And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
Til touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
At 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, the phone did not ring. Tim said George would call if the rocket launch was on; if there was no call, there was no launch.
I looked outside. Perfectly sunny.
Is it windy? asked Tim.
I saw some ripples in the plastic-covered construction site across the way. But then I looked at an American flag, and it hung straight down, lifeless.
No.
Around 7:30, Tim called George. His wife, Michelle, answered. George and daughter Emma had already head out to the launch site.
George was sure we’d gone to Rocky Horror and was afraid to wake us up. Plus, he thought he and Tim had left it that Tim would call him.
Luckily, we’d called in time.
It was a perfect day for a launch. So perfect that the first time the rocket landed extremely close to the liftoff point. I worried it would actually hit our cars in the lot.
Nothing had broken, so George got to launch again. This time in landed in the next field.
We’ll have to wait for the camera results. George mounts a camera inside the rocket, and when all goes well, the resulting footage is amazing.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
176/365 The Time Warp
For July’s four Saturdays, a downtown Portland movie theater was playing Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight. I really wanted to go.
But midnight. Geez. I could barely make the midnight showings when I was young.
Still, we figured this past Saturday, we’d try.
That afternoon, we ran into Heidi’s main squeeze, Colin, at Maine Squeeze, the yummy new smoothie place downtown. Heidi had told Tim that she’d never seen Rocky Horror in her youth. When she’d tried to go, her mother hadn’t believed her, saying something to the effect, A movie at midnight? How stupid do you think I am? We’d been thinking about calling Heidi to remind her that it was the last night, so it was fortuitous running into Colin. He said yeah, they’d thought about going, but it was at midnight, and they were usually in bed by, like, 9:30.
Thank god. These people may be a decade younger than we are. I thought we were the only ones.
Apparently we’d all previously joked about how they needed a senior citizens’ showing, like maybe at 7 p.m.
Then Tim and I tried to stay up. We hung out in the room and watched some DVDs. I played a Youtube of “The Time Warp” to get psyched.
At 8, I was feeling pretty good.
Then George called. He was going to do another rocket launch avec attached camera on Sunday morning, early. Tim (over)confidently said we’d likely to go Rocky Horror, but he still wanted in. There was some discussion about who would call whom the next morning, which got muddled later, of course.
At 10:30, Tim was “napping,” and I was having serious doubts.
At 11:15, I turned off the light.
I love Rocky Horror. I do. I wanted so much to be the kind of person who could stay up til midnight and see it.
But I also know that it’s the first hour that’s really good, and the last half hour falls apart a little. Or at least it always seemed to. And I’m not sure if that’s because it actually does, or if it’s because by 1 a.m., something would have to be magnificent for me to not think, When will this be over? The last half hour of RH is not that, in my memory.
The thing is, the theater was practically just a jump to my left . . .
But midnight. Geez. I could barely make the midnight showings when I was young.
Still, we figured this past Saturday, we’d try.
That afternoon, we ran into Heidi’s main squeeze, Colin, at Maine Squeeze, the yummy new smoothie place downtown. Heidi had told Tim that she’d never seen Rocky Horror in her youth. When she’d tried to go, her mother hadn’t believed her, saying something to the effect, A movie at midnight? How stupid do you think I am? We’d been thinking about calling Heidi to remind her that it was the last night, so it was fortuitous running into Colin. He said yeah, they’d thought about going, but it was at midnight, and they were usually in bed by, like, 9:30.
Thank god. These people may be a decade younger than we are. I thought we were the only ones.
Apparently we’d all previously joked about how they needed a senior citizens’ showing, like maybe at 7 p.m.
Then Tim and I tried to stay up. We hung out in the room and watched some DVDs. I played a Youtube of “The Time Warp” to get psyched.
At 8, I was feeling pretty good.
Then George called. He was going to do another rocket launch avec attached camera on Sunday morning, early. Tim (over)confidently said we’d likely to go Rocky Horror, but he still wanted in. There was some discussion about who would call whom the next morning, which got muddled later, of course.
At 10:30, Tim was “napping,” and I was having serious doubts.
At 11:15, I turned off the light.
I love Rocky Horror. I do. I wanted so much to be the kind of person who could stay up til midnight and see it.
But I also know that it’s the first hour that’s really good, and the last half hour falls apart a little. Or at least it always seemed to. And I’m not sure if that’s because it actually does, or if it’s because by 1 a.m., something would have to be magnificent for me to not think, When will this be over? The last half hour of RH is not that, in my memory.
The thing is, the theater was practically just a jump to my left . . .
Sunday, July 29, 2007
175/365 You Shook Me All Night Long
I’m back in an urban environment for a few days. Yesterday, after a long, hot walk by the water, I stopped in coffee shop on the way to Suzanne’s new gallery. I was desperately thirsty. I picked up a bottle of water and got in the long coffee line.
This AC/DC song was on. Far from me, near the front of the line, this guy was totally rockin’ out to it. Singin’ a bit, the works.
He was black.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had never seen an African American guy rockin’ out to AC/DC.
Then I wondered if the realization of that was a racist thought of some kind. You know how white liberals are. Always on the lookout for their own racism, which they desperately hope isn’t actually there.
And yes, I know that the song is on Back in Black.
Of course, there are lots of things I realize I’ve never seen at the moment I first see them. If it’s taken me more than 27 years to see a black guy singing and dancing to “You Shook Me All Night Long,” well, then, that’s how long it’s taken me. When the song was popular, I was in a fairly white environment. My DC decade happened past the song’s prime. I’m not coming up with any time in my life when all proper stars would have naturally aligned for this occurrence. And I’ve never invited anyone of any race to come over to my place and forced them to listen to AC/DC. In fact, I don’t even play it when Tim’s around.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an Asian guy rockin’ out to this song either.
Maybe I should put that on the to-do list.
This AC/DC song was on. Far from me, near the front of the line, this guy was totally rockin’ out to it. Singin’ a bit, the works.
He was black.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had never seen an African American guy rockin’ out to AC/DC.
Then I wondered if the realization of that was a racist thought of some kind. You know how white liberals are. Always on the lookout for their own racism, which they desperately hope isn’t actually there.
And yes, I know that the song is on Back in Black.
Of course, there are lots of things I realize I’ve never seen at the moment I first see them. If it’s taken me more than 27 years to see a black guy singing and dancing to “You Shook Me All Night Long,” well, then, that’s how long it’s taken me. When the song was popular, I was in a fairly white environment. My DC decade happened past the song’s prime. I’m not coming up with any time in my life when all proper stars would have naturally aligned for this occurrence. And I’ve never invited anyone of any race to come over to my place and forced them to listen to AC/DC. In fact, I don’t even play it when Tim’s around.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an Asian guy rockin’ out to this song either.
Maybe I should put that on the to-do list.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
174/365 Cocaine
It seemed that every time I turned on the radio the summer of 1980, I heard the live version of Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine.”
That was the summer I was 18. I’d graduated from high school. I was on my way to college. I was all the time begging for use of the family car.
I was gettin’ some.
This song was always in the air. And although cocaine wasn’t my drug of choice, the song was part of the perfect soundtrack to “Let’s get this party started.”
That was the summer I was 18. I’d graduated from high school. I was on my way to college. I was all the time begging for use of the family car.
I was gettin’ some.
This song was always in the air. And although cocaine wasn’t my drug of choice, the song was part of the perfect soundtrack to “Let’s get this party started.”
Friday, July 27, 2007
173/365 Fat Bottomed Girls
Are you gonna take me home tonight
Ah down beside that red firelight
Are you gonna let it all hang out
Fat bottomed girls
You make the rockin’ world go round
On Tuesday I woke up to some serious pain. My hip hurt, my knee hurt, as well as parts environ. All day. I got more than a little freaky about it, because last time I had hip pain, I did lots of physical therapy, lots of acupuncture, and really, the only thing that worked was to rest the hip. Which meant quit exercising in the fashion to which I’d grown accustomed.
That time, I didn’t feel completely pain-free for about two years.
So even a twinge in the hip freaks me out. Tuesday was a particularly bad day. I don’t know if it was bad because I was in pain, and this colored everything, or if the pain was just one more part of a bad work day. Politics in the office of my main client, you know. Nothing directed at me, but just same old stuff. The chronic pain of the organization.
I had my ice skates in the car. I decided it best to not ice skate.
Wednesday, after hip rest, a round of antiinflammatories, and a good night’s sleep, it felt better. But I decided to not get on my NordicTrack elliptical cross-trainer. And I decide to not go back to the river, which means climbing up and down that steep bank.
Thursday arrived with a few twinges. I cut back on the antiinflammatories. I again skipped the elliptical, but, living on the edge, I went to yoga class. So far, so good. Today I have a long day of car travel ahead of me.
Here’s the thing. I’m an eater. I love food, and I eat a lot. The only thing that makes this habit possible in any semihealthy way is the fact that I exercise almost every day. I was a chubby kid, and when I truly discovered exercise that I could love and manage at age 22, it changed my life.
It also works as an antidepressant.
I live in fear that I will have to stop.
But I am forever grateful to Brian May for writing it, to Freddie Mercury and Queen for singing it: that ballad to fat-bottomed girls.
Now your mortgages and homes
I got stiffness in the bones
Ain’t no beauty queens in this locality (I tell you)
Oh but I still get my pleasure
Still got my greatest treasure
Heap big woman you gonna make a big man out of me
Ah down beside that red firelight
Are you gonna let it all hang out
Fat bottomed girls
You make the rockin’ world go round
On Tuesday I woke up to some serious pain. My hip hurt, my knee hurt, as well as parts environ. All day. I got more than a little freaky about it, because last time I had hip pain, I did lots of physical therapy, lots of acupuncture, and really, the only thing that worked was to rest the hip. Which meant quit exercising in the fashion to which I’d grown accustomed.
That time, I didn’t feel completely pain-free for about two years.
So even a twinge in the hip freaks me out. Tuesday was a particularly bad day. I don’t know if it was bad because I was in pain, and this colored everything, or if the pain was just one more part of a bad work day. Politics in the office of my main client, you know. Nothing directed at me, but just same old stuff. The chronic pain of the organization.
I had my ice skates in the car. I decided it best to not ice skate.
Wednesday, after hip rest, a round of antiinflammatories, and a good night’s sleep, it felt better. But I decided to not get on my NordicTrack elliptical cross-trainer. And I decide to not go back to the river, which means climbing up and down that steep bank.
Thursday arrived with a few twinges. I cut back on the antiinflammatories. I again skipped the elliptical, but, living on the edge, I went to yoga class. So far, so good. Today I have a long day of car travel ahead of me.
Here’s the thing. I’m an eater. I love food, and I eat a lot. The only thing that makes this habit possible in any semihealthy way is the fact that I exercise almost every day. I was a chubby kid, and when I truly discovered exercise that I could love and manage at age 22, it changed my life.
It also works as an antidepressant.
I live in fear that I will have to stop.
But I am forever grateful to Brian May for writing it, to Freddie Mercury and Queen for singing it: that ballad to fat-bottomed girls.
Now your mortgages and homes
I got stiffness in the bones
Ain’t no beauty queens in this locality (I tell you)
Oh but I still get my pleasure
Still got my greatest treasure
Heap big woman you gonna make a big man out of me
Thursday, July 26, 2007
172/365 London Flat London Sharp
I’ve gone to see the Dave Brubeck Quartet a couple of times in the past few years. The experience is always transcendental.
The last time I went, I didn’t buy tickets til the day of the concert. There was a lot going on, Tim couldn’t commit, and I figured I’d see what the day would bring—then if tix were still available, I’d go by myself.
That morning I ran into Leslie at the post office. On a whim, I asked if she wanted to go, and she said yes.
I’d been warned about the balcony at the Paramount—about how the rows were too close together, that there was barely room for one’s knees. All true. But the only seats left were there.
We spent the first set in those uncomfortable seats. But then Leslie spotted some empty chairs on the side balcony—those kind you find around dining tables in ballrooms, ten to twelve to a table. She knew an usher and asked if we could go sit there.
We could. We sat right above the Dave Brubeck Quartet, stage right.
I alerted Leslie to my crush on Bobby Militello, the saxophonist. We realized that we were now close enough to possibly throw undergarments on stage. She suggested a bra, and I said I couldn’t do that, because, well, a bra in my size is just too embarrassing. This is when she recommended carrying a bra in a much larger size in one’s pocketbook, for occasions like this one.
Brilliant.
Here’s Bobby and Dave, along with Michael Moore on bass and Randy Jones on drums.
The last time I went, I didn’t buy tickets til the day of the concert. There was a lot going on, Tim couldn’t commit, and I figured I’d see what the day would bring—then if tix were still available, I’d go by myself.
That morning I ran into Leslie at the post office. On a whim, I asked if she wanted to go, and she said yes.
I’d been warned about the balcony at the Paramount—about how the rows were too close together, that there was barely room for one’s knees. All true. But the only seats left were there.
We spent the first set in those uncomfortable seats. But then Leslie spotted some empty chairs on the side balcony—those kind you find around dining tables in ballrooms, ten to twelve to a table. She knew an usher and asked if we could go sit there.
We could. We sat right above the Dave Brubeck Quartet, stage right.
I alerted Leslie to my crush on Bobby Militello, the saxophonist. We realized that we were now close enough to possibly throw undergarments on stage. She suggested a bra, and I said I couldn’t do that, because, well, a bra in my size is just too embarrassing. This is when she recommended carrying a bra in a much larger size in one’s pocketbook, for occasions like this one.
Brilliant.
Here’s Bobby and Dave, along with Michael Moore on bass and Randy Jones on drums.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
171/365 Someday My Prince Will Come
Have I mentioned how much I love Bill Evans? Hmmm. Looks like a word I used previously was awe. Let me say it now: I love Bill Evans.
Apparently Dave Brubeck, another favorite of mine, is the mastermind behind taking Disney tunes and turning them into jazz masterpieces. But my first exposure to both this tune and “Alice in Wonderland” was via Evans. The tunes themselves are good, of course. But jazz milks the sappy out of them. One suddenly sees that they aren’t so innocent after all, that they lie in wait in the keys, sultrily whispering “Play me.”
Apparently Dave Brubeck, another favorite of mine, is the mastermind behind taking Disney tunes and turning them into jazz masterpieces. But my first exposure to both this tune and “Alice in Wonderland” was via Evans. The tunes themselves are good, of course. But jazz milks the sappy out of them. One suddenly sees that they aren’t so innocent after all, that they lie in wait in the keys, sultrily whispering “Play me.”
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
170/365 Bye Bye Blackbird
Pack up all my care and woe
Here I go, singing low
Bye bye blackbird
Today is one of those days I’m thinking about quitting this project. I mean, where is everybody?
Susan, thank goodness, still seems to be in. Bridgett is keeping me going. I see this morning that she’s posted more entries, which I am looking forward to reading just as soon as I get some work done.
I miss the rest of y’all. I’m glad Helen’s still reading.
Lisa, Lisa, this is your baby! Where are you?
Maybe the fact that I keep trying means that here it is, summer, and I have no life. It’s possible. I just sit here, editing medical copy, working on a quarterly journal, and hoping some song will come to me to post each morning. And then I hope to find the time to post it. Steal the time, really.
But I’m running out of steam.
At 182/183, I’d be halfway through. Maybe that should be my goal. To just make it halfway.
Here are the Jazz Birds singing Henderson/Dixon’s “Bye Bye Blackbird.”
No one here can love or understand me
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me
Here I go, singing low
Bye bye blackbird
Today is one of those days I’m thinking about quitting this project. I mean, where is everybody?
Susan, thank goodness, still seems to be in. Bridgett is keeping me going. I see this morning that she’s posted more entries, which I am looking forward to reading just as soon as I get some work done.
I miss the rest of y’all. I’m glad Helen’s still reading.
Lisa, Lisa, this is your baby! Where are you?
Maybe the fact that I keep trying means that here it is, summer, and I have no life. It’s possible. I just sit here, editing medical copy, working on a quarterly journal, and hoping some song will come to me to post each morning. And then I hope to find the time to post it. Steal the time, really.
But I’m running out of steam.
At 182/183, I’d be halfway through. Maybe that should be my goal. To just make it halfway.
Here are the Jazz Birds singing Henderson/Dixon’s “Bye Bye Blackbird.”
No one here can love or understand me
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me
Monday, July 23, 2007
169/365 Turning Japanese
I’ve got your picture, I’ve got your picture
I’d like a million of you all round my cell
I want a doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
Ah, crazy love.
I can’t help it. I love the 1980 Vapors single “Turning Japanese.” I don’t have it in my collection though—much to Tim’s obvious delight.
I don’t much care about the masturbation debate on this one. Obsession is as obsession does.
I’d like a million of you all round my cell
I want a doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
Ah, crazy love.
I can’t help it. I love the 1980 Vapors single “Turning Japanese.” I don’t have it in my collection though—much to Tim’s obvious delight.
I don’t much care about the masturbation debate on this one. Obsession is as obsession does.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
168/365 We Like the Moon
Such an amazing sky last night. Stars everywhere, a bright half moon. We were driving home from another champagne-filled happy hour at Sioux and Duke’s (am I beginning to sound like an alcoholic?), and, upon seeing the beautiful moon, I rather predictably began belting out “We like the moon!”
Then I realized the song hadn’t made it into this blog yet, and it should be here.
“We Like the Moon” is performed by the Spongmonkeys, one of Joel Veitch’s animated creations on his Rathergood.com. This is the kind of humor one is likely to either like or dislike. I fall into the former category. This song always makes me laugh. The lyrics, posted below, are rather good.
We like the moon
coz it is close to us
we like the moooon!
but not as much as a spoon
cuz that’s more use for eating soup
and a fork isn’t very useful for that
unless it has got many vegetables
and then you might be better off with a chopstick
unlike the moon
it is up in the sky
it’s up there very high
but not as high as maybe dirigibles or zeppelins or lightbulbs
and maybe clouds
and puffins also I think maybe they go quite high too
maybe not as high as the moon
coz the moon is very high
we like the moon
the moon is very useful everyone
everybody likes the moon because it lights up the sky at night and it’s lovely and it makes the tide go and we like it
but not as much as cheese
we really like cheese we like zeppelins
we really like them and we like kelp and we like moose and we like deer and we like marmots and we like all the fluffy animals
we really like the moon
Then I realized the song hadn’t made it into this blog yet, and it should be here.
“We Like the Moon” is performed by the Spongmonkeys, one of Joel Veitch’s animated creations on his Rathergood.com. This is the kind of humor one is likely to either like or dislike. I fall into the former category. This song always makes me laugh. The lyrics, posted below, are rather good.
We like the moon
coz it is close to us
we like the moooon!
but not as much as a spoon
cuz that’s more use for eating soup
and a fork isn’t very useful for that
unless it has got many vegetables
and then you might be better off with a chopstick
unlike the moon
it is up in the sky
it’s up there very high
but not as high as maybe dirigibles or zeppelins or lightbulbs
and maybe clouds
and puffins also I think maybe they go quite high too
maybe not as high as the moon
coz the moon is very high
we like the moon
the moon is very useful everyone
everybody likes the moon because it lights up the sky at night and it’s lovely and it makes the tide go and we like it
but not as much as cheese
we really like cheese we like zeppelins
we really like them and we like kelp and we like moose and we like deer and we like marmots and we like all the fluffy animals
we really like the moon
Saturday, July 21, 2007
167/365 I Can’t Get Next to You
I can fly like a bird in the sky
Hey, and I can buy anything that money can buy
Oh, I can turn a river into a raging fire
I can live forever if I so desired
Unimportant are all these things I can do
’Cause I can’t get next to you
There’s no real story here. I just think this is a great Temptations song.
Hey, and I can buy anything that money can buy
Oh, I can turn a river into a raging fire
I can live forever if I so desired
Unimportant are all these things I can do
’Cause I can’t get next to you
There’s no real story here. I just think this is a great Temptations song.
Friday, July 20, 2007
166/365 I Think I Love You
This morning I woke up with this feeling
I didn’t know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself
I’d hide it to myself and never talk about it
And did not go and shout it when you walked into the room
I never got on the David Cassidy bus. I never really got it. I mean, I was like 8 years old when The Partridge Family began airing, and I really liked it, and I bought the records and listened to them ad nauseam, but Cassidy never tripped my trigger. So to speak.
But back in the mid-1990s, he wrote a book and went on book tour. My Internet search tells me this book must have been C’mon Get Happy: Fear and Loathing on the Partridge Family Bus. He was going to be at a signing at L’Enfant Plaza, a mere couple of blocks from my office.
So I told Sue.
Sue had definitely been on that bus.
She asked me to please buy her a copy of the book and have him sign it.
This left me in a bit of a dilemma, as I would do almost anything for Sue. However, I have this thing about idolatry, or even the appearance of it: It makes me uncomfortable. I did not want to be standing in a line of 30- and 40-something groupies for god knows how long waiting to get this book signed. I didn’t want to be seen doing it, which was quite possible.
Of course, the timing of the signing was such that I couldn’t take off work anyway. At least that’s what I told myself.
I did in fact go to the bookstore, buy a book, and leave it to get signed.
I walked past the bookstore at some point during the day and looked at that 2-hour line. I may have caught a glimpse of Cassidy, but I honestly can’t remember.
But Sue got her book.
This song is actually a pretty good one, I think, although I hate the bridge. Luckily, I’ve found an abbreviated version on Youtube that not only doesn’t include the bridge, but features Ron/Hermione footage, which seems an appropriate thing to post at fewer than 16 hours til the last Harry Potter book is released.
Apparently, there are many things for which people line up.
I didn’t know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself
I’d hide it to myself and never talk about it
And did not go and shout it when you walked into the room
I never got on the David Cassidy bus. I never really got it. I mean, I was like 8 years old when The Partridge Family began airing, and I really liked it, and I bought the records and listened to them ad nauseam, but Cassidy never tripped my trigger. So to speak.
But back in the mid-1990s, he wrote a book and went on book tour. My Internet search tells me this book must have been C’mon Get Happy: Fear and Loathing on the Partridge Family Bus. He was going to be at a signing at L’Enfant Plaza, a mere couple of blocks from my office.
So I told Sue.
Sue had definitely been on that bus.
She asked me to please buy her a copy of the book and have him sign it.
This left me in a bit of a dilemma, as I would do almost anything for Sue. However, I have this thing about idolatry, or even the appearance of it: It makes me uncomfortable. I did not want to be standing in a line of 30- and 40-something groupies for god knows how long waiting to get this book signed. I didn’t want to be seen doing it, which was quite possible.
Of course, the timing of the signing was such that I couldn’t take off work anyway. At least that’s what I told myself.
I did in fact go to the bookstore, buy a book, and leave it to get signed.
I walked past the bookstore at some point during the day and looked at that 2-hour line. I may have caught a glimpse of Cassidy, but I honestly can’t remember.
But Sue got her book.
This song is actually a pretty good one, I think, although I hate the bridge. Luckily, I’ve found an abbreviated version on Youtube that not only doesn’t include the bridge, but features Ron/Hermione footage, which seems an appropriate thing to post at fewer than 16 hours til the last Harry Potter book is released.
Apparently, there are many things for which people line up.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
165/365 Here’s That Rainy Day
I’m scarily behind in my work. All it takes is to lose one weekday, it would appear. But yesterday I got lucky. It rained. All day.
I’m sure the rain wasn’t good for some things and some people, but for me, on a day when I needed to stay in, not only did it keep me from wanting to go outside, but the darkness of the skies and the sound of the heavy rain kept me feeling cozy and comforted. Someone on the verge of panic needs that.
I’ve always loved this Johnny Burke/James Van Heusen song. It has nothing to do with the yummy part of raininess, but it’s in my head anyway, so you get to hear it if you want to. Until I started searching Youtube, I didn’t know Astrud Gilberto had covered it, and, in my opinion, covered it well. She keeps showing up here. I must like her.
She goes well with cocktails.
Maybe I should have saved those leftover dreams
Funny, but here’s that rainy day
Here’s that rainy day they told me about
And I laughed at the thought that it might turn out this way
Where is that worn out wish that I threw aside
After it brought my lover near
Funny how love becomes a cold rainy day
Funny, that rainy day is here
I’m sure the rain wasn’t good for some things and some people, but for me, on a day when I needed to stay in, not only did it keep me from wanting to go outside, but the darkness of the skies and the sound of the heavy rain kept me feeling cozy and comforted. Someone on the verge of panic needs that.
I’ve always loved this Johnny Burke/James Van Heusen song. It has nothing to do with the yummy part of raininess, but it’s in my head anyway, so you get to hear it if you want to. Until I started searching Youtube, I didn’t know Astrud Gilberto had covered it, and, in my opinion, covered it well. She keeps showing up here. I must like her.
She goes well with cocktails.
Maybe I should have saved those leftover dreams
Funny, but here’s that rainy day
Here’s that rainy day they told me about
And I laughed at the thought that it might turn out this way
Where is that worn out wish that I threw aside
After it brought my lover near
Funny how love becomes a cold rainy day
Funny, that rainy day is here
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
164/365 Sad Songs and Waltzes
I’m writing a song all about you
A true song as real as my tears
But you’ve no need to fear it
’Cause no one will hear it
Sad songs and waltzes
Aren’t selling this year
I love this Cake cover of this Willie Nelson tune. The trumpet solo makes me wanna waltz in some smoky bar.
If you do want to hear it, the only link I found on Youtube has rather silly visuals. Feel free to close your eyes and soak in the bitterness.
A true song as real as my tears
But you’ve no need to fear it
’Cause no one will hear it
Sad songs and waltzes
Aren’t selling this year
I love this Cake cover of this Willie Nelson tune. The trumpet solo makes me wanna waltz in some smoky bar.
If you do want to hear it, the only link I found on Youtube has rather silly visuals. Feel free to close your eyes and soak in the bitterness.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
163/365 Don’t Be Shy
Don’t be shy just let your feelings roll on by
Don’t wear fear or nobody will know you’re there
Just lift your head and let your feelings out instead
And don’t be shy, just let your feelings roll on by
Yesterday the ashes of my 32-year-old cousin were interred at his father’s gravesite.
Eric worked in the film industry. It was a beautiful day in a beautiful cemetery in Mystic.
I kept expecting a psst!, then to look up and see Maude darting among the headstones.
Here’s Cat Stevens with advice for the living.
Don’t wear fear or nobody will know you’re there
Just lift your head and let your feelings out instead
And don’t be shy, just let your feelings roll on by
Yesterday the ashes of my 32-year-old cousin were interred at his father’s gravesite.
Eric worked in the film industry. It was a beautiful day in a beautiful cemetery in Mystic.
I kept expecting a psst!, then to look up and see Maude darting among the headstones.
Here’s Cat Stevens with advice for the living.
Monday, July 16, 2007
162/365 Theme from Monty Python’s Flying Circus
I’m just back from my cousin’s memorial service. I’m exhausted. It’s all quite surreal (and he was a funny guy), so today, as a bit of an intermission from my needing to think, I leave you with this theme.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
161/365 Girl from Ipanema
Does this ever happen to you? Suddenly, out of nowhere, you think, I need to hear some bossa nova. No? OK, maybe it’s just me.
Oddly, “Girl from Ipanema” was one of those songs I’d heard often but didn’t know the title to until well into adulthood. I probably wasn’t listening to the words. Often, back in my days at the catering service, I heard wedding bands playing it, and they usually didn’t bother to sing this one.
I work with a woman who actively hates this song (essentially, it’s her “Candy Man”). I am careful not to mention it around her.
My buddy Dana has a picture of herself standing in front of huge ship named the Ipanema.
Maybe there is something a little sixties-cheesy about bossa nova. Maybe that’s why I love it.
Here’s Astrud Gilbert.
Oddly, “Girl from Ipanema” was one of those songs I’d heard often but didn’t know the title to until well into adulthood. I probably wasn’t listening to the words. Often, back in my days at the catering service, I heard wedding bands playing it, and they usually didn’t bother to sing this one.
I work with a woman who actively hates this song (essentially, it’s her “Candy Man”). I am careful not to mention it around her.
My buddy Dana has a picture of herself standing in front of huge ship named the Ipanema.
Maybe there is something a little sixties-cheesy about bossa nova. Maybe that’s why I love it.
Here’s Astrud Gilbert.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
160/365 So What
Tim was working late Thursday night, getting the magic late-afternoon light for just the right shot. That left me needing to find dinner on my own. I seem to have little issue with eating by myself at lunchtime, but at dinner it can be tougher, especially if I want something in one of the finer restaurants.
I wanted Cambodian Hot Bowl at Natasha’s.
I figured I could sit at a bar. This can be a good option for introverts like me. I don’t really have trouble talking to people if they talk first. The question becomes, if I can get a seat at the bar, will I be the only one eating? With chopsticks? Is this going to work out?
I went. It’s basically a five-seat bar, and there was a seat available between a couple and this other guy. “So What” was playing on whatever they’re playing music on in restaurants these days: CDs programmed to random? iPods? Bar Guy was talking to a lingering waiter about John Coltrane.
The bartender’s name was Phaedra. Bar Guy told me. He’s a regular.
I hesitatingly ordered the Cambodian Hot Bowl, asking Phaedra how gauche it was to eat at the bar. She assured me it would be fine. I still had worries that I would be the only one scarfing down dinner. I didn’t want to be mocked.
Bar Guy couldn’t predict whether he would mock me. He claimed to be a Zen MockerTM who mocked only in the moment.
By the time the Cambodian Hot Bowl arrived, we were so engrossed in conversation about comedy, extreme darkness, good television, Michael Moore, blogs, and music that Bar Guy must have forgotten to mock me as I—and I alone—inhaled my bowl full of Asian vegetables, dainty rice cakes, shrimp, chicken, pineapple, fried banana, chopped peanut, mint, and cilantro. Every last bit of it. And I forgot to care that Others might be Watching.
I love this town.
When I left, “So What” had come around again.
Here’s Miles Davis, John Coltrane, et al. in 1958.
I wanted Cambodian Hot Bowl at Natasha’s.
I figured I could sit at a bar. This can be a good option for introverts like me. I don’t really have trouble talking to people if they talk first. The question becomes, if I can get a seat at the bar, will I be the only one eating? With chopsticks? Is this going to work out?
I went. It’s basically a five-seat bar, and there was a seat available between a couple and this other guy. “So What” was playing on whatever they’re playing music on in restaurants these days: CDs programmed to random? iPods? Bar Guy was talking to a lingering waiter about John Coltrane.
The bartender’s name was Phaedra. Bar Guy told me. He’s a regular.
I hesitatingly ordered the Cambodian Hot Bowl, asking Phaedra how gauche it was to eat at the bar. She assured me it would be fine. I still had worries that I would be the only one scarfing down dinner. I didn’t want to be mocked.
Bar Guy couldn’t predict whether he would mock me. He claimed to be a Zen MockerTM who mocked only in the moment.
By the time the Cambodian Hot Bowl arrived, we were so engrossed in conversation about comedy, extreme darkness, good television, Michael Moore, blogs, and music that Bar Guy must have forgotten to mock me as I—and I alone—inhaled my bowl full of Asian vegetables, dainty rice cakes, shrimp, chicken, pineapple, fried banana, chopped peanut, mint, and cilantro. Every last bit of it. And I forgot to care that Others might be Watching.
I love this town.
When I left, “So What” had come around again.
Here’s Miles Davis, John Coltrane, et al. in 1958.
Friday, July 13, 2007
159/365 Ya Rayah
It was in that same Parisian grotto that I heard Rachid Taha for the first time. Alison and I were mesmerized by some song and asked the DJ to show us the CD, but I could never find it. It was probably never distributed in the U.S.
But I did find a CD of his that satisfied me, even though it didn’t have quite the drive of whatever it was we heard that night. Here’s the first track.
But I did find a CD of his that satisfied me, even though it didn’t have quite the drive of whatever it was we heard that night. Here’s the first track.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
158/365 It’s Raining Men
I didn’t return to Paris until after the turn of the century. My sister had been having a tough year, and there was an alumni event she wanted to attend at the American University of Paris. She’d attended the school—at the time a 2-year institution—in the mid-80s, back when bombs were going off.
Alison was willing to do all the legwork to set up the trip and make it affordable, so I agreed to go. A plus was that she had a much better command of French than I do, given her years living in Paris and Montreal.
Astoundingly, I had a great time at the alumni events. One night there was a cocktail party on a boat docked on the Seine, and we met a women who’d grown up in the same town as our mother. Another night there was a big dinner, and we sat with some fascinating people, including a German ambassador to France and a woman who taught school in Beirut.
After dinner, there was dancing in the grottolike cellar of the old building. For some reason, I remember “It’s Raining Men” starting up just about the time we got downstairs. When I hear that song now (which doesn’t happen that often), I think of that Paris night, of dancing in that fabulous space until way late, of trying to find a cab afterward and becoming more than a little concerned that that was not going to happen (and how would we get back to the hotel?), and of that young guy my sister made a date with for later in the week…
Here’s the original Weather Girls cut. This one’s for you, Sewa Yoleme.
Alison was willing to do all the legwork to set up the trip and make it affordable, so I agreed to go. A plus was that she had a much better command of French than I do, given her years living in Paris and Montreal.
Astoundingly, I had a great time at the alumni events. One night there was a cocktail party on a boat docked on the Seine, and we met a women who’d grown up in the same town as our mother. Another night there was a big dinner, and we sat with some fascinating people, including a German ambassador to France and a woman who taught school in Beirut.
After dinner, there was dancing in the grottolike cellar of the old building. For some reason, I remember “It’s Raining Men” starting up just about the time we got downstairs. When I hear that song now (which doesn’t happen that often), I think of that Paris night, of dancing in that fabulous space until way late, of trying to find a cab afterward and becoming more than a little concerned that that was not going to happen (and how would we get back to the hotel?), and of that young guy my sister made a date with for later in the week…
Here’s the original Weather Girls cut. This one’s for you, Sewa Yoleme.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
157/365 Stayin’ Alive
In June 1978, I went to Paris with the high school French club. It took a lot of begging and pleading on my part to get permission/funding from my parents. But it was worth it. We had a great time.
What surprises me about my memories is the amount of actual freedom we had. I remember an afternoon during which Cheryl and I, on our own, took the metro to the Rodin Museum because we really wanted to see it, and it wasn’t on the itinerary. I can’t imagine anyone these days thinking it would be OK for two teenage girls on a high school trip to run around the city like this unchaperoned. But it was fine, and we were fine, and it’s one of my best memories of the trip.
I also remember the two of us being alone and in search of lunch together, probably another day. It was then that these two dark strangers approached us. This was always happening when Cheryl was around. One of the guys was Tunisian. He could speak pretty good English. His friend was allegedly Parisian, and he spoke none. Our French was high-school pathetic. So Tunisian Guy played translator.
Saturday Night Fever had recently been released in Paris, and signs of it were everywhere. This was back in the days when films didn’t have a simultaneous international release. We Americans had been into it the previous year. But Tunisian Guy tried to impress us with his knowledge of the film. “Ah ah ah ah, staying alive, staying alive,” he crooned at us. “the Bee Gees! Saturday Night Fever!”
Whatever. That was so yesterday. But we indulged him. Yes, yes, Saturday Night Fever . . .
They found out we were looking for lunch and insisted on taking us to a Tunisian restaurant. We warily agreed, walking with them down small side streets til we finally got to this hole in the wall, where we had some delicious and dirt-cheap dish. It was fun. They weren’t too pushy, and when we said we had to get back to the group, they bid us adieu.
What surprises me about my memories is the amount of actual freedom we had. I remember an afternoon during which Cheryl and I, on our own, took the metro to the Rodin Museum because we really wanted to see it, and it wasn’t on the itinerary. I can’t imagine anyone these days thinking it would be OK for two teenage girls on a high school trip to run around the city like this unchaperoned. But it was fine, and we were fine, and it’s one of my best memories of the trip.
I also remember the two of us being alone and in search of lunch together, probably another day. It was then that these two dark strangers approached us. This was always happening when Cheryl was around. One of the guys was Tunisian. He could speak pretty good English. His friend was allegedly Parisian, and he spoke none. Our French was high-school pathetic. So Tunisian Guy played translator.
Saturday Night Fever had recently been released in Paris, and signs of it were everywhere. This was back in the days when films didn’t have a simultaneous international release. We Americans had been into it the previous year. But Tunisian Guy tried to impress us with his knowledge of the film. “Ah ah ah ah, staying alive, staying alive,” he crooned at us. “the Bee Gees! Saturday Night Fever!”
Whatever. That was so yesterday. But we indulged him. Yes, yes, Saturday Night Fever . . .
They found out we were looking for lunch and insisted on taking us to a Tunisian restaurant. We warily agreed, walking with them down small side streets til we finally got to this hole in the wall, where we had some delicious and dirt-cheap dish. It was fun. They weren’t too pushy, and when we said we had to get back to the group, they bid us adieu.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
156/365 Minimum Wage
Whenever I come to Portland, I envision a life hanging out in coffeehouses, wandering the streets, taking in a matinée, playing at city leisure. I always seem to forget that my deadlines are exactly the same as they are at home. That if I actually do those things, I will miss my deadlines. Or have to make up the time somewhere, somehow.
I’ve always loved this They Might Be Giants song. Social commentary at its best: two words and the crack of a whip.
I’ve always loved this They Might Be Giants song. Social commentary at its best: two words and the crack of a whip.
Monday, July 9, 2007
155/365 I’ve Got to See You Again
I could almost go there
Just to watch you be seen
I could almost go there
Just to live in a dream
But no I won’t go for any of those reasons
To not touch your skin is not why I sing
I can’t help myself
I’ve got to see you again
Tim and I are in Portland, Maine, for a week. We are both hunkering down to work this Monday morning (I swear, as soon as I post this), but last night we did the dinner/movie/ice cream thing. We were getting ice cream when I heard a song that was familiar, and I was trying to place it. It took me a minute to come up with Norah Jones, “The Long Way Home.”
I can’t remember anyone having blogged about Norah Jones in this project (although I could be quite wrong), which in some ways is surprising, given her popularity. But the fact is, Jones got almost too popular for her own good. For awhile, you couldn’t go anywhere public without hearing her. The backgroundness of her became almost like breathing, to the point that one didn’t even notice her anymore.
I first heard her debut CD during one of the famous river-porch happy hours I attend in summer, back in 2002. It was months before the Grammy awards, months before her ubiquitousness. I was riveted. What a voice. How different to hear something like this, nearly jazz standardy in its quality. I was thoroughly impressed with Come Away with Me. One of my favorite songs was “I’ve Got to See You Again.” Here it is, a bit faster than its CD presentation.
Just to watch you be seen
I could almost go there
Just to live in a dream
But no I won’t go for any of those reasons
To not touch your skin is not why I sing
I can’t help myself
I’ve got to see you again
Tim and I are in Portland, Maine, for a week. We are both hunkering down to work this Monday morning (I swear, as soon as I post this), but last night we did the dinner/movie/ice cream thing. We were getting ice cream when I heard a song that was familiar, and I was trying to place it. It took me a minute to come up with Norah Jones, “The Long Way Home.”
I can’t remember anyone having blogged about Norah Jones in this project (although I could be quite wrong), which in some ways is surprising, given her popularity. But the fact is, Jones got almost too popular for her own good. For awhile, you couldn’t go anywhere public without hearing her. The backgroundness of her became almost like breathing, to the point that one didn’t even notice her anymore.
I first heard her debut CD during one of the famous river-porch happy hours I attend in summer, back in 2002. It was months before the Grammy awards, months before her ubiquitousness. I was riveted. What a voice. How different to hear something like this, nearly jazz standardy in its quality. I was thoroughly impressed with Come Away with Me. One of my favorite songs was “I’ve Got to See You Again.” Here it is, a bit faster than its CD presentation.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
154/365 Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?
I know, it appears I’m on a 3-day Beatles kick. But they ask a legitimate question here, don’t they?
I’ll be in the car for 5 hours today, on my way to Portland, Maine, and my office-away-from-home.
No one will be watching us . . .
I’ll be in the car for 5 hours today, on my way to Portland, Maine, and my office-away-from-home.
No one will be watching us . . .
Saturday, July 7, 2007
153/365 Taxman
I opened a letter from the IRS this morning. They think I owe them $5K.
I don’t. I have til August 1 to prove it. I have a call into my accountant, but he’s a part-time resident here, and I’m leaving town tomorrow for 9 days.
This is so annoying.
Here’s the Beatles’ ode to the taxman.
I don’t. I have til August 1 to prove it. I have a call into my accountant, but he’s a part-time resident here, and I’m leaving town tomorrow for 9 days.
This is so annoying.
Here’s the Beatles’ ode to the taxman.
Friday, July 6, 2007
152/365 Blackbird
Thursday, July 5, 2007
151/365 That’s All Right (Mama)
Mama she done told me,
Papa done told me too
“Son, that gal your foolin’ with,
She ain’t no good for you”
But that’s all right, that’s all right
That’s all right now mama, any way you do
According to Writer’s Almanac, Elvis Presley recorded this Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup song 53 years ago today.
Papa done told me too
“Son, that gal your foolin’ with,
She ain’t no good for you”
But that’s all right, that’s all right
That’s all right now mama, any way you do
According to Writer’s Almanac, Elvis Presley recorded this Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup song 53 years ago today.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
150/365 Stream
Yesterday Sioux and Aidan kidnapped me. We went to a kid’s play at the Weston Playhouse with Jerry and Roger, then back to their cabin to spend the night.
Their cabin is mere feet from the Utley Brook. Roger built a screened-in porch, and there’s a futon couch on it. Guess who went to sleep last night, under at least five blankets, to the sound of the stream?
This is not something I got to do in my childhood. It’s part of the childhood I wish I’d had.
And I finally got to see about a quarter of Roger’s 365 portraits. Yum.
Their cabin is mere feet from the Utley Brook. Roger built a screened-in porch, and there’s a futon couch on it. Guess who went to sleep last night, under at least five blankets, to the sound of the stream?
This is not something I got to do in my childhood. It’s part of the childhood I wish I’d had.
And I finally got to see about a quarter of Roger’s 365 portraits. Yum.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
149/365 Movin’ On Up
I like reggae. I do. But it turns out I like it in small doses.
I went ice skating yesterday. It was great. There was hardly anyone there. But—as had happened on a previous occasion—the satellite radio was set to some reggae station, so I had to listen to it for a full hour.
Reggae’s just a little too slow (and dare I say monotonous, in the true single-tone sense of the word?) for skating, although every now and again a more lively tune would appear in the queue. An interesting one was a reggae version of “Movin’ On Up,” the theme song from the 1970s (and ’80s) sitcom, The Jeffersons.
I tried to find out who did the cover I heard yesterday, but I still don’t know for sure. Marley’s son Ky-mani has a song by that title, but it’s rappy—not it. It’s possible it was by Beenie Man, but I can’t find a sample. It was interesting, though, kind of fun.
Still, I would have skated a lot faster to the gospel choir version.
I went ice skating yesterday. It was great. There was hardly anyone there. But—as had happened on a previous occasion—the satellite radio was set to some reggae station, so I had to listen to it for a full hour.
Reggae’s just a little too slow (and dare I say monotonous, in the true single-tone sense of the word?) for skating, although every now and again a more lively tune would appear in the queue. An interesting one was a reggae version of “Movin’ On Up,” the theme song from the 1970s (and ’80s) sitcom, The Jeffersons.
I tried to find out who did the cover I heard yesterday, but I still don’t know for sure. Marley’s son Ky-mani has a song by that title, but it’s rappy—not it. It’s possible it was by Beenie Man, but I can’t find a sample. It was interesting, though, kind of fun.
Still, I would have skated a lot faster to the gospel choir version.
Monday, July 2, 2007
148/365 Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story’s
too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody’s on the stage, and it seems like
you’re the only person sitting in the audience?
Today the ice rink opens for 6 weeks. With any luck at all, I’ll be there this afternoon for the first public skate. Not in the audience.
But I could be an audience for this Jethro Tull song.
So as you push off from the shore,
won’t you turn your head once more
and make your peace with everyone?
too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody’s on the stage, and it seems like
you’re the only person sitting in the audience?
Today the ice rink opens for 6 weeks. With any luck at all, I’ll be there this afternoon for the first public skate. Not in the audience.
But I could be an audience for this Jethro Tull song.
So as you push off from the shore,
won’t you turn your head once more
and make your peace with everyone?
Sunday, July 1, 2007
147/365 Waiting in Vain
I don’t wanna wait in vain for your love
’Cause if summer is here
I’m still waiting there
Winter is here
And I’m still waiting there.
This Bob Marley song has been in my head this afternoon for no apparent reason. Maybe I felt I was waiting in vain for a song to post.
’Cause if summer is here
I’m still waiting there
Winter is here
And I’m still waiting there.
This Bob Marley song has been in my head this afternoon for no apparent reason. Maybe I felt I was waiting in vain for a song to post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)