Turn one page and there’s my mommy

So I was going to put up this post on Friday, after I came home from watching my 8-year-old nephew in his second-grade poetry recital. The kids all chose poems by African-American artists. If by “poems” you are cool with me meaning “a song by Kanye West,” in the case of my nephew and his two friends.

I attended this recital because my nephew’s mother and her partner were in divorce court. They’d asked me and his other godmother to attend in their place. It was a painful enough scenario to begin with, but the fact that my nephew’s chosen verse was a tribute to his (OK, to Kanye’s) mother made it doubly so. As the trio finished and bounded back to sit at the edge of the stage, eager to watch the next group perform, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.

I thought that would be the end to a really ragged week. One that started with Jr, then me, then my fella being struck by an intense stomach bug. One that was then marked by the seven-year-old son of friends of ours having a brain tumor removed (he is recovering OK, so far). One that later saw me, after I got back on my feet, working 11-hour days to keep up with the needs of my boss as he attended a board meeting, gave a speech,  and met with funders. Oh, and doing my own work too.

But that was not the end. On Friday, the morning of my nephew’s recital, Jr had woken up at 2:30 with a fever. He was fussy that day, and all through Friday night, and into Saturday. We took him to the doctor Saturday morning, only to discover that he had — wait for it — scarlet fever.

Really, they still make that? They do. And he has it. And luckily he has powerful antibiotics too. And we all slept through the night last night. And I recognize that things could be oh so much worse. So much. But I do hope it’s not too much to wish that this coming week is a better one.

Hamm & cheez

So until a few months ago, I knew there was a singer named Michael Buble, and I knew he was in the Harry Connick Jr. vein of light-jazzy-standards-Sinatra-lite-wannabe and had dated Emily Blunt, but I’d never actually heard his music. [ALSO I KNOW THERE IS AN ACCENT ABOVE THE E IN HIS LAST NAME BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PUT IT THERE.]

But I’ve taken to the Pandora in recent months, and one of my channels (you will be shocked to know) is a Glee channel. Pandora thinks Michael Buble belongs on this channel, so I’ve become familiar with a few of his songs. Enough so, at least, that I recognized “Haven’t Met You Yet” when it came on my radio this morning.

And, you know … meh. It’s all right. I do like me the standards and the standard-ish music, so I don’t change the channel (on Pandora or in car) when I hear a little Buble. For a while now, though, I’ve surmised that liking the Buble is much like liking the Connick: an affinity shunned by purists, shameful for its cheesiness, suggestive of facile tastes.

But whatever. I enjoy the Connick too, though I actually like the dude more than his music. He is dry and droll and hilarious! And good to his hometown of New Orleans! And sessy as all get out! Plus:

What could be cuter than that?

And it appears that the Buble might have a semblance of a sense of humor himself. I enjoyed v much this awesomely old-school Saturday Night Live sketch a few weeks back (click link above for good NBC version; watch below for lower quality but embed-able version).

Don’t say I never gave you anything, dear reader(s). Handsome fellows and good laughs — what more do you need on a Friday?

I see a little silhouette

If I may continue the Queen theme from yesterday: Is it just the world I’m in, or can you mention a line from “Bohemian Rhapsody” in any crowd of people and start an instant sing-along?

And has this been the case since the song was released in 1975? I, of course, trace the habit to a somewhat more recent source: Wayne’s World. But then, that’s my era. Do not let us get started on the time I played Garth in a high-school skit. Ex-cellent!

Anyhow, this past summer I went to a minor-league baseball game in Vermont with a whole gaggle of family members. I’m going to say there were twenty of us, though it’s possible there were more. My parents, five of my siblings, and various partners and kids.

This is really, really minor league ball, in a lovable way, and the city provides old school buses to shuttle the crowds between the ballpark and a nearby hospital that provides free parking. So after the game — a loss? a win? I mostly remember trying to keep Jr from poking the young woman next to us — we collected ourselves, slowly, and went to wait in the dark outside the stadium. There was just that wonderful feeling of a late-August evening, tired Cracker Jack-stained kids, dirt underfoot and the promise of a sunny day tomorrow.

We were among the last group of stragglers waiting for the last bus of the night, and when at long last it appeared, I sang out quietly, “I see a little silhouette-o of a bus.” A couple of my family members chimed in: “Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?” Before you knew it, eight or ten or twelve of us were belting out the song, pure joy and madness rising into the night sky.

As the bus pulled up and our song wound down, I heard someone mutter, “Geeks.” I don’t know whether it was a family member or a stranger. Either way, I fielded the accusation happily. Ah, summer.

Shining like a national guitar

Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” like so many of his songs from Graceland and The Rhythm of the Saints, always makes me think of a trip to Worcester to see old Paul in concert along with my mother, sister, MamaKitt, and a friend of my sister’s. We drove there and back in one day, checked out Clark University, and had some dinner before the concert. I don’t remember where we actually ate, but I do remember my sister’s annoying friend chanting “MCDON-DON’S!” in the backseat in an effort to get us to go to McDonald’s. (MK and I still occasionally mimic this chant when in the car together.)

That was an obnoxious side note to a splendid outing. It was the first time I, at least, had seen Paul Simon in concert, and it was a fantastic show. I’ll never forget it.

Today, though, I’m compelled to tell another story about “Graceland”: I heard this weekend that my aunt is headed there sometime soon.

Now, this is news because my aunt is an extraordinary woman. She is a woman with Down Syndrome who has reached the uncommon age of 51 and lived an uncommonly rich and independent life. She is strong-willed and generous, as well as incredibly funny. She is devoted to her friends (she has lots) and family. Her daily life is fairly tightly circumscribed, but her imagination extends far beyond.

And her heart belongs entirely to Elvis.

So this weekend, when my mother told me that she had been saving her money and connected with a group that arranges travel for folks with disabilities like her own, and would soon be going to Graceland, I was completely thrilled, and not a little humbled. I have many more personal freedoms than my aunt — but I think her sense of possibility and adventure might outpace my own by leagues.

Somebody? Anybody.

So this morning I went for the first time to a new dentist in my new city, and had a surprisingly pleasant experience. (I know, right? Dentist. PLEASANT. What the?)

Everyone was very nice, my appointment started only 20 minutes after it was scheduled to begin, the hygienist chatted just the right amount (i.e., hardly at all), the cleaning and x-raying processes took less time than I’d grown accustomed to at my previous dentist.

OH also they had pretty images of a tropical paradise on the ceiling light panels, so as to give patients something agreeable to look at whilst leaning back in the chair. Does everyone do this? I’d never seen it before. Lovely.

The best part, though, was the music. I realized after a few minutes in the chair that it was no easy listening station filling the airwaves at my new house of dentistry — instead I registered some Eagles, some Clash, some Billy Joel, and some Queen. Right on! The last of these was “Somebody to Love,” which I enjoy very much (and not just because of the Glee version, awesome as that was).

(Now, it has occurred to me that maybe I am just growing old, and that while this is not my idea of easy listening or Muzak, it may be someone else’s. BUT I WON’T BELIEVE IT.)

There must be some wrestling over control of the music in this little dental office, though, because after the Queen there was a brief silence, before the music started up again, this time more of the Top 40 ilk. I shit you not, the good Lady Gaga herself was singing as I ponied up the co-pay.

I am totally sticking with these dentist dudes. That’s my kind of place.

PS: Moderately clever and enjoyable Gaga-Glee video follows:

Appearing not to have a care

As we’ve discussed here and there, there was a time when TGOTS and I marked occasions of significance — a graduation, say, or a big move, or a cross-country drive — with the one and only proper form of commemoration: the mix tape.

We each took, I dare say, some pride in our compilations, carefully choosing properly thematic songs, old favorites we knew the other would enjoy, new fixations we hoped she’d grow to love.

It was in that spirit that I made the sophomore-year tape in college. My hippie roommate played the Allman Brothers and The Dead and Janis Joplin all the time, music that I’d surely been aware of but had never really, like, listened to, man. And there was Phish and Sweet Relief and other new music, too. So I made TGOTS a tape: one side perky, one side mellow.

I carefully inked a title on each side, on the teensy, narrow, sticky label provided. The perky side was something like “Songs to get up and dance to …” The other was: “Songs to smile and lay your head back during …” Popped it in the mail, all proud of myself, and I shall never forget the awkward phone conversation that ensued.

My roommate and I lived at the far end of a long, concrete, soulless hallway that had windows on one side, doors on the other. Except the windows stopped before they got to us. Instead of facing a window, our room faced an old, abandoned phone booth.

Actually, it’s possible that the pay phone inside still worked. But we just tended to drag our own phone out there, its long, beige cord stretching through the room, under the door, and across the hall, to get a little privacy. Once in there, I’d sit scrunched up, or extend my legs up the side of the wooden booth and stare at my toes while I talked.

It was in this booth that I asked TGOTS whether she’d gotten the latest tape! And her reply was lukewarm. “Yeah … smile and lay my head back during what?”

She was displeased and I was confused. She thought, I guess, that I was insinuating things about s-e-x, which had been the furthest thought from my mind. I was just trying to convey the lovely mellowness of feeling mellow.

I dunno, TGOTS. Do you remember that conversation? Do you remember the tape? Do you remember your quasi-horror?

Cannot hear “Melissa” without it all flooding back.

What the hell, who cares

Somehow I’ve gone six months without venturing into Britney territory (though TGOTS wasted no time, lamenting her “soulless shell, poured into sparkly leotards” with the first few weeks of this blog’s existence). I’m just going to confess right now: I’m a sucker for Spears. Even with all the antics and sadnesses and violations of federal carseat laws and violations of federal panty laws. I have a soft spot for her (partly because she looks, or used to look, like a close childhood friend) and I have a soft spot for her songs, especially the bouncy, happy ones.

There. I said it. Hate me baby one more time.

This morning, however, it was not bouncy, happy Britney I heard, it was the sludgy “Slave.” I instantly recalled seeing some sneak-preview snippet of the new video for that song — it was full of writhing creatures, human and reptile — and some high-and-mighty TV entertainment “reporter” commenting that Britney was shedding her innocence.

That was 2001. If we only knew.

Sweating it out on the streets

I should have been paying close attention to my driving on slick, slushy roads this morning, instead of blasting “Born to Run,” but I wasn’t.

I should have been slowing gently at four-way stops and watching for pedestrians instead of screaming what have to be some of the BEST LYRICS OF ALL TIME … but I wasn’t.

Seriously: I am no Bruce expert — go read our internet friend Phil’s blog for more informed commentary — but “Born to Run” has got to be in serious consideration for Best Rock Song EVER. I mean honestly — can there be any argument about that?

And if there is anything better than screaming that song alongside 10,000 other people as Bruce and the band rip it out on a stadium stage, I don’t know what that thing is. I’ve done it with crowds of Minneapolis hipsters, Chapel Hill smarties, D.C. politicos, and Buffalo rust belters, and been brought to tears every time.

Three more “shouldas” for this morning’s scan and drive:

In 2003, I should not have attempted to drive to Charlotte from Chapel Hill after the Springsteen concert at UNC. It was too late, too long a drive, and my friend was reduced to asking me to detail the plot of “The O.C.” to keep me awake. From the sublime to the ridiculous in a matter of minutes.

In 2007, my boss should have had a serious meeting with me and a colleague, seeing as his very job was in jeopardy, but instead he made us talk about the Springsteen concert we’d attended the night before for a good hour. Just one of the reasons I loved working for him.

And, finally, my commute should have been quiet and focused this morning, but it was a barn-burner instead, and I loved it.

Wee, wee, wee all the way home

Alas, Jr and I are both homebound today on accounta the stomach flu. We’re on the mend, but no daycare commute for us. Which means I’d be relegated to blogging about the songs from our cache of inherited Elmo videos, were I to blog. Actually, there’s some amazing stuff in there: a very young En Vogue, for instance, singing a terrible, terrible song about adventures with Super Grover. Good times. ‘Cept whenever anyone but Elmo is on the screen, Jr. spends the whole time requesting the return of his fuzzy red friend: “‘mo. ‘mo. ‘mo.”

Never thought it would happen to us.

Go on and fool me

In the days of the crappy-but-beloved Portland ME apartment that MamaKitt and I shared, I worked at a little publishing company just a short distance from our place and often snuck home for my lunch breaks.

And for some reason, The Cardigans’ “Lovefool” brings up a thoroughly inconsequential memory of pulling up to the office (in my grandparent-hand-me-down ’86 Olds Cutlass Ciera, thank you very much) after one such lunch break, sun shining on the melting snow of early spring, and heading back inside for the second half of the day’s work.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.

I mean, I could tell you about the strange and intense year I had at this little publishing company, which is probably among the last of its kind: every aspect of the publishing business, from acquisitions to design to marketing to sales to printing, all in one building. I could tell you how truly hideous that building was, all suspended ceilings and vinyl siding, its neighbors a Dunkin’ Donuts, a tire shop, and the local AA ballpark.

I could tell you what a wonderfully talented and smart collection of people that building housed, people who could have been (and some of whom had previously been) stars in the publishing industry at more illustrious houses in grander cities, but who chose our little place because they wanted to be in the great state of Maine. I could tell you about the very good friends I made there, working together under ridiculous deadlines to all hours of the night, through the weekends, and how very, very, very much I learned in a few short months.

But really, that song just puts me in my car, in a shabby neighborhood, about to go back to work. I can see the moment — meaningless as it was — with crystal clarity.

So thanks, I guess, Cardigans.