After having not done much musically for at least 8 years, this past weekend I participated in the trail-by-fire that is 119 Gallery's Doin It Together Fest. DITF brings together spirited local musicians for a night of fairly spontaneous, pretty off-the-cuff songcrafting and performance.

Basically how it works is 1) anyone that knows about it and wants to participate signs up, 2) the participants meet up on Friday night to meet their omnisciently predetermined bandmates, 3) the bands meet up on Saturday to write and rehearse 20 minutes or so of material, 4) the bands perform their songs at the gallery Saturday night.

It's a whirlwind event and, from what I've heard, always produces some pretty great results. I was equal parts apprehensive and excited about the whole thing. For one thing, I was very out of practice, and for another, I knew not one single person participating. So I had some hurdles to jump.

I would have been happy playing in any style, but luckily, my bandmates were inclined toward loud, straight-ahead rock. I can do that. I think it's less a matter of luck that my bandmates were such great people — I think I could have been thrown in with any of the other 20 or so people involved and I bet I would've had an equally stellar experience. That said, I think the way the six of us clicked (Mike Dailey, Patrick McConnell, Patrick Flaherty, Heather Noecker and Mike Funaiole), especially when it came to showtime, was pretty special.

I find it nothing short of amazing that something that so easily could have devolved into a how-too-cool-for-school-are-you contest full of bravado and clashing egos and turned out to be the complete opposite. It was all about doing something fun and being creative. And everyone was super supportive and welcoming, both of the diverse people and the diverse sounds involved.

So despite having lost a few layers of skin from my fretting fingers and leaving behind a rather unimportant mic stand, I came away with a lot of new connections and a great memory of the night that I was once again in a band.

This weekend I went to my first UML hockey game at the Tsongas Center. It was the Riverhawks last regular season game and the second in two nights against Providence College. They came out on top 4-2 and ended the season in second place. It was a good time and I was really impressed with the facility, though it seemed much smaller than I remember it.

The last time I was at the Tsongas was in December of 2004, when I attended the Pixies reunion tour (with Mission of Burma opening) with a few of my Newbury Comics coworkers, fanatics all.

I'm not big into sports, but if I'm going to watch a live event, hockey is probably my second choice after baseball, so I'm in good shape living here, what with the Spinners also playing just down the street. Now if I could just find a curling team (cue real sports enthusiasts' derisive laughter) closer than Wayland, I'll be set.

I took a bunch of pictures at the game, but they were pretty standard and unexciting, so instead here's some slow-shutter-speed shots from the walk home, plus some picture of when it snowed that one time.

Though I have little aptitude for it academically, I love history, particularly in seeing it juxtaposed with present day. It's hard to explain having a feeling of nostalgia for a time you are not personally connected to, but seeing Lowell in its heyday does just that, though I know that clearly requires a lot of glossing over of that time's harsh realities. Having come across some great photos documenting Lowell in roughly the first third of the 1900s, I decided to do some comparative documenting of my own. So here are three sites, then and now ("then" images are from the Library of Congress).

So, I'm thinking of starting some volunteer work, but with so many worthy organizations out there, it's not easy deciding which I should dedicate my limited time to, or if I should spread it out, giving a little to many different ones.

Hovering over a Google map of downtown, I saw the Open Pantry of Greater Lowell. With the economy the way it is, places like this are continually struggling to continue helping those who are struggling to get by, of which there are more and more by the day. The other that immediately springs to mind is the Lowell Humane Society, which my wife would likely also like to get involved with once she's done with school. I'd also be very interested in being involved with the Canalwaters Cleaners, but that seems to be very sporadic.

In short, I'm looking for some suggestions. What group do you know of that would appreciate and benefit from my helping hands? Let me know in a comment below.

I can hardly believe it, but my first time visiting Lowell came about 10 years ago.

Myself and two friends from college, from which we had just graduated, were living in Providence and in a band together. We were doing our best to get shows, starting slowly with open mics and a couple of legitimately booked shows.

Unfortunately, we managed to play only about five or six of those shows before breaking up (a unilateral decision). But two of them were in Lowell, at Evo's Art Institute, which inhabited the space that is now the Village Smokehouse.

Much like Providence's AS220 — which is a wildly successful venture that is continually developing and nurturing new talent across the whole spectrum of the arts — Evo's was a bar, a restaurant, a performance space, a gallery space and more. So when I began working here and eventually moved here, I was saddened to see Evo's was no longer.

I don't know what the story is concerning its closure and apparent relocation to, of all places, Rhode Island, but I don't think there's anyone out there that could argue the city is better in its absence.

Without question, the two shows we played at Evo's were our best and our most well received. It's a great memory and I'm glad I played some small part in Evo's brief life in Lowell.

Having been heavily into the Minutemen since about 14, I was instantly excited when I heard that UML's University Gallery was showing work by Raymond Pettibon, whose drawings served as cover art for their records, "What Makes a Man Start Fires," "Paranoid Time" and others.

What I overlooked was that this was a show of early work exclusively, which I find lacks a lot of the maturity — in style, in execution, in expression and in content — that his later work found. Of course, I and everyone else who remembers being shocked in one form or another by his work have grown up and, for many of us, so have our tastes. It is for this selfsame reason that his later work is more coveted and therefore, I would imagine, tougher to curate.

That considered, this is an impressive assemblage (seemingly amassed by one collector, though I'm not positive), the most intriguing pieces of which are the zines put out under the guise of SST Publications. I wasn't aware of their existence and imagine that are exceedingly rare. At this period, Pettibon was particularly prolific for SST records, creating cover art for many of the bands under their umbrella, including the aforementioned Minutemen, but perhaps most notably Black Flag. Greg Ginn, one of Black Flag's key members, created SST.

I would normally at this point advocate for more people to go see the show (no one else was in the gallery while I was there), but I think for those unfamiliar, Pettibon's early work is not the place to start. His newer work is a little safer, more broad, less dark in its attitude if not in its values. But if late '70s/early '80s punk was or still is relevant to you and you aren't easily offended, this mostly familiar collection will bring on the memories for the oldsters and provide some context for the youngsters.

If I were to pass GO and collect my $200,000 (adjusted for inflation), this is the property that I would want to build on. Sure, its not Boardwalk. Heck, maybe it's not even St. James Place. Still though, I would love to see this place inhabited and revitalized.

My first thought was that it would make a great reading room/cafe, but the area is already well served in that department. Thinking a little more deeply, I thought this might be a space for a record store. The only one I know of in Lowell is RRRecords, and I'm not sure that it is even officially open (and I haven't found anyone who knows for sure). Even if it is though, it's so niche in what it seems to offer that I don't think it would be adversely affected by having some competition.

Having happily worked at Newbury Comics for nearly 10 years, I think Lowell is the perfect place for one of their stores. Think about it, there's a national-act venue a quarter mile away, two large and thriving colleges, and a built-in community of artists. Their closest store to Lowell is about 15 miles away, in Nashua, N.H. Of course, I'd always rather see a local business move in, but Newbury is at least regional and, believe me, they know what they're doing — they wouldn't still be around and continuing to open new stores if they didn't.

Without seeing the inside or knowing about the building structurally, I would say its main problem is that there is virtually no parking. But that could be remedied (sort of) if the Lowell National Historical Park parking lot on Dutton Street is taken over as part of the Hamilton Canal redevelopment, which has been mentioned as a possibility, though it might be years before that happened.

My only stipulation for such a scenario would be that the neon sign and the tree would have to stay.

Since I've been in Lowell, weekends have been reserved for catching up on all the errands I wasn't able to do during the week. When we moved, my wife and I went from two cars to one, and since she has to commute into Boston for school, I have had very limited access to anything out of walking distance. Both of our schedules have changed now though, which means that I can get more done during the week, leaving me some time on the weekends to actually relax and do some of the things around town that I've been missing.

So, after seeing an announcement on Facebook about live music at Brew'd Awakening, I knew where my day would begin. Before I left, I saw another post that mentioned a chili cook-off at the Brush Gallery. "Everything's coming up Milhouse," I thought. Rarely does an agenda as modest as this one constitute a big day out, but I did still have things to do, and I thought I'd start small. Off I went then, to the coffeehouse.

The New Boston Duo was performing. I had no idea who they were, but I considered it a can't-miss situation because the announcement mentioned they were acoustic — a necessity for the character and the confines of the space they were playing in — and instrumental. (I've found that many people are turned off by instrumental music. They think that it's boring. They perhaps can't appreciate the narrative of the music without a vocalist explaining through the lyrics. But lyrics for me are more often a distraction than anything else. They ask for all the attention and leave no room for musical nuance.)

Immediately I loved them. The violin-guitar combination of Elizabeth Burke and George Little was clearly steeped in gypsy jazz and the work of its founding fathers, Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli. Pefect fare for the venue. Armed with a muffin and a frozen apple cider, I alternately watched the stringed interplay and tucked into my book of the moment, Jean Shepherd's "Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories." But the music was really too engaging to get very far. I settled for some toe-tapping enthusiastically along with their version of "Georgia" and others.

Not wanting to get so wrapped up that I missed the chili cook-off, I made the short walk to the Brush after about an hour of happy listening. What I did not know about the event is that it coincided with the gallery's open studios, so the place was humming with activity. My first time inside, I took a quick survey of the space and of the art and, pleased, made a bee-line for the chili. Even without the open studios, the event seemed to be a big draw, and the room it was in could barely accomodate the throng.

There were offerings from eight local cooks. With each sample containing about three spoonfuls, I could have gone through the sampling process in about a minute and a half were I unhindered. As it was though, it took about a half hour of concerted jostling, shifting and shimmying to give each its due attention and make my pick. To all the cooks' credit, each one was distinctly different, with its own pros and cons to weigh. My choice, as it happens, was the first that I tried. It had a vinegary sharpness to it that I found myself hoping would be repeated in one of the others. In fact, I wondered if I could con my way into getting a second sample of the stuff, but thought better of it.

Satisfied with my choice, I moved on to more closely examine the artists' work. Had I more money, I'm sure I would have come away with more than I did, but as it was, I scored two coasters by Arlette Laan. I would explain them, but it's better if you just take a look at the photo below and I'll leave it at this: Sock puppets always make me smile. (I blame Sifl & Olly.)

So, after all that, I was quite pleased with myself and once again quite pleased with my new hometown.

One of the first Lowell businesses that I came to know and love — and willingly give my money to — was Found. With a conspicuous Middle Street location, I was immediately drawn to it and its eccentric, eclectic, erratic collection of treasures.

I would mostly go just to look. To truly digest all the shop contains took several trips. One can't simply browse around haphazardly; a true perusal must be focused and methodical, letting the eyes work by some predetermined system. It was by such a system that I identified my first must-have item.

It was a 60s-era childrens typewriter, a Petite Super International, made by British manufacturer Byron Jardine. It was in untouched condition and beautiful in its design. I especially like the font used on the keys. Unfortunately, I have been unable to use it, since it requires a smaller than normal ribbon. And while it's perhaps trendy now to collect typewriters for their dinosaur-like quaintness, this was not my intention.

Unlikely as it seems, I've had a love of typewriters since childhood. Before I ever laid my fingers on my first computer, a hand-me-down Texas Instruments TI-99/4 with a floppy-disk drive the size of a modern computer tower (but that's another story), I pecked out ridiculous stories on an ancient Smith-Corona that weighed about as much as the family sedan.

It lived in the cellar, in a pile of items destined for a "someday" yard sale. It most likely caught my eye first for its peculiarity. Having little or no interest in cars, I had never seen anything so complex and intriguingly mechanical. It made fantastic noises and gave a real feeling of accomplishment, springing to rigid life with every letter. The cellar was without the requisite counter space needed for such an occupation, so I had to haul it up to the first floor each time I wanted to use it, a trial in itself that served as a testament to my literary determination.

Although I had a sense, even then, that this was a cumbersome, labor-intensive way to get my thoughts legibly on paper, I loved it and eventually became a rather proficient typist, even though I relied exclusively on my index fingers. (It wasn't that I eschewed proper typing technique, just that driving a single finger with the force of a fist behind it was the only way I could produce a dark, clear, sufficiently satisfying letter. Writing anything, then, was a full-body workout.)

So, more than a stylish paperweight, Found helped me find a cherished memory, one that I feel fortunate to have.

If you've yet to visit Found, please do. You never know what you'll find.

So one of my biggest problems in moving to Lowell has been laboring unfulfilled in my quest to find a favorite pizza place.

Pizza is one of the few perfect foods. Its quick, its portable and it can be as simple or as complex as you like. It goes across cultures, across economic scales and across generations. As far as I'm concerned, even the worst slice of pizza is still a slice of pizza and therefore worth eating. I even frequent one of the national chains a lot of people have some serious disdain for. I could just keep going there, but I like to help the local shops whenever I can.

And I'm no pizza purist, either. One of my favorite places to get a slice when I lived in Providence served them up with toppings like avocado, sliced potatoes, black beans and tortellini, not to mention themed pies that ended up resembling a whole other meal by the time they were done. So I'm game for anything.

But I've kept things simple since I've been here. You can't get adventurous like that until you trust the maker can pull off a regular cheese. So I've tried a few places. Some have come highly recommended. Since they mostly haven't wowed me, I'll refrain from naming names.

Although I can't identify it definitively, there's something off about these slices compared to my favorites back in Rhode Island. I suspect it's somewhere in the dough or the sauce, sometimes both. I've noticed some crusts here are reminiscent of pretzel dough — denser than I like, and some of the sauces have been rather thin and flavorless, sometimes overly sweet.

Anyway, got any can't-miss suggestions for me? What's your favorite spot to get a slice?