I have been thinking a lot about this blog lately, and wishing we were still posting to it. I miss the writing, I miss listening to pop radio in the morning, I miss having an assignment — even if I’ve given to myself — to be a teensy bit creative four times a week.

My attempt to start up another blog, this one without my partner in crime, the good Mama Kitt, totally fizzled. I didn’t have a clear idea of what I was blogging about, and I let the thing die. Other efforts at regular writing have also gone by the wayside, and that’s no one’s fault but my own.

Now it’s the end of the year, and the airwaves are full of Christmas tunes, and I have nowhere to talk about the crime against humanity that is Mariah Carey’s duet (“duet”) with Justin Bieber. Instead, on my way to work lately, I have been listening to Patti LuPone read her autobiography. That lady has some stories, but MAN she is a piece of work. Not exactly good cheer to start your day off right.

I’m a little bit wilting without some kind of creative outlet, and I’m going to need to correct that in the new year. Probably won’t be here — Auto Tunes lived an excellent life, but its time had definitely come — but I need to think for real about where and what it will be. 

Makes me feel better just to revisit this site and make that promise to myself. Now if Santa could just do something about Mariah and Bieber, I’d be a happy camper.

I’ve nothing particularly coherent to say, nor any song to tie it to. Well, there was some lovely Handel on the local classical station, and a new DJ who seems to be from New Zealand (if my Flight of the Conchords education is serving me properly), so those were salves of a sort. But my primary car-radio experience of late has been static — that is, funneling the white noise of radio static through the back left speaker of my little VW in an effort to get my screaming baby, just out of arm’s reach, to settle down. (Note to desperate parents: it works.)

That’s about the only static thing in our lives lately. New baby, daycare for baby, new preschool for Jr. this week, efforts at potty training, efforts at bottle training, whole new rhythms to get used to. And me back at work today, trying to remember how to do my job (remembering my computer password was hard enough) and wishing I could afford not to.

All of this is small, in the grand scheme of things — and all of it is wonderful, from some perspective. I mean, how lucky am I to have what I have. But I also want what I had: long, slow days of sprinklers and stroller walks and berry eating, tantrums and diapers and nursing. Today it’s back to reality, or what passes for reality … and away we go.

The opening act was John Oates — yes, of Hall and Oates! — who did a sort of Motown-y, blues-y, Hall and Oates-y mix of stuff. A LONG mix of stuff — he played nearly as many songs as the Avetts themselves. The music was all right, but after song 9 or 10 I was over it. Also I think Portland may have offended Oates, since he told the crowd we were the first he’d ever played for not to holler and demand “Maneater.” Really, Oates? “Maneater” = “Freebird”? I’ve got doubts.

When the Avetts at last came on, they were brilliant as always. Just a hundred thousand percent committed to their performance; I swear the taller one (Seth? Scott? I forget) jogged through every song, his knees almost touching his chest as he rocked the flock out. They didn’t play all my favorites, but it didn’t matter — they just create such joy in the rooms they play, and the combination of the sound from the stage and the delight in the audience was just magical.

The usual bass player was absent, away greeting a new child, according to my sister, but the sub was fine. And I like watching the shorter Avett at the drums, but some other dude played them for most numbers. Still — these adjustments diminished the quality of the show, and my enjoyment in it, not one bit.

I think the mark of a good concert is feeling enveloped by the music — from the ringing in your ears to the pulse in your chest to the joy in your soul. And I definitely felt that way at this Avett Brothers show. Cannot wait to see them again.

Last night I saw Brandi Carlile and Ray LaMontagne at the waterfront in Bangor, Maine. And it was wonderful.

I worship at the church of live music, and if there’s anything better than being outdoors, amongst happy, easy-going people, with gorgeous music filling the air, I haven’t yet found it.

The Bangor waterfront stage is a great, kind of funny set-up, right off the little downtown area on the shores of the Penobscot River. It’s also right next to — and I mean RIGHT NEXT TO — working train tracks, so performers are occasionally interrupted by a hooting, passing train. The stage is flanked by screened set-up areas and speaker arrangements that are mostly transparent — meaning the audience can pretty much see everything they’re usually not meant to observe. (I hoped for the hilarity of a costume change, but didn’t spy one.)

The best part of the stage set-up, at least from where I was sitting, was that the back of the stage was wide open, and above the performers’ heads was a crisp white church steeple high on the river’s opposite shore. After darkness fell, the steeple was illuminated. It was beautiful and poetic, lending even more of a spirit of worship and rejoicing to the evening than I already felt.

I heard the people behind us mention the steeple a few times throughout the evening, clearly as enchanted as  I was. The crowd — all ages, though heavily college-age — seemed so pleased to be out on a (fairly) nice summer’s night, ready for a good show, and many, many in the audience seemed to know each other. I witnessed more waving and chasing down of old friends than I have ever before seen at an event like this.

It was just lovely. And so was the music! Brandi Carlile was a rockin’ little sprite, throwing herself into every song, letting her voice soar and break and clearly loving every moment she was on stage. I burst into tears when she started in on “The Story,” just knowing it would be great (and it was). Ray LaMontagne was more reserved, as is his nature, but delivered a super smooth, controlled performance standing in a triangle of light made all the more visible and dramatic by the mist hanging in the night air. And the openers, the Secret Sisters, were fantastic — I recommend checking them out if you like kind of old-fashioned country with delicious harmonies.

I left the show so grateful to have had the chance to be there, so glad for Bangor that it can get people like this up into the boonies, and so excited about next week’s museical adventure.

More soon.

PS: I don’t think Mama Kitt will mind if I report that she has welcomed Baby #2, and all is well!

1. That TGOTS and I had arranged for her splendid final post to be the splendid final post, because it is so splendid. Anything I add can only be an anticlimax.

2. That Boz Scaggs was not the artist sending us on our way. But how could I resist the “one more for the roooaaaadd” refrain of “Lido”?

In truth, everything I heard this morning seemed tinged with Auto Tunes meaningfulness: The “you don’t have to go” pleading of Led Zeppelin’s “D’yer Mak’er” (another in the long list of songs I know whose titles I know, but never can seem to pair properly); the “don’t go breakin’ my heart” perkiness of Mr. John and Ms. Dee; and George Thorogood’s insistent, growly  “who do you love?”

Who do I love? I’ll tell you who I love: This blog and its handful of followers! The artists who provided fodder for our flights of fancy! The family and friends who have given me cause to write about them, knowingly or unknowingly, and given me so many fine memories to dredge up!

But mostly, of course, TGOTS — she came up with the idea for this blog, set it up, and made it real. She is determined to flex her writing muscles every chance she gets, to stop saying “someday” and make someday happen now. And she has been my bestest friend for nigh on thirty years — no easy feat.

We’ve allowed ourselves to ooze melodrama this week, and frankly it’s probably a good thing Thursday has come. We could all use a break. But as TGOTS has promised, we’ll be back from time to time. Like a bad Bob Seger chorus or a yummy Joe Perry riff, we’re just not that easy to shake.

I did have kind of a perfect moment this morning, though. It’s going to be a crazy day at work, one that requires me to be done up in full professional lady drag — suit, good jewelry, lip gloss, shoes with heels. But as I drove to work, “I Love Rock ‘n Roll” came up on my scan. And friends, I played that shit loud and banged my head like I was in black eyeliner and a ripped t-shirt. It made me very, very happy.

I haven’t been able to figure out that one perfect farewell song, or that ideal note to go out on, so instead I’m going to offer up three that pretty well cover the gamut of my manic musical taste.

(Let me also say that I struggled mightily to come up with the song that perfectly captures my friendship with Mama Kitt. I just couldn’t do it, because ALL songs are that song. As evidenced by this blog — every last stinking entry in it.)

First, the earnest and maudlin farewell must be from my beloved Patty Griffin. She actually has a lot of songs that would serve today, but let’s go with plain old “Goodbye”: Today my heart is big and sore / It’s trying to push right through my skin / ‘Cause I won’t see you anymore / I guess that’s finally sinking in.

She’s just my favorite. No getting around it. She speaks for the realest and truest corner of my cold black heart.

Of course, I could also sign off with some Aerosmith, whom I love nearly as much, though in a very different way. As I’ve said before, I’m a sucker for the much-maligned “Cryin’,” and kind of want it to be the last song played at my funeral. Hence its inclusion here as exit music.

Seriously, that song makes me feel like I’m wearing a miniskirt, dangling stillettos from one hand, and walking off into the sunset with my hair teased high toward Jesus. It may not seem lyrically like a swan song, but to me it sounds like one.

Finally, I didn’t feel like I could really go out without a showtune. But I couldn’t think of one that said au revoir the way I wanted to say it, so instead I’m going to go out with a “a new day’s dawning” message — one with a spirit of excitement tinged with wariness, joy leavened with fear of the unknown. All the things I’m feeling, set to a syncopated beat.

It’s the music of something beginning, y’all. (Also, Gleeks, check out young Lea Michele.)

Dear Mama Kitt, about to become Mama Kitt of two, I love you more than Broadway, more than hair spray, more than five scoops of Frozen Custard. I have loved our little blog project, and toast to many more years of riding in cars (virtually or actually) with the radio blasting.

And readers, you awesome few: Thank you, thank you, thank you for being part of our Auto Tunes party.

You also have to be ready to let go of certain things. Like cuddling with your older child at bedtime, for instance. Or blogging with your best friend.

Yesterday, I had a doctor’s appointment that left me feeling like this baby could come at any minute. Now it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, and I’m a little calmer. But last night I was a wreck — my son and I bonked heads in the dark of his bedroom, and we both cried, and he stopped long before I did.

Before and after the tears, this lyric kept rolling around in my head: “This could be the last time, this could be the last time, may be the last time, I don’t know.”

As my fella pointed out later, there is really nothing to prevent me from cuddling with our son at bedtime after baby comes. But it will be different, there’s no doubt about it. I keep trying to remind myself that the primary reason we chose to have a second child was so Jr. would have a sibling — so it hardly seems logical for me to be mourning the imminent end of his only-childhood. But there it is.

This morning, I heard lots of snippets relatable to that whole looming birth thing. Including some blowhard saying, “It causes you pain because you let it cause you pain” (blowhard though he was, I kind of like this as a mantra) and Stevie Wonder burbling about the loveliness of his one-minute-old daughter.

Anyway. Committed as I was to making this a cheery blog week, I guess it’s more a Whoa, Transitions blog week. And as far as posting goes, well … this could be the last time. But probably I’ll be back again tomorrow.

“But TGOTS,” you protest. “You live in Western New York, and our Googling does not find those performers in that region any time soon.”

True, I respond. I’ll actually be in Maine for a while at the end of May, in large part because and it turns out that those beloved artists will be there as well. I’ll get Ray and Brandi on the lawn at the riverside in Bangor and the Avetts in Portland’s State Theatre (a porn palace throughout our growing up, now magically restored) a week later.

HEAVEN. Instead of “I and Love and You,” it’s “Maine and Music and Me.” Which really amounts to about the same thing.

I suspect I’ll feel the need to swoon publicly about these shows, so check this space for updates. See that? We mean it when we say we can’t quite quit this blog.

I do love “I and Love and You,” and the subject line of this entry did come to me late last night, but for Avett exit music, I think I’m gonna have to go with “Slight Figure of Speech”:

Yeah, brother, I don’t always know what I’m rambling on about either.

OK, it is not entirely unexplainable. He’s a handsome fellow. He clearly has a sense of humor, as evidenced on SNL, Jimmy Fallon, and other outlets. He can dance.  And he has made an impressive career for himself for someone with boy-band roots, a feat I always admire.

Do I find his high-pitched, girly voice distasteful at times? Yes. Do I throw up a little when I read about his simultaneous dalliances with various starlets? Sure. Do I wish I could get back the 9:22 I just spent watching the video for “What Goes Around … Comes Around”? More than I can say.

But despite all that, there’s a tiny place reserved for JT in my heart. Oh, I’m not proud. But it’s time to face the truth.

I had stopped at the grocery store to grab some lunch on the way to work, and the E Street Band was blasting over the speakers the whole time I ran my errand. I couldn’t help smiling; I also couldn’t help skipping my way through the deserted store. (Seriously, I did — to the point that I got a “right on” nod from a stock boy.)

It really isn’t a farewell song, but somehow it felt perfect to hear “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” this morning. It celebrates friendship, fun, and easy good times. And we’re all about that on the Auto Tunes.

Have I confessed before that there once was a time I despised this song? Yeah. It was ages ago, but I remember classifying it, in my stupid youthful brain, with dreary rainy day classic rock. O how I have grown! O how much wiser I am now!

And how glad I am to get a little Springsteen send-off this week. Please imagine me turning up “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” on the stereo, clinking my beer bottle on yours, and toasting friendship, fun, and easy good times.