http://www.foodterms.com/encyclopedia/asparagus/index.html"><span style="color: #397ba8;">asparagus</span></a> is crisp-tender, about 5 minutes. Add the farfalle. Stir in the mascarpone and nutmeg and toss until the cheese coats the pasta, adding the reserved cooking liquid 1/4 cup at a time to moisten. Stir in 1/2 cup of walnuts. Season the pasta, to taste, with salt and pepper. Mound the pasta in a large bowl. Sprinkle with the Parmesan and remaining 1/4 cup of walnuts. Serve.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">Dia's notes: I love nutmeg so I add just a tad bit more. But the recipe portion is legit too! It's kind of a sweet, simple pasta, so if you were looking for savory, this might not be for you.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">Now, we both know that you can't seal the deal without desert! And if she/he doesn't like desert...what in the heck are you doing dating them?!?</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px;">If you live in LA or NY you may have heard of Magnolia Bakery. Magnolia bakery is a delicious bakery which is pretty popular for their cupcakes and cheesecakes, however, I think their banana pudding is off the wall! If this doesn't make them yours forever, I don't know what will.</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font: 18.0px Verdana;"><b>Magnolia’s Famous Banana Pudding</b></span><br />
1 14-oz can sweetened condensed milk<br />
1 1/2 cups ice cold water<br />
1 3.4 oz package instant vanilla pudding mix (preferably Jell-O brand)<br />
3 cups heavy cream<br />
1 12-oz box <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nilla"><span style="color: #816455;">Nabisco Nilla Wafers</span></a> (recommended brand)<br />
4 cups sliced ripe bananas (about 3 medium bananas)</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1. On medium speed of a stand mixer or in a small bowl, beat together sweetened condensed milk and water until well combined, about 1 minute. Sprinkle pudding mix over the liquid and beat well until all the powder has dissolved, about 2 minutes. Cover and place in refrigerator until completely set, about 3-4 hours or over night.</div><div style="color: #3d3d3d; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 23.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2. On medium speed of a stand mixer, whip cream until stiff peaks form. Gently fold in set pudding mixture until blended and no streaks remain (the mixture should be a pale yellow color).</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">P.S. before you do step 3. I personally don't layer the bananas, cookies, etc. but just mix it all together, light and fluffy, in a big bowl. But I know you're going for presentation here so... move onto step #3. </div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">3. In the bowl you wish to serve the pudding in, arrange 1/3 of the wafers on the bottom of the bowl, they may need to overlap to fit.</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">4. Then one third of the bananas as the next layer.</div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.tinytestkitchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Cookie-layer.jpg"><img alt="Cookie-layer-300x200.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://0818E259-D64D-4516-AC08-5EDA564AEFCF/Cookie-layer-300x200.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">4. Then one third of the bananas as the next layer.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.tinytestkitchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Banana-layer.jpg"><img alt="Banana-layer-300x200.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://0818E259-D64D-4516-AC08-5EDA564AEFCF/Banana-layer-300x200.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">5. Then one third of the pudding mixture, repeat three times in total, until you fill the serving dish.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.tinytestkitchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Pudding-layer.jpg"><img alt="Pudding-layer-300x200.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://0818E259-D64D-4516-AC08-5EDA564AEFCF/Pudding-layer-300x200.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">6. Save any bits of the wafers for garnish. Cover tightly and place back in refrigerator for 4 hours to chill. Garnish with crumbs and bits of the wafers.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; line-height: 20.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.tinytestkitchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Recipe-final.jpg"><img alt="Recipe-final-300x200.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://0818E259-D64D-4516-AC08-5EDA564AEFCF/Recipe-final-300x200.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #323232; font: 11.0px Verdana; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-2300266834803324212012-01-30T10:47:00.000-08:002012-01-30T10:47:58.744-08:00An interview about me by YOU!<div style="font: 31.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b>YOUR INTERVIEW</b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i></i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>So, for those of you who don't know....Yesterday I told my facebook/ twitter friends, that if they had any questions for me to answer, to post them up for me so that I could compile an interview made by YOU. Here are some of the questions ya'll asked me, and here are my honest answers! Thanks for being a part of this! XO - Dia</i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><i></i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>P.S. There were a lot of questions, so sorry this interview is pretty long. But hey, no one's forcing you to read all of it! Or any of it for that matter... :) I tried to answer as many as I could without going overboard! </i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><i></i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>P.P.S. There were a lot of questions about whether I am going to France, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Brazil, etc. etc. I'm going to answer all of those questions now: I am not sure when I am going to get an opportunity to travel over and visit you. I would absolutely love to though! Hopefully the radio and the label can make that wish a possibility for me sometime soon! Thank you for your invitations to come visit and play music for you! As of now, there are no confirmed plans to travel anywhere, but we are working on it! </i></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Alicia: What is your favorite song to dance to?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I am a big Beyonce and Lady Gaga fan. I like to listen to them when I'm trying to get pumped up for a run! I also like to listen to Foster the People. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Marlon: Ya'll twins?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Nope! Meg is older than me by 2 years. We used to look really different, but now we've kind of morphed into one, although she's slightly taller and...hate to say it, but about 10 pounds lighter! Blah! You can tell us apart a lot better in the photo below.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS2xd2JwDteGwiVAKeyGay2So7PZZZXYLTSZ7cESPJ0IkYgUO0kfSwPlSF0OEZHJt0PgtcLbnyr4QM1ZNEcsoGIMzGJ8dvDv182dyXrAUg1bQJVVNRNQxHfcs8QRLnEER6oWErBNGpnrS/s1600/scan0085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS2xd2JwDteGwiVAKeyGay2So7PZZZXYLTSZ7cESPJ0IkYgUO0kfSwPlSF0OEZHJt0PgtcLbnyr4QM1ZNEcsoGIMzGJ8dvDv182dyXrAUg1bQJVVNRNQxHfcs8QRLnEER6oWErBNGpnrS/s320/scan0085.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My mom, uh....got a little carried away with bows. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Robert: What's the hardest thing about tour?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Being away from family is the hardest part. Also, being in a relationship is even more difficult. I am not very good at long distance relationships. I have had many good relationships in my past fall apart slowly because of the distance. The second hardest thing about being on tour is finding any privacy. Alone time is nice sometimes. :)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Sean: What's your favorite venue to perform at?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I really enjoy performing at any "House of Blues," because it's a clean venue with a great sound system, great monitor system, good catering, clean accommodating green rooms, a nice, open backstage area, a good bar (ha!) and usually nice crew. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Patrick: Do you have a boyfriend?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: No, I do not. My last relationship ended last July. (Wow, it's been a while!)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Angela: Why did you call your album RED? Any special meaning?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: When I was really young, I was scared to go to my first day of school. I was crying and making a fuss and wouldn't let go of my mom's hand. I told her that "nobody would like me," and that "I wouldn't make any friends." My mom told me to wear red, because everyone loves and notices red and that she was sure if I wore that color, people would want to talk to me. Of course she was full of crap, but at the time, I was very young and believed her. So I put red on...it was kind of like Dumbo's magic feather. Suddenly, everything was all ok, and I felt confident. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3EkssmC2tftrgYWixIv4LhQ1HKNwOe1SpYyKTQ_nR72Mqvqh39Hi7kNm1j9K0Rc35kff-mx3FIv27DquFj-6J0UVlme4RPz3aJhTS4ngdhQ-nBTuthA9wLSOt0FB-g7XHjSYxte0nFwI/s1600/scan0100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3EkssmC2tftrgYWixIv4LhQ1HKNwOe1SpYyKTQ_nR72Mqvqh39Hi7kNm1j9K0Rc35kff-mx3FIv27DquFj-6J0UVlme4RPz3aJhTS4ngdhQ-nBTuthA9wLSOt0FB-g7XHjSYxte0nFwI/s320/scan0100.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Nyguyen: Will "Meg and Dia" make an album as a band in the near future?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Not in the near future. Right now we are looking at a pretty busy year promoting RED. We're hoping to be on the road a lot this year. M&D hasn't even had a chance to tour on "Cocoon" yet, so if we do do anything soon, it will be a tour before any studio time. That's something that we haven't really thought about at all though lately to be honest. We're just super focused on the new album right now, and on touring. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Justin: What's your vocal range?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Haha. I'm sorry, but I have no idea. If I start singing a song...I'll raise or lower the key until it feels right. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jessi: How do you find time to stay fit on tour?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I don't! Haha. It's really difficult actually. On some days, like today, I won't exercise at all, because there are no showers at the venue. I don't want to get all sweaty and then have no where to clean up before playing a show! On Blake Shelton tour dates, I try to exercise sometimes. The other day I ran up & down the stairs in the arena we were playing! :)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Minh: What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to the band?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Being on this Blake Shelton tour! It blows my mind every night! Hmm...but in all honesty....one day we get a knock on our door. Our bus is parked outside of the venue. There are 4 cops outside. One of them says they need to see _____. I say, "why?" They say, "_____ is under arrest because of ________." (Side note: The reason they were under arrest was a complete mistake and not true in any way). I say, "No. You cannot take ______. That absolutely never happened. In fact, that's an impossibility because that person was with me at soundcheck during that time. "No," they say. "______ is under arrest." I say, "Well, we are in a bus here that we have to pay for, and without playing the show we don't get paid. We're already in debt. Couldn't _____ play the show?" The cops look at each other and then agree. So _____ played the show while 2 cops stood backstage on each side. Talk about a fun show for ______. Right after the show _____ was arrested, questioned, and then released. The cops, the same day, apologized for the faulty arrest. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Judy: What are your (and the band's) favorite snacks on the road?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Here is our rider for the tour: (P.S. a rider is a list of foods or items a band can ask for, for each show. It's like...a grocery list that must be provided. Depending on the budget, we might get 2 things off our rider, or all of it.) </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia Frampton Rider:</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2 packs of water</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Almond Milk</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Soy milk</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Coconut water</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Kombucha teas (assorted flavors)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hummus and Pita chips</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Kind (vegan) bars</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Cliff bars</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Whole wheat bread</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">PB & organic jelly</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">fruit tray</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Veggie tray</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">fruit roll ups</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">toilet paper</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">kashi cereal</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Emergen-C</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Honey</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">socks (mens)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">unscented candles</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Naked Juice or Odwalla juice</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Carrot Juice</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Chelsea: What are your phobias?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Planes and plane crashes scare the crap out of me. Sharks. I have a hard time swimming in the ocean because of them. A friend or family member dying. Expired foods. I check the date of everything I drink/eat!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Grant: How did you and Meg get your start? How did you get out there, like before you were on the voice?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Read my blog, "My story, from the beginning to the present." It's on this blog as well.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Julia: Do you do meet and greets at every show?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I try my best to! Some venues don't allow it, plus sometimes there isn't enough time to make it happen. For instance, it's rude to do a meet and greet during someone else's set, so during Blake shows, I never do that between his or Justin Moore's set. If the venue allows it, we try to do quick meet and greets in between sets. :) </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Janice: Who would be your dream collaboration?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I would love to write with Tom Petty or The Avett brothers. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Marifer: How old were you when you went to your first concert, and who did you go see?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Hmmm.... I'm not sure which one was my first. I went and saw Lila McCan when I was younger at a fair. I went and saw "America" with my dad at a casino. I went and saw "Jimmy Eat World," on my, I believe it was, 16th birthday. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Victor: For Meg, can you make Chandler the Robots for super heroes? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: She has her stupendous chandler! It has a super hero cape and everything. Check it out here: www.chandlertherobot.com</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ashley: What is your ideal concert?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I like shows at venues with good sound systems first and foremost. I also like to go with a couple friends, although, some of the best shows I have been to have been when I've gone alone. You can really lose yourself in the music that way. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Regina: Do you miss performing at Warped tour? Would you guys ever do it again if you had the chance?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: We've done Warped for 3 years, so no, I don't miss it. Yes, I would do it again if the timing was right, although, I don't know if I would be able to do the whole thing. That tour is the hottest outdoors tour I have ever been on in my life!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tray: If you could have a celebrity crush in a music video, who would it be and why?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Oh man. Hmmmm..... I think it would be fun to have Michael Cera in a video. Ryan Gosling or James Franco I wouldn't mind at all either. I think my all time crush would be Matt Good though, so it would be awesome to have him in a music video!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Brittany: What types of books do you like to read?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I like a little bit of everything. My favorite books would be</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1. The Fountainhead - Ayn Rand</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">3. A tale of two cities - Charles Dickens</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I really enjoy classic literature. The "Wuthering Heights," "Jane Eyre's," and "Sense and Sensibility's" type books. I finished the Harry Potter series a while back though and thought those were good fun. I'm now reading "Kitchen Confidential," by Anthony Bourdain. (Hope I spelled his name right). </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Brandy: What is Nick's favorite drum kit? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Nick says, "Hmm...uh...Craviotto, because they sound the best." </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jackson: What is your favorite song out of the ones you have written?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Man, that's a tough one. They're all special to me in different ways. I'm pretty proud of the lyrics in "Daniel" or "Trapeze." They were the most organic...they just kinda seemed to flow out of me because I was feeling sad. Ha! Sadness always helps feed music, I think. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tray: What musical artists out there do you truly admire and why?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I really admire Tom Petty, because he's an amazing songwriter and is good at writing simple yet meaningful lyrics. I also got to watch him perform once and he was awesome. I admire Modest Mouse for their uniqueness, and details to stories. Their music sounds like nobody else's. Bon Iver, because he makes me sleepy and relaxed in a beautiful way. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Princess Beckey: Are you guys ever going to tour on your own? I would like to see you as a main performance.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: We are doing headliner performances right now... www.diaframptonmusic.net Where you been girl!?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Marc: How do you write a song? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: It depends. I have no strategy. Sometimes it starts with a poem. Sometimes I get really sad and it just pours out of me, melody, lyrics, everything, in 15 minutes. Sometimes I sit myself down, like going to a job, and say, "Ok, Dia. Write a song." Sometimes it's complete crap; Other times, I'm surprised what comes out of me, even when I'm feeling "uninspired." It's like...there's always an emotion waiting to get its chance to shine. Me sitting down with my guitar and my pen is giving it an outlet. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Julie: How fun is it to be on tour with Blake Shelton?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I can't even describe it in words. It has been an amazing experience every single day. His crew, his team, his band, EVERYONE....they're all so sweet and nice. Talk about a group of amazing people! We (the band and I) are so thankful to be a part of it!!!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Renan: What was the most important song you performed on the voice? Why?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: "Heartless." Simply because it changed my life.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Max: What's your ethnicity and favorite hobby?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I am half Korean. My mom is from Seoul. My dad is of Dutch descent. My favorite hobby - Yoga, cooking, walking my dog at home (does that count?), writing short stories, and kick boxing when I'm home and can take classes!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ryan: At what point did you get up and say, "I am going to do music with my life?" I imagine it has to be a eureka moment....</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: When I was 9. I heard a Leann Rimes song. My dad bought me her CD. She was only 14 at the time and looked so young on the CD cover. I think I really related to that. My dad played a lot of Chicago, The Beach Boys, America, Boston, Journey, etc. But when I saw that little girl with the big voice on the CD booklet, something really connected. I started singing "Blue," and "Cowboy Sweetheart" and told my dad that I was going to be the next Leann Rimes. Haha. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Katie: How can I learn to get more comfortable playing an instrument and singing in front of a camera.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I'm still uncomfortable. It's hard to teach yourself to not get nervous or to relax. Your body does what it wants to do, regardless of you telling it to calm down! I'm still nervous every time I play a show. Don't let the fear keep you away from doing what you want to though. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Kami: What is your favorite food?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Korean food. Yummy. I can't eat a lot of foods though cause of my diet. I love BBQ. Chicken, mashed potatoes, fried green tomatoes, mac n' cheese. I wish I could eat it all!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jake: What's the most annoying thing fans/ friends/ anybody says to you or asks you concerning music? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: "Why don't you put your song on the radio?" Haha. It's frustrating to hear that, but people ask that question more than one would imagine. That'd be like me asking a fresh on the market, new screen play writer, "Why didn't you get Natalie Portman to star in your film?"</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Also, it's frustrating when I see comments on facebook/twitter: "When are you coming to Oklahoma," or wherever, when the tour dates are up, and it's even more frustrating when someone asks that question and we played Oklahoma the night before. You'd be surprised, but that happens ALL THE TIME. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Why didn't you play Utah this tour?" ...Uhm...we played Utah 3 days ago.... Uhm..... I mean, I don't expect anyone to memorize tour dates or anything, but it just bums me out when we miss someone by a few days. When I want to see a band, the first place I check is their website :) I love live concerts!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jami: When will you be back to Vegas for a show, besides the expensive Blake tour?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: No idea. No plans of a new tour as of yet. Also, most artists do not play the same city within 2 months. Us artists and booking agents know that as the "2 month rule". In fact, most artists on a tour are usually under signed contract to NOT play a city in which a tour is going to in the same 2-3 months. Plus, when you see all the time, production, people, money, and stage set up that goes into the Blake tour, you won't think it's so expensive after all. A lot of $ goes into putting on a show like his. (It's awesome!) People are up at 6 a.m. setting up the stage. What you pay for is what you get...and it's a pretty good deal at the end of the day. Photo below: Crew up bright and early setting up the stage and camera's. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtE9nELbFjKNAsGbAcXcTIEDUc6QO9YWlcx95VRjFnvqsAU1QK8KrUp87gulCThGtBBJ_kGbs1pH836HewoRTrzYK0HychXBTfxnJfccCXIFozm2lprDUrlNOlHARsKFP-funAVHM-dEu/s1600/Setting+up+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtE9nELbFjKNAsGbAcXcTIEDUc6QO9YWlcx95VRjFnvqsAU1QK8KrUp87gulCThGtBBJ_kGbs1pH836HewoRTrzYK0HychXBTfxnJfccCXIFozm2lprDUrlNOlHARsKFP-funAVHM-dEu/s320/Setting+up+stage.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Bonnie: What is your favorite yearbook comment?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Funny you ask that question. A friend of mine from high school, (literally one of two friends I had in high school), came to a show in Nashville and started telling my band embarrassing stories about my high school days. "Yeah, she was pretty quiet in high school. Her best friend was the librarian. She never ate in the cafeteria with people...she was always in the library eating alone." I didn't go to the last day of school....I didn't buy a yearbook. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Todd: Your fashion has a modern yet vintage twist. Where do you shop?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: That's one good thing about tour...you can shop the many vintage and fun second hand stores of the country. I like to shop in random 2nd hand stores. They smell funny, but they always have great, one-of-a-kind finds. I like Anthropologie a lot too..when they're on sale! I get really overwhelmed in shopping malls though....It's good to have a friend there to help pick things out!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoubGyVINJ87TS85aHItzQKyUWydgAIENr-V7clyIyYbJOeJSzpUbv6PlFiR9sPDIC81K6wyS53k0Ui9rSeugEkVHJnCXUnUmfOPRxtNDzbCz6ulDy1JxeyPCey3myaGFqHWBqgvYkqxVo/s1600/IMG_0818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoubGyVINJ87TS85aHItzQKyUWydgAIENr-V7clyIyYbJOeJSzpUbv6PlFiR9sPDIC81K6wyS53k0Ui9rSeugEkVHJnCXUnUmfOPRxtNDzbCz6ulDy1JxeyPCey3myaGFqHWBqgvYkqxVo/s320/IMG_0818.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Christina: Greatest childhood memory?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Meg and I did a lot of Peter Pan things, from creating space ships out of cardboard boxes to try to fly to Never land, to writing our own Peter Pan plays and performing them in our back yard for the neighbors. (I used a kitchen egg whisk for a "Hook"). Yeah, they made me Captain Hook. Meg and I made up Tinkerbell "fairy chants" in fairy language. I think a number of Peter Pan memories would go in my top childhood memories category. :) </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Meghan: What tips do you have for singers? What do you do before shows to get your voice ready?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Sleep with the air conditioning off if you can. It certainly dries out a voice. Humidifiers are great. Get the ones blowing cool air out. The hot air ones can make your walls and furniture mold easily. Don't eat or drink dairy 2 hours before you sing, and I personally try to avoid eating 2 hours before stage. Smoking is an obvious no no. Water is the best thing for your voice. Sure, whiskey "loosens" you up, but it also dries you out. Tea, as well, dries you out. Also, if you are sick or losing your voice, people automatically start whispering. Whispering is hard on your vocal chords. Don't do it. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Rita: What's your favorite Disney movie?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Mulan! Guess what I was for Halloween in 3rd grade! Boo ya! </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SgRRryeKs5wg1-Bx2zgx926qthnqaOoDVmjwT5p0ueLU2Q5OSf6qVlbaWFc3fYGqK95Q5ExP0Tk3sq-V9MD3vSsXNUA68bCZfO1SQPx7hmxJwNIMxsG4jkBFO5PxUu9yOZVZCb5PwlLc/s1600/scan0097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SgRRryeKs5wg1-Bx2zgx926qthnqaOoDVmjwT5p0ueLU2Q5OSf6qVlbaWFc3fYGqK95Q5ExP0Tk3sq-V9MD3vSsXNUA68bCZfO1SQPx7hmxJwNIMxsG4jkBFO5PxUu9yOZVZCb5PwlLc/s320/scan0097.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I also love, Aladdin, Snow White, The Emperor's new groove, Tangled, and Peter Pan.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Rita: What are your stories about in your books and are you planning on publishing something?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: You can read a few of my short stories on this blog! I'm afraid the stories in my novels are too intricate to get into during this interview, but hopefully you'll be able to check them out soon. Getting a book published is a big goal and big dream of mine!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jeremy: Will you marry me?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Yeah, I think we should just maybe date for the rest of our lives......</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Gary: What would be your perfect date/ perfect man?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Hmm...if you would have asked me that question a few years ago, I would have said silly girl things, like pretty eyes or muscular...or wears boxer briefs. But now that I'm 24, I look for ...well...kind of unromantic things for lack of a better way to describe it. My perfect man would be financially stable, have the same political and religious views as I do, and be organized and clean! Ha! I would like him to be a music lover, but he doesn't have to be a musician. A guy that reads a lot is a huge plus. I dig a guy with his nose in a book. Someone who treats his parents and family well. Not a huge fan of tattoos. Someone taller and heavier than I am. Someone who works out... who cares about his health and his body. Someone who can quote "The Princess Bride." Someone who doesn't smoke and drinks responsibly. A drunk guy wanting to drive me home is a HUGE turn off. Someone who likes dogs as much as I do. Good hygiene is a must. And this, I guess, is a silly girl thing, but I get weak in the knees when a guy has a Spanish, Australian, or Irish accent. If you've got an Irish accent, you'll have me at "hello." Ha! The perfect date. Anything really. I feel like if you've got the perfect guy, you don't need a perfect date. A simple walk in the park, a movie on the couch, a concert, a picnic....anything will do. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tyler: Which artist would you like to sing a duet with? Do you have any vinyls of RED on sale?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I would love to sing a duet with The Avett brothers or Foster the People or Peter Frampton! (RED vinyls are being sold on our tour dates at merch tables. I think we'll put them online soon.)</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Katie: What is your favorite movie?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: The Princess Bride. Hook. Big Fish. The Gladiator! Labyrinth. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Amelie. Wait until dark. The Sting. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">April: What is your favorite place you have visited while traveling?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I really enjoy London. It's a beautiful place. The buildings, the houses...there is a bit of magic in it all. It's almost like every old building there has a story to tell. I really enjoyed Switzerland and Liverpool as well. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Leslie: If you were enrolled in college, what would be your major?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Anything that had to do with writing. Probably an english major. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Enrico: If you were only able to eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? And who is your favorite cartoon character and why?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Apple french toast from my favorite restaurant in LA. (Square one) My favorite Cartoon character would have to be Calvin and Hobbs! Oh yeah!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ben: (for Dia) What's next after the Blake tour? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">for (Meg): Can I buy a sketch, or would you bot-sketch my kid for $? You're her hero but she's not into jewelry yet.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: No concrete plans after the Blake tour yet. You should email Meg through her site and ask her! chandlertherobot.com</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Gantt: I write songs myself. How do you determine the best way to convey meaning with language when writing your songs?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: It's a learning process for sure. Nothing I say to you now would help you tremendously. It's a lot of trial and error. Songs I wrote when I was younger...listening back on them...I think, "What the?!" Ha. It takes a while to find your own unique voice...you've just got to keep at it. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ricky: What's your favorite kind of music?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I love all genres, but I really enjoy folk music. I love the banjo and mandolin and fiddle. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Aileen: What is the one thing you would tell a musician who is new to the business?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Utilize the internet as much as possible, and keep trying no matter what happens. It's a dirty business and everyone is doing it. Why are you different? Give them a reason to want you. Find out what is special about yourself and keep that sacred. Tour. Touring is a lovely organic way to spread your tunes. And also...don't get too involved in the business side of things. It screws with your head. You're there for the music...the music business...well, leave that to the managers and lawyers. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Elaina: If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Dang. Hard question. "If you want to sing out, sing out." Cat Stevens. It just always makes me happy.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Adam: I'm studying Entertainment Law & was wondering what your relationship was like with your lawyers? </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I only have one lawyer, and I've stayed with him for 7 years now. He mostly handles my business stuff....the artistic side never crosses over with him much. He comes out to shows though when I'm in NY! :) I like to be hands on with things, but like to focus more on the music than the music business. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ritzy Rose: If you could have a one of a kind custom made piece of jewelry designed especially for you, what would it be like? What's your favorite color? Where could I send it?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Funny you ask that....my sister made this for me for Christmas!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">http://instagr.am/p/mGYKp/</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I like anything made by people I like. Ha. My favorite color...? I like all colors...but am not a huge fan of neon colors. The best place to get something to me is coming out to a show. I don't have an apartment now...just a storage shed unit. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jessie: If you were ever going to have a daughter what would you name her?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I have many names but....that one is gonna have to stay a secret. Sorry!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Shaylie: What is your favorite kind of dog?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Australian Shepherds or German Shepherds!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Shaylie: If you had to change your first name, what would you change it to?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: I really like my first name! Ha! Thanks Mom and Dad! But if I had to....I'd change it to Fox.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jayson: Where is one place you want to take a vacation that you have not been to or enjoyed yet?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Japan!!! My friend is from there and keeps talking about how awesome the food is!</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Shaylie: What's your middle name?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Leif</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jasper: Is Meg the tallest one in your family? She seems freaking tall for an asian.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Hahaha. Yes, she sure is! </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Vincent: If you could only write one last song, what would it be about?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Missing someone from home, because that's how I feel right now, so I'm sure writing about that would be the most genuine. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Erik: What's your geekiest obsession? (TV show, movie, etc.) </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: One time my friend and I tied bed sheets to our necks and made capes and watched "Lord of the Rings" all night. Yup, loved the books, and loved the movies.</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jenna: Are you vegan?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Yes, although I cheat every now and then. Ok. I cheat pretty often. To be honest, I hate being vegan because I lovvvvveee cheese and cream and ice cream, etc. etc. but I've found that my body functions the best without dairy or meat. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ryan: What song did you sing when you first auditioned for The Voice?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: A Norah Jones song. Can't remember the name just now... "I waited till I saw the sun..."</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Luis: Who can punch harder? You or Meg?</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dia: Without a doubt, Meg. She's tougher than she looks...tiny, little thing. </div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Thanks for your questions guys! XO - Dia</div><div><br />
</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-78794361662556195712012-01-25T13:40:00.000-08:002012-01-25T13:40:23.688-08:00The Pros and Cons of tourMany of you ask these questions...and they usually are popular interview questions too. <br />
<br />
"What's your favorite thing about being on the road?"<br />
"What are your "go to" items on tour?"<br />
"What can't you live without on tour?"<br />
"What's the best thing about tour, and the worst?"<br />
Etc.<br />
Etc.<br />
Etc.<br />
<br />
Well... there are many pros and cons to tour. <br />
<br />
There are the obvious Pros:<br />
Traveling<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhev0yaok450t7ZO52LB7XAxrDU5cifdjX9k9_D3_ACharmSHSY5k75DCtfeiuT8ihVtafWj04kaOXjOd2IDWDby9eGyI-VuuLtxJ4CpnMJCozpAoSr44RZbJQqbkdrfdS5wi0fB6vrmSLk/s1600/me%252C+NY+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhev0yaok450t7ZO52LB7XAxrDU5cifdjX9k9_D3_ACharmSHSY5k75DCtfeiuT8ihVtafWj04kaOXjOd2IDWDby9eGyI-VuuLtxJ4CpnMJCozpAoSr44RZbJQqbkdrfdS5wi0fB6vrmSLk/s320/me%252C+NY+painting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And more traveling</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArlbjn4LqLzYgRT_XCuAduxhbAVcYenM7XoMpKLMk4e7NVl6LkN6dBhdE6k6BcmSI2b6kHUmR1AyW4BQ_PpI12-aPnRtIFy84RLgKCDlJi_2B_RRK3X64jYHLZu3ElGNH_3UH1WRPmtQ8/s1600/IMG_0820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArlbjn4LqLzYgRT_XCuAduxhbAVcYenM7XoMpKLMk4e7NVl6LkN6dBhdE6k6BcmSI2b6kHUmR1AyW4BQ_PpI12-aPnRtIFy84RLgKCDlJi_2B_RRK3X64jYHLZu3ElGNH_3UH1WRPmtQ8/s320/IMG_0820.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Seeing the world<br />
Meeting many different people from all across the country<br />
Trying out new restaurants and eating delicious foods from across the country<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLDVsD46aFXrUuAH-qMwvt1zam2Ju9yeBnqyp6n53wSssMIaaV8JyarTbj2fAapwqkAy_dPeGEWswcDe5WfZj5DqPOAyl-xQzGiglwZBV6ZJmhqKtSyjeVbhyphenhyphenZ28aW7l0dZ9Gu2fWuCaR/s1600/me%252C+artichoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLDVsD46aFXrUuAH-qMwvt1zam2Ju9yeBnqyp6n53wSssMIaaV8JyarTbj2fAapwqkAy_dPeGEWswcDe5WfZj5DqPOAyl-xQzGiglwZBV6ZJmhqKtSyjeVbhyphenhyphenZ28aW7l0dZ9Gu2fWuCaR/s320/me%252C+artichoke.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Making friends (hopefully) with the bands you're on tour with<br />
Playing music! (Duh!)<br />
<br />
Obvious cons:<br />
Showers aren't always as plentiful as you would like. Laundry machines as well.<br />
Hardly any privacy AT ALL.<br />
Sometimes bands you tour with are complete tools...and yup, you've gotta be around them for 30 plus days. (That doesn't apply for this awesome Blake Shelton tour!)<br />
Peoples' sleep schedules are different. You may be trying to sleep while the person next to you is watching TV, the person in front of you is watching a Back to the Future marathon (*cough* Nick!) and the people sleeping under your bunk are snoring.<br />
Missing your friends and family back home<br />
Long distance relationships...well, they suck. <br />
<br />
However...below is the biggest con of them all!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Rom8kAtKEoXjLsaftSHxrOa2zPVUBe8fzP0mRtRHcGXZ30UdtEGOR7mpMKarKEOE3lufOKkqI_AHAgPjgMKIUgWekL3Rg6LRSx3OSTirYCWTBnnKI15hDog6rVrKH55Wi6Xx6INSLxEj/s1600/me%252C+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Rom8kAtKEoXjLsaftSHxrOa2zPVUBe8fzP0mRtRHcGXZ30UdtEGOR7mpMKarKEOE3lufOKkqI_AHAgPjgMKIUgWekL3Rg6LRSx3OSTirYCWTBnnKI15hDog6rVrKH55Wi6Xx6INSLxEj/s320/me%252C+dog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And just because I love dogs...here are some more photos. I was walking in NY when I walked by a bunch of adorable puppies in the window! I wish so badly that I could get a dog, but I don't think it's fair to keep one cooped up on a bus most of the day, and where would he pee anyway? And who would watch it when I have to leave unexpectedly. Oh wonderful dogs, ruler of cats and all other creatures, I hope I can get one of you soon so I can cuddle you all day!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuf2Rxz6Yc-nCE6v_gTQCmTKHLAU_AhVWZkRrp3sb8KhSbUuOMlTA9u74P_eoGUVVzU9-neV4cin-3YWtBC9P4WIB8Sm_3t8qvNvtzw0QIz-YVrHA5pW16XXjVKroKUN63Y_kzna7RQ8fr/s1600/IMG_0790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuf2Rxz6Yc-nCE6v_gTQCmTKHLAU_AhVWZkRrp3sb8KhSbUuOMlTA9u74P_eoGUVVzU9-neV4cin-3YWtBC9P4WIB8Sm_3t8qvNvtzw0QIz-YVrHA5pW16XXjVKroKUN63Y_kzna7RQ8fr/s320/IMG_0790.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXxBjUT29upDXXpj_hdkcxXgNrZ6X0_3-1nlWZfEh_j8PgU0T4zAIt1jwMDTV1yW04DiqfllNI0I48XGCN1DC-2wkbifRIYVhvRxfB_MqBMvTS-7drXJoRjdl-xdYSeTEAENAz9bpRXk5/s1600/IMG_0791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXxBjUT29upDXXpj_hdkcxXgNrZ6X0_3-1nlWZfEh_j8PgU0T4zAIt1jwMDTV1yW04DiqfllNI0I48XGCN1DC-2wkbifRIYVhvRxfB_MqBMvTS-7drXJoRjdl-xdYSeTEAENAz9bpRXk5/s320/IMG_0791.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLBR3QzTsYa7LKm2ZUP37RGgzqnEUvTGudQwL5daILZaElBt5Gr26vmBIXgcuieLKCk_cnhhsM7tRc9Ma4Clsz1HHpbmCvohDPoCxVoV97SjMO1XFjnWo3ttAgJS8LZ6a28LnjUWCvd3g/s1600/IMG_0792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLBR3QzTsYa7LKm2ZUP37RGgzqnEUvTGudQwL5daILZaElBt5Gr26vmBIXgcuieLKCk_cnhhsM7tRc9Ma4Clsz1HHpbmCvohDPoCxVoV97SjMO1XFjnWo3ttAgJS8LZ6a28LnjUWCvd3g/s320/IMG_0792.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This one's face below just breaks my heart. I wish I could have taken him with me!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgug2diXh-5-UXFqF-g_X2HMaDZVsyBfwgmqJHDyANYH0wM_aY07setyaRfV0I6pxzbWt5jux68ApgABhHrOlG5ngqs7gtkDQF_pxBkEhURb4KNdq-HiKFcBbOFjLAyb4aepA4y6wNXJpKg/s1600/IMG_0793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgug2diXh-5-UXFqF-g_X2HMaDZVsyBfwgmqJHDyANYH0wM_aY07setyaRfV0I6pxzbWt5jux68ApgABhHrOlG5ngqs7gtkDQF_pxBkEhURb4KNdq-HiKFcBbOFjLAyb4aepA4y6wNXJpKg/s320/IMG_0793.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Cons of tour</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It's really difficult to keep in contact with the outside world on tour. The person I usually miss the most on tour, although I miss all my family and friends, is my mom. When I'm home I love to watch movies with my mom and cook and try to learn some more Korean. (Yes, I am half Korean. My mom's from Seoul). Also, I have 4 younger sisters, and sometimes when I come home after 3-4 months of tour, I feel like I've missed some quality time with them in their youth. It's almost as if every time I see them they've grown and inch, or have suddenly developed boobs, or their hairs down to their butts. I missed being at my little sister's very first dance. I would have helped her pick out a dress, do her make up, curl her hair...tell her to behave herself, dangit! I would have yelled at my other little sister's basketball coach when he screamed out to her, in front of everyone during a game, "You suck! Get on the bench!" (Yeah, rude right? I mean, I understand constructive criticism, but not in that way and especially not for a younger child). I never miss one of their basketball games when I'm home, and if I would have been there during that.... oh mama. That coach wouldn't think I'm so shy after all...... My head gets hot just thinking about it!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dating on the road is really tough. You're busy all day, and you don't want to talk too much either. I've had times in my past when I've talked on the phone to a loved one after a show, and then the next morning have lost my voice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But sometimes being on the road can be lonely. This Valentine's day, you better be my Valentine so I don't feel so lame. I'll be yours too! It can be a mutual agreement. Single for V day is just rubbing salt in the wound people!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Random tips for tour:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I'll be 5 minutes" means I'll be a half hour, so grab a book.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For girls: You can never have enough tampons</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even though it's been only 1 day, your socks AREN'T CLEAN! Change that pair of feety gloves dudes! Please!!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you take longer than 15 minutes in the shower, you might for some odd reason become the least popular on the bus.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For girls: Even though the crowd is often somewhat far away, shave your legs! The audience can smell the fear in your tiny hair particles....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yoga mats are handy, plus they make you look cool.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They're called headphones people. You may want to blast ______ band in the bus for 3 hours, but who wants to have that in the background while they're trying to read.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Keep away from your guitar player if he's had over 4 drinks. Being thrown up upon 3 times in my life is quite enough to last me for a bit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Keep a journal</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Make an effort to call your friends often</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Once one person gets sick in the bus...just sit and accept defeat and wait for the cold and flu to nestle in on you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But all in all, at the end of the day, with both the pros and cons of tour, I'd much rather be on tour. You see, I feel like half of my heart belongs to the road anyway. And I am loving playing music for ya'll! I would never want to give up this for anything:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thanks for coming out to see us on the road!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">XOXO</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dia </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">P.S. If you are in Nashville, come see us tonight at Exit Inn! And if you are awake early tomorrow in Nashville, tune into FOX News Tennessee Mornings!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And thank you Music Choice for having me for some lovely interviews!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwVKSfKb6NXjzL5nCbdgH0j1jvv9yjhLRYHJZRNiOtoagmOhe5yRL9YJaEeyDLlu0ZqQd4lrfBWGRBlp9fK2J8Q0AoFZgcewXhJTgsJ38sFgIXBB0c0rMrNSQC20TC_-P1wn8wu6haHY0/s1600/me%252C+dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwVKSfKb6NXjzL5nCbdgH0j1jvv9yjhLRYHJZRNiOtoagmOhe5yRL9YJaEeyDLlu0ZqQd4lrfBWGRBlp9fK2J8Q0AoFZgcewXhJTgsJ38sFgIXBB0c0rMrNSQC20TC_-P1wn8wu6haHY0/s320/me%252C+dress.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-84447422047059424482012-01-19T22:47:00.000-08:002012-01-19T22:47:34.848-08:00Only in NashvilleOh Nashville! How I love thee! Your sweet tea which you pour so freely, (and usually with free refills!) Your music that streams out of every open bar. The upright bass found so easily. The smells of freshly made BBQ sauce. The home place where songs like "Isabella," and "The Broken ones," were brought to life. Where Blake and I recorded vocals for "I will." Where I found love at first sight by this cute dude jogging down the street with...wait for it... yes an adorable dog! (Obviously it wasn't mutual love at first sight. Dangit!) Oh Nashville. Thank you for having us....I hope to someday move here and nestle in your fried okra and possibly move in next door to Loveless cafe. Oh Nashville, send some cute Cowboys my way. (Preferably between the ages of 25-33 thank you). <br />
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And not to be too picky Nashville, but if they could be taller than me as well?<br />
Ok, Ok...sorry. I went off on a tangent. <br />
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Here is a photo album of Nashville so far! :)<br />
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Walking down town. Everyone is so sweet and polite here. Only in Nashville is there a guitar the size of 5 of me in the window of a boot shop. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jG9nZMmVxuw1hOZq6nRHs-jzKA-4iVMgdt7qvCTIquPMwv0u3QmSGanJr9_UiQDr5gZhgJZ4HcOjylVz7X4ueBSeFwev2sjeSMgmKDZZ-dzMMNhjnPTymrqrUfGvqZ9UJX8ZzMTd857K/s1600/Dia%252C+Nashville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jG9nZMmVxuw1hOZq6nRHs-jzKA-4iVMgdt7qvCTIquPMwv0u3QmSGanJr9_UiQDr5gZhgJZ4HcOjylVz7X4ueBSeFwev2sjeSMgmKDZZ-dzMMNhjnPTymrqrUfGvqZ9UJX8ZzMTd857K/s320/Dia%252C+Nashville.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only in Nashville does the sweet tea flow like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talking about a little place called....Nashvillllleeee.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehBvgQp3V3hyzrolB_1OojmcC91Wc4ZS6xZ1SLO9auMfKSDejMqiCyi00aCuijYeHNuKh9m4Pv_0E38Z23Hi7WASWZOMqrZgnGs8Z3NtohrS3mbK8Zz_Pm3G_-FgoB57Q_y2wCEJ73nyL/s1600/Sweet+tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehBvgQp3V3hyzrolB_1OojmcC91Wc4ZS6xZ1SLO9auMfKSDejMqiCyi00aCuijYeHNuKh9m4Pv_0E38Z23Hi7WASWZOMqrZgnGs8Z3NtohrS3mbK8Zz_Pm3G_-FgoB57Q_y2wCEJ73nyL/s320/Sweet+tea.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only in Nashville do the waiters give the ladies the menu first and take the ladies orders first too!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxLWKRRFmK3gdkFf_UGDPB-pItIPwVRleMR_JGf7L4Jzl5DoWFILgJqzT9zIgrq6eLxpRitOX2XwDbysm4NuaDjjimpjohIK60XIfHham8XckEcba-8q8cMtMS_tEZ9JkTFUC3-5Z_fMB/s1600/Me%252C+wild+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxLWKRRFmK3gdkFf_UGDPB-pItIPwVRleMR_JGf7L4Jzl5DoWFILgJqzT9zIgrq6eLxpRitOX2XwDbysm4NuaDjjimpjohIK60XIfHham8XckEcba-8q8cMtMS_tEZ9JkTFUC3-5Z_fMB/s320/Me%252C+wild+cow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only in Nashville does the band playing at the local bar - in between songs - single me out for drinking water and THEN cover a Blake Shelton song about drinking! If that doesn't make you smile ear to ear you have no soul. (If you haven't heard "Drink on it" by Shelton...well...get on it!) Only in Nashville is there an awkward beaver statue outside of the bar. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpj-rPg1wCIODa85RmkaSptgnhhNMR7_dSQRmfCCqarpBMuEnirM03qh1dE2q28VZtpmAquGu5OyjnqL6leHYBOgbp67BeYFBLDxrLMEZbyXYwWstmO_XdEp8O2cDAVU0kMG9ndBadTQB/s1600/Dia%252C+beaver%252C+Nashville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpj-rPg1wCIODa85RmkaSptgnhhNMR7_dSQRmfCCqarpBMuEnirM03qh1dE2q28VZtpmAquGu5OyjnqL6leHYBOgbp67BeYFBLDxrLMEZbyXYwWstmO_XdEp8O2cDAVU0kMG9ndBadTQB/s320/Dia%252C+beaver%252C+Nashville.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only in Nashville </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQQGpIDryHdyDoAM91C2o64PIiV1gu-n9CdIfaGC1VC2RzHvZL7HZusJAlQ2DS8qsL9UgCkwcTkeiW5rfA829vS18LtuS2YsFZ1p4R22C0OJC_mP-wIdbD4rKbp40P-gzvbx_RSO_CoOC/s1600/Me%252C+elvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQQGpIDryHdyDoAM91C2o64PIiV1gu-n9CdIfaGC1VC2RzHvZL7HZusJAlQ2DS8qsL9UgCkwcTkeiW5rfA829vS18LtuS2YsFZ1p4R22C0OJC_mP-wIdbD4rKbp40P-gzvbx_RSO_CoOC/s320/Me%252C+elvis.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thank you for having us music city! I'm off to explore more of you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">XO</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dia</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-40779545447999789472012-01-19T12:11:00.000-08:002012-01-19T12:14:30.306-08:00Madison, WI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thank you for having us Madison! We would love to come back when you're not so freezing! Here's some photos from our travels :) Thank you to everyone for coming out to the show! XO - Dia</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nnntMfv60P109jVsYTEYXFyLhuP7-1SzlQxaHOqRm1dZfzQFeuJznBEA7ZgOkp9i57lL_3THlyZ4ccHqY4ve7OoNFNcebyZfTMzMsy3X7S-FaAobO9KIA9Mfu4QaIdFGRZ_XkD8El6Uv/s1600/Me%252C+majestic+theater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nnntMfv60P109jVsYTEYXFyLhuP7-1SzlQxaHOqRm1dZfzQFeuJznBEA7ZgOkp9i57lL_3THlyZ4ccHqY4ve7OoNFNcebyZfTMzMsy3X7S-FaAobO9KIA9Mfu4QaIdFGRZ_XkD8El6Uv/s320/Me%252C+majestic+theater.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I had no part in the making of this pathetic snowman. My snowman would probably look something like Butters from South Park. If you ever get me in a good mood, I'll do my Butters impression for you. From what I am told, I'm not all half bad. (P.S. Whoever made this Snowman...sorry...it's not pathetic. I'm sure it was quite awesome when it was at its full peak). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSROrdIYJrIpp3Omhtxa0N86xmJ8vHPNp6IYwwLrpPLVvimajm3dF6KA0KMejXVP2lKXHixFhR-WkSWMWUBh4JZwDSvMmm2frdP49wO7OrmCcVzGaj-zX0kHmesVXkfUyRarZis0URKk9/s1600/Me%252C+snowman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSROrdIYJrIpp3Omhtxa0N86xmJ8vHPNp6IYwwLrpPLVvimajm3dF6KA0KMejXVP2lKXHixFhR-WkSWMWUBh4JZwDSvMmm2frdP49wO7OrmCcVzGaj-zX0kHmesVXkfUyRarZis0URKk9/s320/Me%252C+snowman.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It takes hours to set up a stage. This is us just getting into the venue and looking and analyzing the size of the stage, where the piano should go, the best angle for the amps so that they don't rebound off the walls. But if you think that's a lot of work...man, just wait till you see the Blake Shelton stage and set up. It takes HOURS upon hours to set up the stage, the PA, the lights, the props, etc. The crew wakes up at 7 a.m. or earlier and gets to work, climbing the tall ladders to put up the blue lights, laying out the textured floor, putting up the stairs, the drum riser, the walkway.... And it looks out of this world. The next time you're thinking 50$ is expensive for a ticket....you're paying for a lot with that 50, and it's worth it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUrLPGPQkA1idsLkKEhGuhiBEU3ZKBiS55bZAqqUBq8gjxGPUJ_shCihAW8mqIlZj0WOJe-Xzq7u2dPFKO84_-cMhBTbLzJldNyGnPYQ0WmpU-1C4L75e6DWwHyYJOUlWHJd0MlwcELnl/s1600/Me%252C+majestic+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUrLPGPQkA1idsLkKEhGuhiBEU3ZKBiS55bZAqqUBq8gjxGPUJ_shCihAW8mqIlZj0WOJe-Xzq7u2dPFKO84_-cMhBTbLzJldNyGnPYQ0WmpU-1C4L75e6DWwHyYJOUlWHJd0MlwcELnl/s320/Me%252C+majestic+stage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My sister loves learning and exploring new cities. No, my hair didn't get longer...this is her below reading up on the local hits. If you come out to a show, you'll probably see her stage left playing the guitar, piano, synth, drums, percussion. You name it. She has her own blog too and homemade jewelry site. chandlertherobot.com She loves to say hello, so at a show, don't be shy. She's pretty nice...ok, ok, she's really nice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6A54XNKwCkjQwLxF1aT54JcAmAqkvLzkUXjOsawOGnyJ5F7aUIkNyF46AUSsmp8MXCyiHEn9qbZ0GmYcpZJr0E2pRHgH8ei_CKE1MLMnBVgxH0zhoB8oi3M3TRbulEinm8w3k_1owDuq/s1600/Meg%252C+Madison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6A54XNKwCkjQwLxF1aT54JcAmAqkvLzkUXjOsawOGnyJ5F7aUIkNyF46AUSsmp8MXCyiHEn9qbZ0GmYcpZJr0E2pRHgH8ei_CKE1MLMnBVgxH0zhoB8oi3M3TRbulEinm8w3k_1owDuq/s320/Meg%252C+Madison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is Nick Price, my drummer, below. I've been playing music with him since I was 17. Funny random fact: We (Meg and I) met Nick through a car accident. Meg crashed her car in a grocery store parking lot (Yeah, us Asian drivers. I know, I know...) but then we took the car into Nick's parents' body shop, called Price Auto. Nick was working there and worked on Meg's car. We started talking about music...and....7 years later, here we are. You'll see him on the Shelton tour as well. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJIGlv0HeUd6tpgbrHnhsssDdEJ5XiCox64WPuDmBAZvE6O0BpF-s_WYO5g6MN-cdyFfdJB1e0b1CLBPXWvJP80pmfJgj8mQSaafpKMnlRvRT0BlZWMm5-zn8FSyVJEkzPaRt-gVXR2M7/s1600/Nick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJIGlv0HeUd6tpgbrHnhsssDdEJ5XiCox64WPuDmBAZvE6O0BpF-s_WYO5g6MN-cdyFfdJB1e0b1CLBPXWvJP80pmfJgj8mQSaafpKMnlRvRT0BlZWMm5-zn8FSyVJEkzPaRt-gVXR2M7/s320/Nick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Carlo Gimenez (guitar) and Jonathan Snyder (Bass). They play nintendo on the bus for HOURS. Boys.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZR2zmuGH1iWJ4c5KyKU0LcUWl6MmrWfwn-gRz2mgOqDlo_4NMMR6joGxLntO4g4N8-GWpA6eq4roY5NFF_Zsb5WgLFZJvPxxqN8_DsIJFxWpfX4OVlpYvit1eNJF7zBZLVzcAhTYGURr/s1600/Carlo%252C+Jon+Madison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZR2zmuGH1iWJ4c5KyKU0LcUWl6MmrWfwn-gRz2mgOqDlo_4NMMR6joGxLntO4g4N8-GWpA6eq4roY5NFF_Zsb5WgLFZJvPxxqN8_DsIJFxWpfX4OVlpYvit1eNJF7zBZLVzcAhTYGURr/s320/Carlo%252C+Jon+Madison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, that's us in Madison. Nothing too crazy, but...just wanted to send greeting. Now we're gonna hit the road again! Much love - Dia</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9pGO1tsaBnQqqsuPMGtn9d2xBNJ5Ppy6jP39g_J4ZgxpENns5SIrtUKnvnVPR7PiS7ADbML1nEycGZk0iK4oKR9RKS9c3qA1ACIuOeuLlvxmwLyl-gbdt8ooKCgz9_Ffaz3SQKO9edoA/s1600/Me%252C+bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9pGO1tsaBnQqqsuPMGtn9d2xBNJ5Ppy6jP39g_J4ZgxpENns5SIrtUKnvnVPR7PiS7ADbML1nEycGZk0iK4oKR9RKS9c3qA1ACIuOeuLlvxmwLyl-gbdt8ooKCgz9_Ffaz3SQKO9edoA/s320/Me%252C+bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-43560456710933601992012-01-17T00:41:00.001-08:002012-01-17T10:53:28.408-08:00Country in my Blood<div style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>Country in my blood</b></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 22px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 25px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I grew up singing country. It's a part of me that I kind of forgot about. Some of the first songs I ever sang were by such artists as Patsy Cline, Tanya Tucker (loved her!), Shania Twain, The Dixie Chicks, and The Judds. When I was really young, I listened to nothing BUT country music. I loved it. I sang at Rodeos in Utah, county fairs, festivals, you name it. I even tried out for The Country Showdown in St. George, Utah a couple years in a row. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I attached a picture of myself at the Utah State fair up in Salt Lake City, for your pleasure & my embarrassment. I won first place, the big blue ribbon, for yodeling at a talent contest. I was 14 years old and a proud little girl in my jean jacket. I sang a song called, "The Yodelin' blues." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWF9iNn_LayYyVQMWz9lUCS8ubXQR21V6F812us_Pl3gVYCkA6RZhEyvt-t9hdYnEjonxNTSqfCgGg0qt_2aDUJ7TDIdeurFgCkU59oql8WXQ0t0sNU21k7dOlYwIa3EAu2I6ijyJb1xFv/s1600/Me+yodeling+county+fair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWF9iNn_LayYyVQMWz9lUCS8ubXQR21V6F812us_Pl3gVYCkA6RZhEyvt-t9hdYnEjonxNTSqfCgGg0qt_2aDUJ7TDIdeurFgCkU59oql8WXQ0t0sNU21k7dOlYwIa3EAu2I6ijyJb1xFv/s320/Me+yodeling+county+fair.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="267" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What happened to my country background you might say? Well, I got "cool." Or in other words, super lame. Ha. High school happened to me, and peer pressure, and "hip" music, and I no longer talked about how much I loved Tim McGraw, but rather how cool punk-rock bands were. My friends all listened to Blink 182 and screamo-rock, as we called it. The kind of music where there's a double kick drum, and you can't understand the words cause the singer is screaming them out. The kind of music I listened to in my car when I snuck out at night and put in my fake nose ring. (Yes, I had a fake nose ring! I was too scared to pierce it, too scared of needles). It's funny to think back on all the silly things I did in high school. Who wears a fake nose ring? Oh yeah. Me.</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, as I grew older, and started to write my own songs, I began to shape my own style. I left punk-rock behind and began to go the singer-songwriter route, which felt most natural to me then, and still remains true. ( I like to write songs the simple way: Me and an acoustic guitar, or me and a piano). </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, at the good old age of 24, I finally feel like I've found myself as an artist. It took a while, but now I know what I love, and what is "me." I know what I want to write about, and how I want to write about it. I know what I want to represent, and what I want to stand for in my music. I know what instruments I want to put together to make a song. I know when to push a song to its limits, and when to let it be as it is, simple, and mine. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Being in the music industry for so long....the touring, the writing, the traveling, the performing. Well, one can get a little jaded sometimes. I needed a wake up. I think you'll find it very surprising that I hardly have listened to music in the past year. What do I listen to when I'm driving? On my I-pod? My computer? On a plane ride? Jogging?</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I listen to talk radio. I listen to interviews. I listen to books on tape.</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's how jaded I was. That's how tired I had become of a thousand songs flooding my I-pod, a million different new artists popping up everyday. Song writing teams I had met on my ventures to make an album: Song writing teams I had respectfully declined. Teams of writers that sickened me in the way they constructed hit songs together like a child would put clothes strategically on a paper doll. I couldn't listen to the radio without saying to myself, "and the song's 30 seconds in so here comes the BIG chorus," or, "And the bridge is in at 2:45," or "It's gotta be at 130 BPM's (beats per minute) if it's gonna get on the radio." </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I needed a wake up. A big reminder of why I love music, and why I do what I do. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That wake up came the first day of the Blake Shelton tour. The wake up was harsh and beautiful and liberating. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I can't remember feeling so many different emotions in one day as I did when I watched Blake's show. What an artist, and what a performer! I don't care if you like country music or not. A good musician needs to be recognized regardless. That is Blake Shelton. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course, I've always respected him. I enjoyed so much being on his team on The Voice. I enjoyed being his student, his friend, and still do. But watching him perform like that, in front of seven thousand people...in front of a sold out crowd all singing his words...Well, that was something else. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It not only awakened my love of music, watching him sing, but it also awakened the 14 year old Dia. The Dia in the jean vest. The Dia who sang on the back of a truck at the rodeo while horses ran around. The Dia who yodeled "Cowboy Sweetheart," at a nursing home luncheon. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Damn, there's still some country blood in me after all! And a lot of it.</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Today, as I checked my facebook, wrote an email to my mom, put my make up on, organized my laundry, (It sure piles up on tour), I had my portable I-pod radio on. And I played The Dixie Chicks, Patsy Cline, Blake (of course), Garth Brooks, and Tom Petty. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sang a lot. I cried...just a little, mind you! Woohoo, I love music!</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Each new show I'm singing more and more to Blake's songs. (Ol' Red is definitely one of my favorites). That song reminds me why country music is great: The songs can really weave together a great story. Every night I'm backstage singing to "She wouldn't be gone," and "Who are you when I'm not looking." Even if I'm a floor below the stage, waiting to take a shower, I'm still singing along to the music that's seeping under the door. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I've gotten a chance, on special nights, to come out and sing with Blake on stage. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6E-gDefv4KLJ6cdaSP6jxO6SgUnwQ3LDJH3UYreX6X-jCBzYYx2wphrB3Jcz2CrENdxthlXrpxoYz5ZElJhjZ9mUTmO2q7QU2cyyxoM5eSve0gP8j7ZLw89cbkJfi18jEPZrz2nJ84qHh/s1600/Blake+and+I+on+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6E-gDefv4KLJ6cdaSP6jxO6SgUnwQ3LDJH3UYreX6X-jCBzYYx2wphrB3Jcz2CrENdxthlXrpxoYz5ZElJhjZ9mUTmO2q7QU2cyyxoM5eSve0gP8j7ZLw89cbkJfi18jEPZrz2nJ84qHh/s320/Blake+and+I+on+stage.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We sing a song together called, "I will," that's on my album RED. Singing with him each night makes me so happy (and so nervous). The first night before the first show, Blake and I ran through the song with the band and I completely messed up the words in the first chorus. Yikes! It's one thing to mess up on stage alone, but when someone else is singing with ya, it's like they're depending on you in a way, like both of us are pulling on a rope in different directions, equally weighted, keeping each other balanced and on our feet. The words that I'm singing to him, I truly mean. For someone who's given me so much, I wish I could give it back in some way. He gave me hope in a career in music when I was lacking faith in myself, and now he's revived that musical spirit again! </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This tour has been truly amazing, and we're not even a week in! It feels so great to be out on the open road again, and to meet so many new people. I feel so blessed to be here with my friends, my band, Blake and his amazing crew, and all of you who come out to the shows. When there's 7,000 people singing along to a song in the same room, well, it really is magic. Thank you Blake for taking us on tour & letting me dip my toes in country music again! And thank YOU country music for sparking the fire in me once more and throwing me into a nostalgic, happy, lazy Tuesday. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm going to go through my I-pod now and flip through the bands that have truly touched me and just lay on the couch and listen to their records from front to back. I'm going to listen to Patsy Cline again. And tomorrow at the show in Madison, Carlo (my awesome guitar player) better play that banjo like mad on "Isabella." I love me some banjo! And dammit, I'm gonna buy me a cowboy hat! </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 24px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">XOXO,</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 24px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 21px/normal Georgia; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Dia</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-72356335688634299262011-12-06T22:32:00.000-08:002011-12-06T22:32:21.363-08:00Lyrics to RED<div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Bullseye</b></div><div style="font: 15.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We're gonna run, gonna run, gonna save you</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We're rolling up our sleeves, got our fingers curled</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">for the bad, for the good, for the evil, </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">they got it out for me, for me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We're tripping hard, gotta hit it on the bullseye</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">we gotta check our traps, gotta sneak out late</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">for the girls, and the boys, for the broken</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">they got it bad for me, for me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We gotta run, gotta run, who will save me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">we're rolling up our sleeves</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We're trippin hard gotta hit it on the bullseye</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">they got it out for me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Baby, it's the chain reaction, you'll see.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's a lonely, lonely world, at a crazy, crazy speed </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and you don't need no more distractions from me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">it's a lonely lonely world, at a crazy, crazy speed</div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ya hit a groove, hit a groove on your back road</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You walk the boulevard looking for a change</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">in your eyes, in your hands, at your young age</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">They're looking low for you, for you</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">They got it out for me. They got it out for me. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 24.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Daniel</b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Do you still sleep without your pillows in the house on cherry street?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Do you hear the sea?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And we promised we would meet back up in Autumn, but next spring came crawlin' on its knees.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You couldn't fit inside my suit case,</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And I didn't wanna be slowed down. </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Sometimes I wish that I could turn the clock around.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why Daniel, I wish you'd talked me out of it, through thin and thick </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why Daniel? Why'd you let me walk away, I would've stayed.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I convinced me If I loved you, I'd leave you, i was lying.</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You stood there with your palms out, your crying was silent</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why Daniel, I didn't mean a word I said back then. Why'd you let me win?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I remember when we spoke of flying North to Paris, France, just to feed the birds</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And do you still have that old napkin you took home from the cafe, where I wrote those 3 words? </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You couldn't follow me to LA</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I should have never took that job</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Now 3 years have passed and I still feel so robbed</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Have you settled down with someone since I gave you time to grow?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Do you ever think about me, was it easy to let go? I was such a foolish soul.</div><div style="font: 19.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 23.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Billy The Kid</b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Now once upon a time when the west was old</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A ma saw her son was a sight to behold</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">he could shoot his daddy's gun like a straight arrow</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He wrestled with the rattlesnakes before he walked</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ya, He grew up fast with a hardened grit</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and he had the pluck and he had the wit</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ya his mamma called him William till he up and quit</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and in these here parts he's known as Billy The kid</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've had you in my sights, my arms for so long.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Where did you go? I didn't know. </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've been around here waiting for so long, so long</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And I'll wait for you.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He was as tough as nails, barging in the saloon</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">missing an eye, gun glowed in the moon</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">he called out to the crowd, "I don't want no fuss. </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">See, I'm looking for a runaway, who looks like this!" </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And he slammed the paper down, it was covered in dust, </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">but the crowd kept silent, sure, he looked real tough,</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> but they knew the portrait well, and they knew not to,</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">mess with Billy the kid and his gang of thugs</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The sheriff knocked on the door of a pretty girl</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">tipped his hat, said, "We gotta have a look around.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We'll give you cash if you tip off the fugitive."</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">She bit her lip, she was in love and acted clueless. </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He grabbed her arm and said, "We heard you been a harborin'. </div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Give him up, I give my world I'll keep your name clean."</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">She steered 'em clear of the cracks in the floorboards and</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">said, "You'll never find him, you'll never find him!"</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Trapeze</b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you what I saw</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">or how it made me breathe.</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never repeat what I heard</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">how long it took me to leave.</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you what I saw</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">or how it made my smile freeze</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Cause this world is a whirlwind, but I'm holding that trapeze</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and I'll never tell you what I saw</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you who I loved</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">or how they made me free</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you how I slept</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">back when I was 15</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I thought that I could just forget</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the bricks that have built me</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">but this world is a whirlwind and I'm holding that trapeze</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and I'll never tell you who I loved</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">but If I could tell you one thing</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I would tell you I'm not leaving</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If I could show you one thing</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">all my mistakes have shaped me</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">into who I am <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and who I am just wants to make you home</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you why I drive</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">into the night and back again</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I hardly speak of my home town</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My little hands in the cement</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'll never tell you what I saw, close the door, swallow the key </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">but this world is a whirlwind and I'm holding that trapeze</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ya this world keeps on turning, love is carried in a sling</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ya this world is a whirlwind and I'm holding that trapeze.</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So I'll never tell you what I saw</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>The Broken Ones</b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I know they've hurt you bad</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why hide the scars you have</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Baby let me straighten out your broken bones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">All your faults to me make you more beautiful</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I can't help it I love the broken ones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the ones who need the most patching up</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the ones who never been loved</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">never been loved</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">never been loved enough</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe I see a part of me in them</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The missing piece always trying to fit in</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the shattered heart hungry for a home </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">no you're not alone</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I love the broken ones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You don't have to drive with your headlights off</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's a pocket knife, not a gift from God</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Don't you learn of love from the love they kept</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I will be your anchor, slowly, step by step</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe we can rip off the bandage</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe you will see it for what it is</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe we can burn this building holding you in</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 27.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>I Will</b></div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you forget the reason that you're singing</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and it's hard to find the song of your soul</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">just remember how you helped me start believing</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">anytime you're feeling down, I hope you know</div><div style="font: 20.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 23.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Whose gonna always have your back</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Whose gonna be a friend like that</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I will, I will</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">whose gonna try to make you laugh</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">remind you life ain't all that bad</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I will, I will</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you're feeling like the queen of nothing's working</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and you question every choice you make</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When you're sick and tired of being so uncertain</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and everything you thought was right is lost along the way</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Anytime, anyplace, I don't care</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">No questions, no judgements, I'll be there</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When all your wells are running dry</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and nothing's really going right </div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">who's gonna help you fight the fight</div><div style="font: 19.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 24.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Good Boy</b></div><div style="font: 20.0px Baskerville; line-height: 18.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 23.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You're gonna have to take him away, cause he don't wanna leave</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Charlie's such a good boy, a good boy</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mamma's crying out, "Where's he hiding?"</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Charlie's such a good boy, good boy.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And now he's sleeping at home in his rocket ship bed</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why does being good feel so damn bad?</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He stares at a picture of his run away dad</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">shines his flashlight steady.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Kid, you're such an easy target, without a rebel bone.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You're so compliant, quiet as a stepping stone.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Did he give you the love you were yearning for? Did he give you what you need?</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Have you heard the headlines on Blackberry street</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There lived a kid out there in number 523</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He came home smelling of old shaving cream</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He began to act out.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He became a little devil, BB gun to the birds</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and he spit out the F! and the S! and D! words</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">His mamma asked the priest and the priest replied,</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"He used to be an angel, mam, Ya, I don't know why."</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You can keep a secret right? Right. I can trust you with my life? Right.</div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I don't get no sleep at night, Night. You can keep a secret right? </div><div style="font: 28.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 34.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 28.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Homeless</b></div><div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 24.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Walking along the streets of New York with a bag full of old memories but I'll follow you.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And I always thought that home was up the stairs to space 11B but time can change things too.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Red, yellow, red, green</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Traffic in the city, reflects light in your eyes.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hands touch, eyes meet, I remember perfectly the night<b> </b>we fell in love.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Everywhere we go is home baby home, home is you're with me </div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Everything we touch is love, baby love, love is all we need</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Is all we need. Is all we need.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I don't need a roof over my head while I've got your hands to shade the sun away from my face</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I don't need a space to call my own, to scatter records on my floor, you're my secret place.</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Red, yellow, red, green</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Traffic on a side street, the corner where we met</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Lips touch, you breathe, right into the soul of me, I haven't come down yet</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 25.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You're all I'll ever need, You're all I'll ever need</div><div style="font: 25.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 30.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 25.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Hearts out to dry</b></div><div style="font: 25.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 30.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's too late, you're too late</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">reach for the window pane</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">look to our childhood for screws that are loose, don't we?</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We all know ourselves well</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">winter has dug in its heels</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">living like all love we worked for was something we stole.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">How does the wind sing so sweet</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">even after all this time</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">How the lights dim, heavenly</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">taking back what was mine</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">you should have seen the way you loved me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">leaving our hearts out to dry</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">you should have seen the way you left me</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">leaving our hearts out to dry</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">How did we come to this?</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Chips in the paint that we missed.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hard to put my finger down on the day it turned cold.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">June turned into July.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Oh how the time will fly by</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We were so careless to run from the words that we spoke</div><div style="font: 25.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 30.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 25.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Isabella</b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Isabella, Isabella, I heard you crying through the walls</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">What's the matter? What's the matter? All the neighbors hear it down the hall</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and I didn't want to be the first to say</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">everyone around here thinks you're crazy</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and I didn't want to be the first to say you shouldn't stay, Isabella run away</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">All your hero's are your records, you play 'em loud but I don't mind the noise.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why ya hiding? Why you staying? Maybe you don't think you have a choice.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and I didn't want to tell you face to face</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">that your mom and dad are straight up crazy</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's really hard for me to say that you shouldn't stay, Isabella run away</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Don't you be afraid</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's never too late</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You're a sleeping tiger, come awake</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Out the window of your bedroom, climb on down the fire escape.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I left some money and a ticket. For the first time in your life don't be afraid</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">and baby I will be the first to say</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You are stronger than you know, you'll find your way. Isabella run away. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 28.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Don't kick the chair</b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Have you ever felt like everybody's watching, waiting for you to lose?</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Have you ever felt like you're living in a spotlight, searching for the real you</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tell me, Have you ever woken up just to wish you could close your eyes</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Getting hard to find a friend in a city like this where you can't even trust a smile</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There are lonely nights when you see no hope, and you're<span style="font: 15.0px Helvetica;"> </span>feeling short<span style="font: 22.0px Helvetica;"> </span>of breath</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Like the whole damn world is a braided rope in a noose around your neck</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Don't kick the chair</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's gonna get better</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Don't kick the chair</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It can only get better</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Have you ever felt love, really really felt love, the kind that could save a life</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But right before you know it, you find out in a moment, you're gonna have to say goodbye</div><div style="font: 29.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 35.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 29.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Walk Away</b></div><div style="font: 29.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 35.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Looking back on younger days, the time has passed, and nothing stays the same.</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>She was such a pretty girl, with glowing eyes and yellow curls. Hey!</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Stars are in a summer night, She's wishing that they'd fall down through the atmosphere, for a souvenir.</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>She's waiting for her Superman, her Never land, cause He can show the way.</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Where's her missing piece her mind's been chasing, chasing?</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 14.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A bullet with your name, a ticking time grenade, you better run away </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Either way you're screwed, there's nothing you can do, no matter what you say.</div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>She's tellin' tales through telephone that make you cry, chill to the bone. Hey!</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>It's lock and key, electrified, hide and seek from dirty eyes</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Driving in the rain to somewhere far, but they've got tattoos stamped upon their arms, of her name in hearts</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>She doesn't understand that love is what you give, not given up. Hey!</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Where's her missing piece her mind's been chasing, chasing?</b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Yeah you better not sleep, because she's waiting, waiting. </b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 17.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>She knows all about you. You're in her aim. </b></div><div style="color: #2a2a2a; font: 16.0px Courier; line-height: 17.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
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</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-32389748000134614482011-12-05T09:16:00.001-08:002011-12-05T09:16:38.438-08:00Even more facts about the new album!!!<div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I usually don't like to write about the meanings behind songs I've written. I believe it was Jeff Buckley who said it best. When someone asked what his songs were about, he asked them, "What do <i>you</i> think it's about?" They'd answer and he'd nod in confirmation. He did this with every individual person. I agree with him as well. I've written these songs from my personal experiences, whether it may have been a story I heard, a relationship I was in, a favorite book, a city that inspired me, meeting new and interesting people on my travels, etc. etc. But what the listener always gets out of the song, whether it is "wrong" or "right" to what I wrote it about, is always what is most special to me. <span style="font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </span></div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Having said that, I will continue on telling all you curious folk about what these album tracks mean to me. However, keep in mind that what they mean to YOU will always be "right" in my book. Anyway, here's a little insight on the rest of the songs from RED for anyone who is interested. :) </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Homeless"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song can be summed up in one sentence: "Home," is not a place. It is a person. (Or at least that's my definition of home). It took me a while to come to that conclusion. I started touring when I was 17 (You can read about that a couple blogs below). Some years I was on the road 8 months out of the year. I love traveling, but it was hard at times. Try dating someone and then telling them you're leaving for 3 months. The response usually isn't a party. "But don't worry...after those 3 months I'll be home for a week...and um, then on tour again....in the UK. But...I'll get a phone card." Yeah, usually not a party. But after a while, you realize that the people who truly care about you are the ones who don't even blink when you tell them about your crazy schedule. My best friend Hannah has always been there for me, even though on almost every birthday of hers I'm usually 5000 miles away. My mom and family have always been understanding and supportive. It took me a while to realize it, but home is about the people you love and that love you. It's about the people that no matter how far away they are, make you feel at home. I love you guys! </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Billy the Kid"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Picture a sunshine man. A happy, go lucky, creative, funny person with blonde hair and bright eyes. His name is Isom Innis. He is the keyboard player for <i>Foster the People</i>. I met Isom a few years ago, way before "The Voice." We got together from time to time and wrote songs and chatted and created. He's just overall an inspiring person/musician to be around. When it came time to write for the album, I called him up. "Let's get together and write! Let's just see what happens." I went over to his cozy apartment in Silver lake, CA. He said, "Come in, come in...I'm just..uh, working on a track...it's like a spaghetti western...reminds me of cowboys,sit, want water? Ya good? Check it out..." Isom gets really REALLY excited over music (which is why he's awesome to work with) and kind of reminds me of a mad scientist when working on songs. He played me an intro to a song he had been working on. There was no melody or lyrics. He started dancing around the room with his guitar, playing the song really loud and yelling over it, "I think we could add in some really cool tambourine here!" And then he'd pick up an acoustic guitar and start dancing again. I sat down on his couch, opened up my journal, and started writing away. It did remind me of a western....I thought back on my favorite movies. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Clint Eastwood. Doc Holliday. Calamity Jane. Kit Carson the sharpshooter. I started dancing too on the couch and started writing a story..... I love writing stories. We recorded vocals that night in Isom's living room (same vocal tracks on the actual record. Sometimes the "demo" vocal is the best!) Then we wrote a chorus which made our feet wanna move. We gave it a few weeks, thought on it. Isom showed it to Mark Foster while they were on tour together. He had a great idea for the chorus and also added some fun instrumentation. It was a pleasure to work with them. This song was....fun to write...and now fun to listen to while I'm dancing in my car and almost crashing into the poor lady next to me. </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I Will"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song is very special to me for an obvious reason: Blake Shelton! It was amazing to be able to watch him cut vocals for this song. (We cut vocals for this tune together in Nashville, TN)! I love his voice and his country twang! Also, I absolutely would not have an album to release in a couple days if it wasn't for him. He's been such an awesome coach, friend, musician, that I just feel so lucky to have met him. This song, simply, is about friendship. He joked that it should have been the "Fox and the Hound" theme song. Yes!</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"The Broken Ones"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song wrote itself, or so it seemed. It came so naturally. Lyrically, it's about not only accepting "faults or flaws" people find in you or ones you love, but embracing them. It's the quirks and weird things my friends do that I usually love. What others might find "broken," I find charming. We've all gone through our uphill climbs, our own hardships. We all have a story.... In my life, and especially in many relationships, I have been drawn to people a little out of the box. We grow together and become better people. What makes us broken, is also what makes us perfect. </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Don't kick the chair"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Greg Kurstin produced this track. One of my favorite producers! It was so wonderful to be able to work with him. Also, of course, Mr. Kid Cudi. I like it when artists write happy tunes with dark lyrics, and that is what I attempted to do on this one. This one is ...as corny as it sounds... about not giving up. </div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-88789196706994236832011-12-04T12:07:00.001-08:002011-12-04T12:07:12.336-08:00Facts about the new album RED<div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As December 6th is growing closer, I am getting even more excited for you guys to hear the new album RED! Thank you so much for being so supportive as well as interactive. I love reading your comments, etc. on my facebook, twitter, or here! </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I just wanted to say a few words about the album, how it was made, what the songs mean to me, etc. :)</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 19.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>"Daniel"</b></div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song is by far the most personal to me. So personal in fact, that it almost makes me feel uncomfortable. It's as if I ripped out a page of my diary and put it on display for all the world to see. This song is very much about me, and very much the truth. He is still a very special person to me in my life, whether he knows it or not. The vocal tracks on the album were supposed to be "demo" vocals. I laid down some vocals right after writing the song, and during that time, I was going through a really rough emotional war inside me about this special person. The vocal takes were...imperfect, sad, raw. A few weeks later when this song was confirmed to be on the album, I went back into the studio to record "Perfect" vocals for the tune. After a few takes, Toby (an awesome producer and writer) said, "When you first sang it, I felt like you were about to cry... Now it just sounds like you're tired and stressed. Go home for a bit. I'm keeping the very first take of your vocals. There's just something ... special about them." I wrote this song for me...and I wrote it for Daniel. </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>"Hearts out to dry"</b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font: 17.0px Helvetica;">Possibly my favorite track on the record. (It's a bonus track on the I-tunes version...and sorry, but that is the only place you can get it). I wrote this song with my sister Meg. </span><span style="font: 15.0px Helvetica;"> </span>It's fun to write with friends and work with amazing producers, but when I work with my sister...I can just be myself 100%. We are also close enough to say....yah, that part sucks. Ha. No hard feelings. Meg and I wrote about 10 songs for the RED album, however, like I said, decided all of them, except this jewel, weren't good enough to make the cut. As an artist, it's really important to weed out the "okay" songs. I wanted the chorus of this song to hit you like a train. Thankfully, I had Meg there, and she knew exactly what to do instrument wise, to make that happen. This song, to me, gives me an out of body experience. I can just close my eyes and listen to it and feel happiness, pain, sadness, excitement. I wanted all the vocals to sound dissonant, like you were hearing a choir through a hall. Neal Avron, one of my all time favorite producers, produced this track. It was co-produced by Meg Frampton. Go Meg!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 22.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>"Bullseye"</b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I wrote this song with Isabella Summers. The keyboardist of "Florence and the Machine." This song came together like a 5 year old throwing random ingredients in a bowl attempting to make a cake. We weren't thinking about song "rules," or "hit" making. Hahah. We were just making a racket in a tiny little room in LA. It was terribly hot that day and we had to keep turning off the AC every time I would cut vocals or lay guitar down. I still remember just sitting there sweating. We got a lot of the percussion sounds by tapping picture frames together and high heels! I wrote all the lyrics for this one...and wanted it to sound very anthemic, almost as if you are running or being chased by something terrifying but also exciting. She was an amazing producer to work with. She didn't hover over me and say, "Well, that line doesn't really rhyme," but rather encouraged my crazy creativity. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> "Trapeze"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song came about in a rather funny way. I was hanging out with my two friends who are also great writers, Dave Hodges, and Dave Harris, (the guitar player for John Mayor), yes, I geeked out. Dave #1 started playing a tune and I said, "Wow, I love that beginning. Let's build on that song. It's great!" And he laughed and said, "I was just messing around. That's a Bob Dylan song I was playing." Of course I felt rather stupid, but then we just started jamming folk songs and "Trapeze" came out. I wrote this song, lyrically, about a friend of mine who had a very tragic childhood. However, he never spoke of it until after 4 years of knowing him. It was odd because, lots of people with their dark pasts tend to dwell on them and sometimes victimize themselves, leaning on their crutches as an excuse not to press forward. My friend, on the other hand, lived as if nothing had ever happened. When he told me of his past I was shocked. It's amazing how some people can overcome hardships and move forward, becoming their own person. He never spoke of his past, or "told me what he saw," and all of his hardships. He did, however, always speak of the future....and how to press on and make it a bright and beautiful one for himself. </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 21.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Good boy"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This song is about a very close friend who was molested when he was a child by his neighbor, who was guilty of molesting many of the kids in the neighborhood. Unfortunately the boys were too scared and confused to tell anyone, thinking that they were "good boys." The neighbor died of old age. </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Isabella" </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I wrote this song for my little sister. No, her real name isn't Isabella. During the time that this record was being written, my parents were going through a really, really tough time. Divorce papers were pulled out, and the fighting and immaturity began. I won't go into much detail, but basically, when I was out in LA and London and Nashville writing and recording and creating....half of me felt like I should be at home, taking care of my 4 little sisters who were stuck in a mess and having a really hard time dealing with things. I never realized what an ugly thing divorce is and how terribly it effects children...their ideas of love, their ideas of "forever," and their ideas of family. </div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Walk away"</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was sitting with a friend one night, talking about first loves. I rambled on...Yeah, my first love was my boyfriend in high school. We had our first kiss on a hammock outside. He called me, "My sweet," because that's what they say in Hemingway novels. Etc. Etc. (That really was my first love. I was 15). He then story-topped mine. He got really quiet for a moment and then said, "My first love was when I was 11. She was nine. Her name was ****." I interrupted, "Aw, cute! When was your first kiss?" He said, "I never kissed her. We just held hands all the time. We'd sit together on a hay stack outside, or by our secret tree. Her dad used to share her with his friends for entertainment." I asked, "What do you mean?" He looked down and said, "Ya know. They'd all come over for a football game or something, and then he'd let them take her in a bedroom...." I was absolutely shocked. "You didn't do anything? And all these GROWN MEN thought it was okay? All of them?" He shrugged. "I was too young...I didn't know who to tell. I wish I did say something.... But, when she was with me...she felt safe. I told her I loved her all the time and would take care of her." He shrugged again. "One of his dad's friends got her name and painted it on his truck." I was even more shocked. "He did what? And no one noticed or thought it was weird!? How do these things happen?" He shrugged again. "It was a weird time...a weird neighborhood." He paused. "I wish I would have said something." I asked, "Well, what happened to her?" He said, "I tried to find her on the internet once but I couldn't. I don't know what happened to her."</div><div style="font: 17.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought on his terrible story for a few days, and then I also thought...."Where is she? What became of her?" And then I decided that ... if she didn't get her vengeance... if she didn't get her revenge...I was going to give it to her, in this song. All of a sudden I started day dreaming, and thought of her as a girl in black, running across roofs, catapulting from the ceilings of tall buildings like a MISSION IMPOSSIBLE chick. Running on moving trains, hitting targets from miles away with her hand guns. She became this...weird kinda super hero to me. And then I thought about her going back for all those men who hurt her. She had, as the lyrics say, "A bullet with their names," and she was coming to get her revenge! I know it sounds kinda silly, but it made me happy to think of an alternative ending to her story. And of course I wouldn't want someone to go shooting everyone's brains out. 100 years in jail would be more like it, but sometimes I get carried away, and she just looked so cool in my head as some kind of CIA chick with guns on her thigh holsters and an evil "Cat woman-ish" glint in her eye. Go get 'em girl, and then "walk away!" </div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-49137849911888433052011-12-01T11:58:00.000-08:002011-12-01T11:58:51.438-08:00My story: From the beginning to the present<div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Life is a funny thing.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It always throws curve balls at you: unexpected forks in the road, a closed door, an open window.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is going to be a very long blog..or journal...or whatever you want to call it. I'm warning you now, so you can just skip to the end if you want album info or have touring questions. I'm going to tell you - My Story - as best as I can. It may not be in the right order all the time, or it might stray a little, but....I think in order to get why I do what I do, you gotta start at the bottom of the stair case. I'm going to try to tell it as factual as I can, without attempting to evoke emotions from the reader. Sometimes I dislike autobiography's that attempt to call for sympathy or apathy or any of that. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And also, many young aspiring musicians have always asked for advice, (Not that I'm a know it all or give great advice, ha, but...oh well). This story isn't necessarily one that can give anyone a clear path way into music, or good advice about diving in either, but it can show you that everyone's path in music, or in any kind of dream they have, is always filled with unpredictable forks and uphill climbs,etc. But now I'm just rambling.... Let's get back on track. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Many strange things have happened to me this year, and it took a while for me to wrap my head around it now, and finally here I am to answer your questions, shed some light on some of you eager, old school "Meg and Dia" fans, and to any one who is curious, let ya know about my plans for the future! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But first, let's go back. Way back. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I've always had a passion for music. My dad used to be a radio DJ in Korea so he always had his records going on in the house. A lot of Queen, Chicago, Toto, you name it. (Funny side note: He never listened to The Beatles. He always said, "The Beach Boys is all I need. No Beatles). Hah. I got into them later on in life when my sister Meg started playing some of their lovely tunes on the guitar. Anyway, away from side note.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I started singing at the age of 9. And by "singing," I mean, wailing. I had a very small range, and terrible, TERRIBLE pitch. You'd be lucky if I was on key for one note of a song sometimes. I couldn't sing harmony worth crap. I couldn't hear it. So in a way.... I started as a very unnatural musician. The whole "God Given talent" thing isn't necessarily my story. I hated piano lessons. I quit. I hated guitar lessons. And after begging my mom to let me quit that also and stay home, she finally threw up her hands and let me. I was still very young at that age. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One thing that did come naturally to me was yodeling. I heard Leann Rimes sing "Cowboy Sweetheart," and that's when I really got into singing. I started practicing every day. I started messing around on the piano more, even though I still refused to take lessons. I got better at staying on key. I spent all my pocket money and allowance on CD's. By the age of 15 I had so many CD's they basically lined the walls of my room. (Most of them were country CD's). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My dad started booking me little gigs. During lunch time at old folks' homes I would go sing a 20 minute set of Patsy Cline, Tanya Tucker, and Connie Francis. Then I started yodeling at County Fairs in the small town of St. George, Utah. I sang at Rodeo's on a "stage" on the back of pick up trucks in my cowboy boots and jean jacket. I sang at Christmas parties and charity events and business conferences and sometimes, if I was good, my dad would drive me 30 minutes out to an old ice skating rink on Wednesdays. (Wednesdays was karaoke night). I loved to go skate there and then sing some Shania Twain and Paul Simon. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I kept this up until I was 14. When I was 14, my older sister Meg started getting into music. (Before she had become engrossed in music - she, unlike me, enjoyed piano lessons and was classically trained for 9 years - but suddenly some kind of crazy passion started. Call it "becoming a teenager" if you will). She had her heart broken. Puppy love. And so she bought a guitar and wrote her very first song EVER. It was called, "Masterpiece." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When she played this song for me on her guitar I almost lost my mind. It was the first time I had ever heard an original song. The first time I ever saw an old notebook paper with her poetry, her lyrics scribbled all over it. The first time I thought, "Woah....I didn't know there was anything beyond singing to tracks/ Kareoke). (Keep in mind, I was only 14! Ha).</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, after her first song, "Masterpiece," she began to write songs like crazy. It fascinated me. I thought she was the best songwriter I had ever heard. In my eyes, she couldn't have created a bad song. And of course, I was crazy jealous. (Sister rivalry if you will). I thought, SHE'S singing these amazing songs, while I'm singing Dixie Chick Kareoke songs! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, she quickly formed a band and started playing around St. George, Utah. She sang and played the guitar, and 2 friends of hers backed her up on drums and bass. The first time I saw them play I almost died. It was so amazing to me! A real live band! I begged Meg to let me join the band. I told her that I'd sing whatever, and I wouldn't be a nuisance. She declined. She said the band was fine how it was, and she didn't need her little sister running around with her. (How uncool could a high school cat be with her little sister in the band anyway!) Funny to think of how our mind sets were back then. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally, my mom said that she would ground Meg for a week if she wouldn't let me sing just one song with them at their next gig. (It was at a little arts festival. They set up a tiny stage on the back of a truck.) I flipped out with glee and of course Meg was mad and also embarrassed in front of her friends, but I got to sing up there with her and NOTHING could have made me smile bigger that day. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After that, Meg continued on with her band and I, behind my locked door, started trying to learn the guitar as well and started trying to write my own original songs. I started practicing guitar and piano on my own, to my mom's surprise and delight). The first song I ever wrote was called, "Hold on." I still remember the title, although I don't remember how it went at all. That's probably a good thing!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then one evening, while I was enjoying a burrito at a mall (still 14 years old, Meg 16), there was a karaoke session set up right outside the Mexican restaurant. Of course my mom put my name down, and as they called me up to sing a Garth Brooks song, I grimaced at my mom hoping none of my friends from school would walk by. I sang the song. Afterwards, a guy walked up to me. He explained that he had a brother that played the guitar that was looking to start a band....the rest is history.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With his brother on guitar, and his two friends on drums and bass, I started my first band with them called, "Jade Harbor." Meg also joined "Jade Harbor" as the songwriter, pianist, and 2nd guitar player. My very first real band! I still have my "Jade Harbor" T shirt. It's an old brown T with a pair of pink head phones printed on it. My most prized possession. The bass player of that band also owned a great venue in St. George called, The Electric Theater. We rehearsed and played there often, and when we weren't playing, I would work concessions from time to time, just so I could be around when other bands came through town. I loved to hear the music.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We played with that band for a couple years. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, we met a person who said that they would love to manage Meg and I. That she could help us try and get a deal. Meg and I instantly got stars in our eyes, and of course, over excited. However, she said that the band would have to go. "I can't sign all of you. You'll have to leave them behind," she said compassionately. Decision making time. At that age, all Meg and I saw was the opportunity. We left the band after all their hard work and dedication. We left them without barely explaining anything. We left them to go to LA to take meetings with labels.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To this day, thinking about leaving them still makes my stomach feel sick. I should never have left them like that. Abandoned them. If I could change anything about my life....... well, we all make mistakes.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(I'm rambling now.) To make this shorter, basically Meg and I recorded demos to send into labels, took promo pictures, had meetings, etc. After a year and half of working with our new manager and trying and failing, we amiably parted ways and began a new chapter.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We went back to St. George, Utah.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We went back to The Electric Theater. Our ex bass player (owner) was nice enough to let us open for acts there. One night, we opened up for a band called Limbeck on an indie label called Doghouse records. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We talked to their tour manager. He smelled of beer and had twinkly, friendly eyes, like little stars. He had a kind, drunken smile. He gave us his card. "Keep in touch," he slurred. "Send me some new songs when you get 'em. I know Doghouse records. They're a great indie label. They do great things." We'll call this tour manager, "Mr. X" for now. With that, Mr. X gave us a pat on the back and left in Limbeck's band van. (Side note: Mr. X is getting married and Meg and I are singing at his wedding in 2012! So excited!)</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg and I went through a couple different bands after that point, just as one would go through boyfriends at that young age. Each one left us with a bitter sweet taste in our mouth. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We played shows at churches, old venues, parties, fairs. Anywhere that would take us really. We spent all our savings on new equipment. Our parents helped us a lot as well. (We finally paid them back after 3 years). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg got scared though one day. All her friends were now out of high school and going to college. (Not to mention she got a full ride scholarship to a Utah college based on academics). "I can't <i>not</i> take this," she said. I thought I was going to die when she moved out, being the overdramatic teenager that I was. She wrote, "Just one of those things," (a song you can find on "Our home is gone,") during that time. She wrote it about us leaving each other. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So she went to Cedar City and I stayed at home with my parents. She started a new band up there....she became the guitar player of a really neat indie/rock group very popular around the college. I started one at home. We called each other from time to time.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A half year went by.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She called me up. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"School will always be here for me. Maybe not the scholarship," she joked, "but you get what I mean. Music needs to happen now. We have a shot at this...now. People who wait never do it at all," she said. And with that, Meg moved out of her dorms, left her scholarship and was back in my life. I home schooled while I did my junior year of high school...so I could get out of school a year early. (Basically public school from 7 am to 1 pm. and then home school from 2 pm to 6 everyday for a year). I knew that we'd want to start touring soon, and I didn't want to hold the band back. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg and I quickly found a bassist, drummer, and guitar player. We were starting to get serious about making music our career, our life. After much tossing and turning of band names, our bass player at the time named us "Meg and Dia." Haha. Ironically, it actually wasn't either Meg or I that named us that. Anyway, it stuck and that was what we were called.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We started booking tours around the west coast. (We were living in Salt Lake City then. Meg and I shared a small room in a small house with 3 other room mates). We booked shows through myspace. For example, we would find a band in AZ, email them, and say something to the extent of: "Hey. We're passing through your city on July 8th. Do you know promoters/ or a venue we could play at? We are very unfamiliar to the music scene in AZ. If you do this, we will set you up with a show in Utah. We know all the promoters and good venues out here." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So basically, we show swapped. And we did this following a tour route. We had little money. (All the loose change we had, we spent to make our first, "Meg and Dia" shirts). We took Meg's 5 passenger car, hitched a small trailer to it with all our guitars and amps, and drove off. I was 17 when I first went on tour. All the shows were quite small. Sometimes literally 0 people. Sometimes 100 if we opened up for a popular local band..... After the show we would ask the bands who played (if there were any) if we could sleep on their floor. Sometimes we asked people in the audience. Hotels were too expensive. It had a 75% success rate. The other nights we just slept in the car in Wal Mart parking lots or sometimes in parks if the weather was nice. (My mom still doesn't know that. Ha!) Nick's drum rug made a nice little cushion on the grass. One night, in Berkeley, CA, we got kicked out of a park at 6 a.m. It wasn't nice to wake up on the damp lawn with 2 cops hovering over you, their flash lights in your face. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Months passed. We recorded a demo with saved up pocket money. We played as many shows as we could get. We pushed our music to everyone we could via the internet. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then we called, Mr. X again. The tour manager we had met a while back. We asked him for help. He said he'd get us a showcase with Dog house. He said to come out to L.A. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To make a long story short, Dog house signed us a little while after the showcase. (Funny side note: A couple years after they signed up, while talking to people at Doghouse records, they laughed and said, "To be honest...you guys were terrible at that showcase show...sloppy as hell. But we saw potential...determination...and that is why we signed you.) We made a record on that label, and toured. Our first big tour was Warped tour, 06. It was also probably one of the hardest tours I've ever done. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Side note: Warped tour, for those of you who don't know, is an annual music festival...there are food/clothing tents everywhere and about 10-15 stages set out across a large parking lot/ampitheater/field, etc. Anywhere from 50-70 bands play everyday. (Those number facts could be a little off, but that's like what it seemed!)</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We didn't get to play on a stage...but they said we could play in a small tent. A tent no bigger than a living room. Each morning around 7 a.m. we set up the PA system and a little platform that was about a foot off the ground in the dirt....the "stage." Each morning Meg and I woke up early to "Walk the lines." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Walking the Lines" is going to the line of people outside the main gates of Warped tour before the doors open (usually around 10 a.m.). Since people are just idly sitting by, they are more apt to listen to you when you come up and say, "Hey, since you're just waiting, would you mind listening to my band?" (You push a pair of headphones towards them with your thumb waiting patiently to push play on your Ipod). Many said, "Get lost." Many said, "No thank you," but many said, "yes." And after they listened to 30 seconds or a minute of our song, they'd either buy a CD for 10$, say, "Not my style," or "That's the worst shit ever," or just laugh. We hoped for option #1. Meg and I sold anywhere from 5 to 50 CD's a day. All that money, plus merch money went to pay for transportation, so even though we came out of that tour breaking even, we felt pretty happy about it. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Warped tour ended. We did more tours. I wasn't home very often. My relationships struggled. My mom called me a lot with "I miss you's." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Doghouse (remember: an indie label) wanted us to upstream to Warner Brothers records. We suddenly became signed to a major label, and with our hats in our hands, said bye bye to the Doghouse staff. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(I've been rambling too much. I'm going to try and simplify this story! Sorry).</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg and Dia recorded another album, "Here, here and here," on Warner/Sire records. Meg and Dia toured 8-9 months out of the year. Meg and Dia have played almost every single state 7-15 times over. Dia learned how to drive a 15 passenger van so Nick (our lovely drummer) wouldn't have to drive so much. (Meg's a terrible van driver. Sorry Meg. Haha) Dia learned how to take energy drinks when she had the 1 a.m. to 6 a.m. shift. Meg and Dia spent 3-10 hours in a van everyday on tour. We learned how to take showers in Chevron Bathrooms. We learned how to pee on the side of the road without getting it on our shoes. We learned how to get through the Canadian border crossing as quickly as possible. We learned band etiquette on tour toward the headlining band. For example, don't eat before they do if there's catering...some people are pretty intense. (And dammit, we got a lot of reading done). We also met some of the most amazing musicians and people..... Thanks for the memories ya'll. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here's a moment to give a quick shout out to "Angels and Airwaves." No band was ever so nice and generous to us as they were.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, back to the story. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg and Dia's record didn't sell very much. Then the tour offers came in less frequently. Then we got dropped.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We got sad for a while. Discouraged. Low spirited. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then we said, "Fuck it all. We're going to keep playing music." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We took all the savings out of the band bank account that we had saved from previous tours. We hired a guy for real cheap to engineer and produce our record. (He ended up being rad). Then we rented a small, cheap cabin in Tillamook, Oregon and, with the last of our funds, rented out recording gear, and made an EP, "It's always stormy in Tillamook." </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It wasn't enough though. We wanted to make a full length. We had extra songs we had done in Oregon, but we wanted to make something...that represented our emotions of the moment. We had run out of funds to keep the cabin, so I made a phone call to my mom. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A few weeks later, her couches were moved to the garage, and a drum set sat where her TV had been. We put microphones in the bathrooms, the kitchen, the hallways. We set up the engineering room in my mom's dining room. (She wasn't all too happy about it, but she's always been supportive). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We recorded our latest album, "Cocoon," in my mom's kitchen and living room in St. George, Utah.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We recorded some songs that are still incredibly special to me. "Bandits," because I like to write about myself through fictional stories. "Unsinkable ships," because the last line of that song is the entire reason I, personally, went in to record "Cocoon" when I was so disheartened. "Said and done," because it reminded me of the love I want and hope to one day have. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With the last of our touring money, we made "Cocoon." (The "we" is Carlo - amazing guitarist who's been with us for over 6 years now. Jonathan - amazing bass player whom we met when we met Carlo. Nick, who's been with Meg and I since pretty much the very beginning. He's a great mechanic too if you're looking for one!) </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now was the tough part. We did the "music," but now the "business" side came in. We didn't know how to promote it. We of course utilized the internet first, putting it on every website we could think of. (I-tunes, bandcamp, etc.) Then I manually sent in CD's to college radio stations, asking them to please play our songs. I must have sent out over 250 letters with Demo CD enclosed. My tongue was dry from licking so many envelopes! Then we tried to book shows. (Our booking agent had left amiably as well) so now....no tour offers came in. In fact, there was no way for us to really get submitted for any tours anyway. The last headlining tour we did.... half way through we almost had to cancel since the funds were so low with the gas prices up so high and all. It wasn't a blast getting 7 people into 1 hotel room either. Winter tours can be rough. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> We felt we had come to a dead end. Our record had come out but it seemed like nobody knew about it, or cared.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Time passed. I moved to New York. I got a job at Crumbs Cupcakes on Madison Avenue, making coffee and putting red velvet's in cute little boxes. I took the subway home late at night listening to Tom Petty. I watched my friend's bands come through Brooklyn. I got pretty sad. I called Meg from time to time. "How's it going? Anything new?" ........ "Nah, you?" ....... "Any luck on that tour in June?" ....."Nah.... How's work? Have you gained weight yet from serving all those cupcakes?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg got a job at a jewelry shop cleaning and selling engagement and wedding rings. Nick played random gigs at bars in a cover band to make extra cash. We all felt so far away.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Time passed. I moved back into my parents' house in Utah cause rent in NY got me a bit over my head. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My manager called me randomly one day. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hey. There's this new show you should try out for."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I rolled my eyes. "I'm not doing that American Idol shit man. No thanks. Plus, I can't belt out a Celine Dion song, and that's just not me."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No, no, " he said. "It's a new show. It's called <i>The Voice</i>. They're holding try outs in LA. You should drive down."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"A show? No. That sounds weird."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hear me out..."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Wait...What exactly is this show? I don't do reality TV. Plus, I'd be way too freaked out. I don't know how those singer's do it."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He cut in, "It's not like a real reality TV show...it's really cool. You should watch it. I sent you a clip of the show. It started in Holland. It was a big hit there."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What is it?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You just sing songs...and the judges don't even get to see you, so you won't be scared. It's not really a big deal."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who are the judges?" I asked.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I dunno...they haven't picked them yet. I think Ceelo Green might be one."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh, never mind. Just watch the clip."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"When are try outs?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"In March."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, South by South west is in March and I really wanted to go to that music festival. The band might get a chance to play."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well," my manager said, getting a little frustrated. "Just try out. It might be nothing at all. The show might flop, who knows. So don't even worry about it. You wanted to come to LA anyway to try and get voice over auditions. So I'll try to set some of those up, but why not go to this audition too?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(Side note: My manager, Mike, has stuck with us for about 6 years now. We found him during our Doghouse years. He still manages me/us).</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who are the judges again? I don't like that word. Judges. It scares me. I'm not a big singer....I'm a singer/songwriter. Shows like that want belters...not weirdos like me. I'll just get embarrassed. I just...I can't."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Listen," he said. "What's the worst that could happen? Even if you get 5 minutes of air time, that would be enough for some viewers to google your name, find the "Meg and Dia" band, find the Cocoon album on I tunes. It's a free way to get more promotion than you guys could EVER do for yourselves. And I know what you mean...you're not a belter. But winnings not important.....even if you lose the first time you'll still be able to promote "Cocoon." It's pretty much the only choice we have as of now...it's the only opportunity that's come up."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I dunno..." I said uneasily. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Just watch the clip and call me later."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I got on my computer. I watched the clip. It was in another language.....some good that did me. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I drove to LA. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Somehow I ended up waiting in the waiting room with my manager sitting beside me, smiling. There were a couple hundred people lined up outside the building waiting to audition. "Just go in there, and play a couple songs and then we can go get tacos at your favorite spot. Cool?" </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yeah.....cool. Sure....</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I went in to play the songs I was so damn nervous my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I pulled out my guitar. I pressed the strings down for a Bm chord. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. One of the people watching me (there was about 9) said, "Honey, just put the guitar down and sing a cappella. I gratefully complied. I didn't realize I'd all of a sudden get so nervous, but all those eyes were on me. I sang. One of them said, "We'll maybe call you."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They called that night. I had to go sing again the next day, but in front of more people. I did, this time even more nervous. They said, "Go back to Utah. We'll maybe email you."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Weeks passed. They emailed me. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before I went out for the 3rd audition, my manger and I got on a conference call with the band, Meg and Dia. The conversation was mostly like the one I had had with my manager previously. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What's this competition about?" asked Nick, (drummer).</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's a new TV show," answered my manager.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We'll have to cancel our South by show. I got it finalized. Some people pulled some strings," Nick said.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, I really want to play South by," Meg concurred. "I love that festival."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, if Dia doesn't move on past this next audition, she'll be back in Utah and you can do South by," said my manager. "If she does move on...well, we'll see. You guys should look at it from a bigger perspective. If she does get any air time at all, it'll give you guys that much more promotion. People might google her name and see the band. People might get on I tunes and get "Cocoon." What other option of promotion do you guys have?"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I only want to do this if everyone's comfortable with it," I said.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A pause.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, I think you should do it," said Carlo.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Are you guys sure it's okay canceling our South by show? We've had it planned for weeks." I said. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally, after a long conversation, the band and I decided that I should try out. In a way, I kinda felt like I was carrying the torch for us all into the Gladiator ring. (I know that's an absurd metaphor but, oh well. It's nearing 2 a.m. now and I'm afraid my grammar's getting sloppy too). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After that...the rest is history...or can I say that? That phrase has always been a little funny to me. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I was lucky enough to get put with the best BEST coach and person ever, Blake Shelton. And was lucky enough to go further than I ever EVER could have imagined on that show. Even now when I think about it...I feel almost shocked sometimes. It feels like a dream that I even got past the first audition at all. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It suddenly and unexpectedly pushed me into a new realm and new opportunities literally almost appeared to fall in my lap. I got excited. I got scared. I started day dreaming again. I got stressed. I got exhausted. I got anxious.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What now? </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, the show has ended, obviously.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Universal/ Republic decided to pick up their option to sign me to their label.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The "Meg and Dia" band is not signed, and is still independent. The "Meg and Dia" band is still very important to me. The "Meg and Dia" band will remain separate from "Dia Frampton," although, all 5 of us members of "Meg and Dia" will be involved with "Dia Frampton." The "Meg and Dia" band will do separate tours, separate albums, etc. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What am I doing now? I'm trying to record a "Dia Frampton" album while also trying to include the band in as much as possible. They've been nothing but supportive and excited about this whole process and I'm lucky they stuck by me through this whole waiting game. I've been writing a ton since the show's ended, and have also been having a great time writing with people who inspire me. I got a chance to write with John Mayor's guitar player (Huge fan of John Mayor and their music). I got a chance to work with the keyboard player of Florence and the Machine. We worked on a track together....making an interesting drum beat by clicking shoe heels together and picture frames. I got to work with the keyboard player of Foster the People, Isom Innis, and Mark Foster, a band I really enjoy. It's been great to write and create music with so many inspiring people who also share a passion for music. It kinda makes me feel like an apprentice sometimes too. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>(Side note: I wrote this blog a month ago...was a little shy to put it out till now. So the timing is a little weird. Obviously the album has been recorded and is complete.) </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Also, Meg (who's been swamped with jewelry making lately) has just flown out from Austin to now come write music with me for the "Dia Frampton" record out late this year or early 2012. We just wrote a song called, "Hearts out to dry," and have been having a great time writing together again. Meg and I are going to try to write as many songs as possible together before the deadline comes from the label to pick the 11-12 songs that we think are the BEST as well as the most cohesive for an album (which is really important to me). I'm very happy Meg came out here to create again with me. She's not only a talented songwriter but guitar player as well. (Side note: Many ask why Meg didn't try out with me. Well, I had no idea duos could try out until casting had ended....it was too late). </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm now living with Carlo in LA (best room mate ever), and Meg's been hanging out in my room. (She takes up a lot of the bed) Ha. We are working on making an album that will make us proud. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We are going to be touring early next year....and we hope to see you. The same members of "Meg and Dia," will also be touring with "Dia Frampton." Meg and I will continue to write songs for "Meg and Dia," but also will write songs for "Dia Frampton."</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Side note: It's been kinda cool to have 2 projects...it almost makes me feel like I have an alter ego. In "Meg and Dia," I can write poetry to slow, melancholy waltzes, and with "Dia Frampton," I can explore fun dance beats that instantly make me wanna get up and dance around. I like that about dance music...it's almost like medicine. It makes you happy. And then the sad songs....the ballads...they're kinda like a companion when you yourself are sad.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The label's wanting to put out the album soon, Dec. 6th. It's been both stressful and exciting. Stressful because I want to write something great, and a time limit on that is always straining, but exciting because I can't wait for ya'll to hear it! </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's pretty much were I am right now. Writing, recording, and trying to get my 5 minutes of downward dog in so I don't go crazy. It's been really important to me to be a part of the writing process on this record. Even with the little amount of time allotted for getting this thing out, it's important to me to write what is real..... I haven't yet had a song just handed over to me, made from a professional factory of song writing experts. The perfect hook. The perfect length. 3 minutes, 30 seconds. I've been very vocal about writing on my own, with my sister, and with people who creatively I look up to, like those writers mentioned above to name a few. And Universal has actually been very supportive in this. (Yay, Universal!) It's kinda crazy how some records are made......some singers even hold "song writing camps" in which a bunch of "hit makers" go out to a retreat, write like crazy for a week together, and then at the end of the day...they listen to all 80 songs give or take, and pick the best 10. Not for me though. No, no, no. Meg taught me better.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So that's my story up until now folks. To wrap it all up, I want to thank you all for being so supportive. I want to thank Meg and Dia listeners for also supporting and understanding. I want to thank the band I've been playing with for over 7 years now! I want to thank my sister, my family, my manager. I want to thank Universal. I want to thank all of you who get on my facebook and write lovely comments and who tweet at me. And THANK YOU for coming out to shows as well and sharing the music!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If you want to keep in touch with us and me here's the info:)</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>P.S. I called the new album RED, because one day when I was very young ( I think 2nd grade), I was crying and upset to go to my first day of school. I told my mom that no one would talk to me or notice me or want to be my friend and that I was scared to go alone and she had to come with me. She wrapped me in her arms and said, "Just wear red. Everyone notices red and is drawn to it!" Of course she was feeding me some mumbo jumbo, but red became to me, what the "magic feather" became to dumbo. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>XOXOX!</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg and Dia's "Cocoon" is on I-tunes or meganddia.com </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meg has an AMAZING jewelry line (hand made and super cute) at www.chandlertherobot.com</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"> Meg is also starting up another band....they don't have music recorded yet but will soon, and I'm sure you'll see that all on her website soon up above. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nick's been playing in a project at home in Austin, TX too, acting as the drummer for the band and engineer. Yup, he knows all about amps and microphones and cables and drum microphones and pro tools equipment and reverb. I have no clue. Maybe someday he'll end up recording YOUR band. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Carlo (guitar), my dear roomie, plays drums in a church band, plays nintendo at home, and is starting to run crazy long marathons.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jonathan (bass) is dog sitting in LA, grows broccoli plants, and just started doing yoga. He plays in a Beatles cover band back in NJ. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's all for you now ladies and gents! Thanks for reading. Much Love. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-62103936794366148672011-11-14T22:14:00.001-08:002011-11-14T22:14:49.942-08:00The Broken Ones - Lyrics<div style="font: 20.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>The Broken Ones</b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I know they've hurt you bad</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Why hide the scars you have</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Baby let me straighten out your broken bones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">All your faults to me make you more beautiful</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I can't help it I love the broken ones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the ones who need the most patching up</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the ones who never been loved</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">never been loved</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">never been loved enough</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe I see a part of me in them</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The missing piece always trying to fit in</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">the shattered heart hungry for a home </div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">no you're not alone</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I love the broken ones</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You don't have to drive with your headlights off</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's a pocket knife, not a gift from God</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Don't you learn of love from the love they kept</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I will be your anchor, slowly, step by step</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe we can rip off the bandage</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe you will see it for what it is</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe we can burn this building holding you in</div><div style="font: 18.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 22.0px;"><br />
</div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-42354775510447036192011-04-29T11:25:00.001-07:002011-04-29T11:25:53.397-07:00The Photographer<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis knocked on the door of apartment B57 on floor twelve of the Statin W.C. Rider building - which was famous because three days after it was built, someone jumped out of the window of the fortieth floor and incidentally landed on a sixty-seven year old widow and killed her on contact. She had been carrying seven yellow balloons for her nephew's birthday party. But that’s another story.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis pressed her face to the door leaving only a millimeter in between her rouged cheek and the wood, listening. She heard an object get knocked to the floor, perhaps a book or something for it didn't break open like a vase would. A voice that shook a lot, like a singer's vibrato, called out, "coming, coming!" Quickly, she leaned away from the door, straightened out her coat collar, and checked her breath on the back of her manicured hand. It smelled like lemon drops which she was always constantly popping in her mouth. Bustling footsteps walked about in a chaotic manner and another thing fell to the floor, hitting the ground with a delicate <i>pip pip</i> sound. She wondered what it was that could make a sound such as that. The doorbell turned.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> "Mrs. Willis?" The middle aged man said in no direction in particular. He held out his hand way too high and too far to the left to be comfortable for her to grasp, but the five foot woman reached up for it. He shook it vigorously with both his hands. His ghostly green eyes looked into space. "I'm so glad you could make it," he finished. He took one step back. "Please do come in."</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> He turned slowly, very slowly, and began to walk to the other side of the house. Mrs. Willis was impressed with his ease in his apartment. He seemed to know where every piece of furniture was, how far away he had to be to lift an arm up and have his finger tips the perfect distance away to gently brush them against the wall, and when to pull his hand away so as not to touch a painting or portrait that hung up. He had a lot of canes leaned up against the corner of one wall, probably only for use outside in the unknown world, Mrs. Willis thought to herself. The kitchen, to her surprise and admiration, was very simple and extremely neat and clean. It almost sparkled. Mr. Delphy slowed his pace and reached his hands out. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> "Excuse my slow pace, Mrs. Willis," he began, stretching both his hands out. "As you came in I rushed out of the dining chair and I'm afraid I might have misplaced it. I always tuck it in you see, so as not to trip."</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis rushed forward and pushed the dining chair in, out of his path. "Please, allow me," she said in a satiny voice. "You do keep your house so neat and wonderful, Mr. Delphy! It's so cozy!"</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> "Oh, do you like it? I'm so glad. It's my own little universe in here, I suppose." He led her to a quiet room with deep cream colored walls and a large window that looked over the city. A tiny plant with rosemary growing in it sat on a tiny table in the corner. A thick white rug almost as big as the room hugged the wooden floor. She slipped off her high heels and felt the rug, the pieces of cloth coming up between her toes like blades of woolly grass. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Welcome to my studio,” said Mr. Delphy. He flipped a bright light on in the corner. "So what is it you do, Mrs. Willis, if I may ask? Ronda mentioned that you are an interior decorator, was it?"</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis blushed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> "Oh, it's just a little hobby I started out...did Ronda say that? What a darling! She is the one who recommended you though after all, and so far she seems just on point. She didn't show me any of the photographs though, although of course I wouldn't ask! One's curious though anyway naturally. Women like <i>me</i> though, see them more as...as a work of art!"</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mr. Delphy scrunched his nose a little bit and then carefully reached down for a black camera bag that laid delicately on the floor. Mrs. Willis studied him conspicuously, looking him up and down, noticing the way he handled his cameras, switching out the lenses with fingers as soft and nimble as a child’s. He wasn’t all that short, as Mrs. McCullins had mentioned at lunch the other day. (According to Mrs. McCullins, the portraits he took of her were “simply a dream. Worth every penny!”) But he did somehow resemble some kind of human weasel, as Mrs. Tanner had divulged, although she had worded it somehow much more becoming. It had surprised Mrs. Willis that the heavily Christian, walking moral compass, Mrs. Tanner, had payed a little visit to Mr. Delphy herself. He had, in the last few months, created quite a reputation among the wealthy ladies of the small town. He was in fact, the perfect candidate for someone who wanted themselves captured forever in time, but not to be seen by its creator. Not to mention his expert photography. Pictures that would make one faint; The lighting on the woman’s cheekbones like soft feathers of heaven. The shadows falling across the skin as if in a methodical dance. The facial expression, the stories captured in their eyes. One woman, a quiet, shy Mrs. Kennedy had said that Mr. Delphy was a genius at catching “the moment” rather than just simply a fantastic photograph. Of course no one ever saw the photographs except for the person in the actual picture. But then again, Mrs. Dean had given her portrait to her husband for his birthday. At first, apparently, he was beside himself with jealousy and rage, screaming at her that she was “indecent.” When she had begged him on his knees to accept it, that it was just for him, and that Mr. Jeffrey Delphy had been the photographer, he laughed himself silly, kissed his wife, and hung the portrait up in his secret den.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Please,” Mr. Delphy said, pointing to the couch. “Try and make yourself comfortable Mrs. Willis. I’m just trying to figure out which lens will best suit the mood for you.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Please, call me Charlotte.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mr. Delphy smiled with his eyebrows and nodded. “Of course, Charlotte.” His eyes looked vacantly straight ahead at the wall while his fingers felt around for the right notch to slide the lens in properly.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis looked at the little man in front of her and felt a heavy pity for him. Poor thing. His eyes always looking, searching, wandering. Lost. She had heard from Mrs. Kennedy that he had lost his sight in some kind of fire freak accident, although she didn’t necessarily know how that could be so. Fire and blindness didn’t necessarily go hand in hand in her mind. Another woman from work said that he had lost his sight a week after he had been born. Standing before her now, he looked so helpless and weak. A frail man, single, never married, alone, no one to love him, to care to wash his dirty clothes or socks. She felt a terrible urge to ask him straight out, to put the gossip to an end and get a juicy story that would make her feel both sympathetic and superior, but she stayed silent. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Charlotte. I know this is the uncomfortable part, but you can undress now.”</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mrs. Willis nodded, and then realized her action and whispered a quick, “Yes, yes of course.” She stepped off to the corner a little so that his back was to her, giggled nervously at the ironic absurdity of her shy actions, and then began to unbutton her silk blouse. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Don’t be nervous,” she thought to herself. She thought of Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Tanner and Mrs. McCullins and all the women at her bridge club who had spoken so highly of Mr. Delphy and of the results of their special, artistic portraits and photographs. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mr. Delphy was, in a hush hush sort of way amongst the respected women of the town, known as the best nude photographer that ever was! Women loved him: He was discreet, humble, tactful, low-key, trust worthy, confidential, and polite. The perfect person to feel comfortable in capturing their bodies at their ripened ages; Their bodies which were dear to them. Not to mention the slightest bit of danger and sin that they found in the “art.” It was just enough to make them curve their lips with lust and fire, but just little enough to make them not rush to the confessional in tears. It gave them the little bit of moxie they so needed. Besides, it was no sin to have the pictures done by him for he saw nothing! Surely their husbands couldn’t get that upset, for technically, no moral wrongdoing was precisely performed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Please, Charlotte, when you’re ready just make your way over to the couch.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Sliding her pencil skirt down over her large hips, Mrs. Willis raised her hands to her throat, fingered her diamond choker, and then decided to keep it on. She did, however, in a last decision of power and mockery, take off her wedding ring.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Are you there yet?”</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Yes,” she answered. “How shall I sit?”</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Mr. Delphy walked over to the couch and kneeled. “Excuse me”, he said, a bead of sweat falling from his forehead, his breath coming out heavily, his eyes looking into space. He reached forward slowly. “Mind putting my hand on your left shoulder, Charlotte? That a girl. What smooth skin you have, like a twenty year old dame.” Mrs. Willis smiled triumphantly, thinking of that vitamin E miracle cream she had just purchased. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Ok, Mrs. Willis. Here’s the uncomfortable part, but the pose is everything. Everything.” He gently touched her neck. “Lengthen it as much as possible. It always adds so much more charm.” He tilted her chin a little bit to the right. “There now. Perfect.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> She studied his face as he did this. The feel of his scratchy fingers made her recoil ever so slightly. He did, after all, look like a weasel. Mrs. Tanner’s assessment had been correct. She wondered if he had ever been with a woman. His large paunch rested on the couch. She looked down at it, at his rounded nose and yellowed teeth. His ears stuck out like large lily pads. He wasn’t in any way attractive. He was balding. He was looking twenty years older than his actual age. She obeyed as he told her to gently lay down to the left. She felt his hand graze her upper thigh, placing it slightly over her resting leg. She wondered if this was the closest contact he ever had with women. She pitied him. He placed his hand on her waist. His breathing got harder and she blushed a little. He asked her if she had any pets and she couldn’t help but start ranting about pom-pom, her poodle she had so generously saved from the shelter. She always made sure to emphasize that she had adopted rather than gotten a pure breed. That she was charitable and big-hearted. His hand slid to her breast and pushed it up a little bit, resting on her arm. Back to her legs now. Her thighs. Pushing them back a couple inches, and then forward a couple inches. When he slid his fingers on the arch of her foot she couldn’t help but feel a little wanton rush of blood to her head. What would her husband think now? she thought. She hadn’t been touched by him in this way in over ten years. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Almost have you perfect, Mrs. Wi - Charlotte.” His hand tilted her chin, perked up her resting breast again, and fluffed her hair. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> He then slowly stood, walked back slowly, adjusted the light, and FLICK. The first shot. Flick, flick. He moved about gracefully, aiming the camera directly at the couch. Sometimes he went to the sides of the wall, walked exactly three steps, turned and shot. Then counted another two steps, turned and shot. He had the entire room mapped out perfectly. After about thirty FLICKS later, he adjusted the loose, sweaty hair that had fallen in his face, straightened up, smiled, and said: “All done! Perfect. Just perfect! The best yet I think. I just know it!” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> He walked her to the door. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “I’ll have them ready in a week. You can come by then and pick the ones you like the best, although I’m sure all of them will turn out magnificently.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Wonderful Mr. Delphy. Thank you so much!” She kissed him on the cheek and then walked to the elevator and then to the curb, waiting to catch the next cab. As she raised her hand in the air she realized she had forgotten her wedding ring. She rushed back to the elevator, and once again came to apartment B57. She heard classical music coming from inside, playing rather loud. She knocked. She waited. The music kept going. She knocked again. She waited. She began to get nervous. She couldn’t possibly go home to her husband tonight without her wedding ring! She tried the door. Click. It slowly swung open silently. She walked inside. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Mr. Delphy?” she whispered, ashamed for walking in like this. She wandered toward the studio, thinking she could possibly just pick it up and take it without his noticing she came back. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> When she got to the studio, Mr. Delphy sat on the couch she had just left, a book in his hands. He jumped up when she entered the room and let out a little gasp. His eyes found hers directly for a moment and then wandered around the room, crazed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Hello? Who’s there?” he barked out, dropping the book to the floor as he stood, edging toward the corner where his spiked cane leaned against the wall. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Oh, Mr. Delphy! I’m so sorry to barge in. I knocked ...but the music....and...I just forgot my wedding ring!” She rushed to the corner of the rug and picked it up. “I’m so sorry to barge in.” She walked quickly to the book. “I didn’t know you read braille Mr. Delphy! Good for you!” She picked up the book, curious to see what it looked like inside. She turned it open to the first page. It read:</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> </span></div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154097609966608863.post-87525981644289653352011-03-02T12:30:00.000-08:002011-03-02T12:30:07.087-08:00The Dentist<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></u></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Peter? Peter, are you hearing me?” Mrs. Roberta Dippens hovered over her husband as he sat slowly smoking a pipe in his favorite armchair. The fact of the matter was, for about ten years he felt like he had failed to hear her hardly ever at all. He had strategically - with hours of practice during their peak years - managed to fade her voice out into the background just as he did the ocean wave nature tape that played during his weekly massage. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You do like it don’t you?” she demanded with a voice that even sounded irksome when happy. “It’s Russian sable! Even Sarah Wilson doesn’t have a coat like this and I simply can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees this one!” She petted the coat with an immaculately manicured hand and dug her upturned nose into the fur. Mr. Dippens looked at his wife with a tired, vacant stare and just continued to suck on his pipe. He nodded at her.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I’m going to brunch with the Stevenson’s at one. It’s a shame you can’t come darling. Couldn’t you leave just for brunch though and then go back to work? It must be terribly tiresome to look at teeth all day. I simply can’t imagine!” </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then as if she had just remembered something, she scurried to the mirror in her velvet high heels and flashed a cold, admiring smile. Her teeth were extremely large for her small mouth, pressed against each other like compressed coats in a closet much too small. They were bleached white and perfectly straight, filed down to perfection. This her husband had done many years ago. She had then been honored to be his first patient once he had finally gotten a loan to open his own office. They had dated while he had gone to dental school. She had been happier then, and much more thin.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Running a finger along a decorative shelf, Roberta scrunched up her nose and pinched her fingers together. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“It’s that maid again. She never does anything right and the amount we pay her is ridiculous! We’re cutting her salary.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Why don’t you dust it?”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Roberta turned slowly and glared at her husband but then quickly replaced it with a smile and laughed out of a slanted mouth; The kind of laugh you would expect a cat to have if a cat could laugh. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh Peter, darling! You’re tired!” She walked toward him and her new diamond earrings jangled against her neck. “I’ll have some coffee made for you darling.” She looked at his trousers with disappointment. “You haven’t worn any of the new clothes I bought you.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“These pants are fine. No holes.” </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her teeth pressed tightly together.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh but you would look wonderful in those trousers! And that blazer all the way from France! I haven’t seen you wear it once. You still wear the same jacket you had back in college!”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“It still works just fine. I don’t need anything else.” He sucked on his pipe with thin, wrinkled lips. His body, although exceedingly tall, was shrunken in so that he looked like he had no blood at all, just bones. His fingers, frail but skilled, fiddled out a small bag of tobacco that he had folded in his front shirt pocket. Grey hairs poked up around his ears.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You know Peter,” Roberta began hesitantly. “I do wish we could get rid of this armchair. It doesn’t match any of the other furniture and it’s worn looking.” </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You mean it’s cheap looking.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She giggled again nervously and smiled widely.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No, no Peter. It’s not that. I just want everything in this room to have the same theme. You understand? I know we’ve talked about this before but...everything else in this room...”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I’m going to get ready for work,” Mr. Dippins said, getting up quickly so as to avoid the conversation he knew was coming; The conversation he had already had with her three times before. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“But Peter,” she continued wilily, following him into the master bedroom. “Wouldn’t you like everything to have a certain feel to it? Sarah’s house is all mahogany and granite and marble and ours is still so old fashioned. You remember you said that I could have the job as decorator?”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He studied the buttons on his dress shirt. One was barely hanging by a string. He frowned but continued to dress, licking his fingers and smoothing down a tuft of greying hair on the top of his head. Roberta pretended not to see him do it and just continued talking.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her eyes were the same as they had been when he had first met her at the campus coffee shop over two decades ago: like brown sugar and sandpaper, curious and adventurous. Now they were vacant. The rest of her had seemed to have evanesced over the years, leaving nothing but the flesh behind, a machine of consumerism. Out of routine and also out of a little bit of remaining hope, he walked up to her, her mouth still spilling out words, kissed her lightly on her powdered and rouged cheek, and walked outside to his car. He was running slightly late. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When he got home the house was quiet. It was only eight o’ clock but still, all the lights were out save for a night light in the hallway. He was nervous tonight. He had planned tonight in his head for over ten years. At first his idea had started as a little jest in his head, a lark, a simple daydreaming fantasy. But as the years grew on and his wife spent more and more of his income, already diving into their retirement money, feelings of insecurity began to rise in him like a swelling tide. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What am I to do if she spends the entire retirement fund?” he often wondered to himself, knowing that he wasn’t really asking a question at all. It wasn’t a matter of if it would happen, but a matter of when. He was growing older. His family had a history of brain cancer and heart disease and even though his income was great, it wouldn’t last them for the years to come. He was getting tired. He couldn’t work as much or as hard much longer, and on top of that, he didn’t wish to. Over twenty years of looking at teeth and swollen gums and trivial conversations and X-ray machines, he had simply had enough.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">His hand trembled slightly as he opened the door to the bedroom. Roberta rested on her side snoring loudly. He turned a small Tiffany lamp on in the corner and the dim light spilled out across the ceiling. His bare feet felt an odd, new sensation: He looked down and saw that he stood on a new rug made of fox fur which hadn’t ever been there before. Scrunching up his toes nervously, he walked to the bedside and hovered over his plump wife. She smelt of hair chemical and expensive perfume. Her water glass, which she always had on the side of the bed on the dresser was barely full. Earlier that day he had filled up the glass himself, slipping in crushed up pieces of sleeping pills. A small bit of white residue could be seen on the bottom of the glass and he smiled reassuringly. Sweat began to build around his neck and on his palms but he kept moving forward. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Walking into his closet he quietly shut the door and settled himself on the floor, pulling out a tiny, empty jelly jar from a corner which had been covered by his hanging clothes. He opened it and out fell eight sparkling diamonds into the palm of his left hand. Four were ordinary white diamonds of typical cut and weight, four carats, a vivid yellow that reminded him of the color of urine after taking too many vitamin B pills. Two others were more rare and much more expensive: pink diamonds from the De Pauns premier diamond mine in Monaco. The last two were much more scarce: Indian diamonds from Galconda which he had won at an auction over five years ago in Switzerland. He kept them safe all these years, his own retirement fund, his safety net. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He gently brought the tiny diamonds up to his nose as if to smell them and then gently tucked them in his pant pocket. After his nervousness died down, he began to work quickly. Opening a tiny valise he brought out some of the equipment he had gotten from the office earlier that day. Gently picking up her hand, he rolled her wrist about gently to try to get the blood flowing with a little more bounce. He kept his eyes on her closed ones, often stealing glances at the empty water cup as if to constantly remind him that it was hardly full. A small groan escaped from her open mouth but she didn’t wake. Attaching the indwelling catheter to the tiny needle, he pricked her skin with a professional quickness and aim, inserting the tiny tube into an opening in the vein of her right hand. Quickly he began to administer the sedatives, all the while still keeping his eyes on her closed lids. Placing tubes emitting oxygen gently in her nostrils, he waited for a short moment, his heart pounding, his left eye twitching ever so slightly. She stayed tranquilly asleep. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Relieved, he began to work, bustling around the room making as much noise as he wished. He pulled out the pulse oximeter and clicked the gadget on her ear lobe, checking her breathing with his hand on her left breast. At one point she peeked open her eyes and just looked at him. He just smiled at her and told her to close her eyes and open her mouth a bit wider. She did so. He took comfort in the amnesic effect it would have on her and continued to work. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First, he numbed her mouth with local anesthetic. Secondly, he drilled out the occlusal surfaces of her top and bottom first and second molars, all the while humming the tune of one of his favorite opera songs. The deeper and deeper he got into the procedure, the more joyous and relaxed he became. He decided he enjoyed her much more in this state of dreaming insensate repose. She looked like a round little child, innocent and almost sweet when her eyes were shut and her mouth was gaping open like a turned down tulip. The roundness of her cheeks hid her once beautiful cheekbones. Putting down his drill for a quick moment, he bent down and kissed her forehead. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her first and second molars now were completely hollow. He gently pulled the diamonds out of his pocket and set them on the blanket. With careful precision, he placed the diamonds inside of her giant, void bottom molars and then filled in the empty spaces around them. He worked quickly in this manner for the whole of two hours, a task that would have taken an amateur dentist double the time. When he was finished he briskly cleaned up his equipment, wiped her mouth clean with a tiny wet towel, vacuuming away the dust from her ground up teeth, and hid the valise under the bed. He then got in next to her and wrapped his arms around her still sedated body, feeling the warmth of her skin, the gentle thrumming of her heart, and even smelled for a moment the real smell of her skin under all the hair lotions and skin oils: vanilla. She had always smelled like vanilla, especially when she was younger. With this last thought, he fell gently asleep next to his wife. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mrs. Dippens didn’t hear the crash of the breaking back window, but she did finally wake up when she heard unknown voices quietly conversing in the hallway just outside the master bedroom. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When she opened both her eyes, the lamp was on in the corner and Mr. Dippens was frantically searching in the closet, still dressed in his work clothes.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“What’s going on?” Roberta whispered out harshly, climbing out of bed dizzily and slightly nauseous. Her mouth felt light as a feather and she felt unusually drowsy even though the clock on the mantelpiece said 4:37 a.m. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Where’s my shot gun?” he called back to her. “Roberta! Where’s the shot gun?”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I- I ...I sold it last month.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You what?” he yelled back, running out of the closet with a frightened and horrid look in his eye.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The bedroom door flung open and two large men dressed in black with ski masks pulled over their faces scrambled into the room. Both of them carried small automatic handguns pointed in the direction of Mr. Dippens. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Don’t move an inch,” one of them said steadily, although he seemed rather nervous. “Go look for the safe,” he called over his shoulder to the man who stood behind him. “Hurry up. Sun’ll be up in an hour.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The safe’s in the closet,” Mr. Dippens said calmly. “You can take the money, but please leave. We haven’t done anything to you.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Hey Bones, did you hear that? Check the closet first.” He turned to Mr. Dippens and snarled. “If you’re lying...”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“It’s there,” answered Mr. Dippens firmly.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Roberta’s face was red with fear. Her eyes went to the new fur rug, to the five thousand dollar painting she had had shipped from Europe last summer hanging by the fire place. Oh and her coat! Her wonderful Russian Sable coat was in that closet that the thief was in! She felt as if she was going to faint. She slowly started toward her husband but the thief yelled out for her to stop still.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh, Peter! Do something!” she cried out, her mouth sloppy and aching. She put two of her hands up to her cheeks and pinched them. “Peter,” she whispered. “My lips feel cold. I feel terrible.” She then turned to the thief. “I need a doctor, do ya hear? Now! Right now!”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“That’s it,” replied the thief. “Bones, come out here. This broad is making me a little nervous, a little jittery.” </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“There’s only five hundred dollars in here, Davey!” Bones called out from the closet nervously. “Only five hundred dollars, that’s it!” He walked out with a small wad of bills in his right hand, his gun in the other.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Where’s the rest?” The thief asked Mr. Dippins.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“That’s all we have. I swear it. The rest is in my bank account.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The thief grunted and began to look around the room, scrutinizing every single piece of furniture and area where another safe might be hidden. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Tie ‘em up,” he called to his accomplice. “And then slice open the mattress.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The mattress!” Mrs. Dippins called out. “The mattress! Oh no no no! Peter, do something! Peter!”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Within a minute, Mr. Dippins was sat down with his hands tied behind his back, his feet tied together, and his mouth covered in tape. The two thieves realized quickly though that Mrs. Dippins wasn’t going to cooperate as much. They finally got her hands tied together but her screaming wouldn’t stop. Her giant mouth with her giant teeth wouldn’t stay still and one of the thieves tried to hold her jaw shut while the other cut the tape. With a last effort, Mrs. Dippins bit his hand and let out a scream so ear piercingly loud that one of the thieves covered his ears. The other, however, just stared at her open, gaping mouth with an odd, curious look in his eyes.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Open her mouth,” the thief said to the other. “Open her mouth wide and hold it there.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The two men peered deeply into the pink, wet mouth of Mrs. Dippens for a long while with glistening, greedy eyes.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Well, I’ll be,” replied one of them while the other quickly took off to look around the house for pliers. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>Dia Framptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05120359300078371758noreply@blogger.com11