The Diplocat

So, our cat... Yeah, the one I mentioned in this post. She's become quite naughty of late. Little "surprises" have been left for us. She's done it before, but never with regularity until recently. (Let me say here that none of my past cats have ever partaken in such rudeness. Sigh.) Anyway, at first we thought it was a health issue, so we had various tests run; all was well. She's been put on various expensive cat foods, is now gluten-free for crying out loud, but to no avail. She is, quite simply, a very nervous and temperamental beast, but she's perfectly healthy.

Yes, she has an extra litter box. And yes, I clean it at least once daily. Sometimes the prizes she leaves are in very deliberate places, such as in front of her favorite person's workbench... or in my son's Croc sandal. Niiiiice. That makes me think she's letting us know when she's angry or hurt. Not that it makes her actions acceptable, mind you. Not at all.

I've thought many times of re-homing her. Of hurting her, even. In rage, as I spray yet more Resolve and pet scent remover (she never defecates in the same place twice), I've had fantasies of releasing her into the wild... And then, just as I ponder her unfortunate fate, she behaves herself again; she's incredibly cute and sweet, she rubs her scent on us, she shares a rare purr. I never forget how bad she is, but I do let it go and try to hope she'll stop her obnoxiousness. Until inevitably, she is obnoxious again.

I have declared, vociferously and repeatedly, that she is the last cat for me.

Except I keep meeting other cats that do not disappoint. Take my parents' awesome cat, for example: a delightful female who found them by appearing under an outbuilding one morning as a tiny kitten. That incredible cat hunts, stays outdoors, and never leaves inappropriate piles in places where someone is sure to step (unless you consider dead rodents to be inappropriate...) She's a great cat.

The most recent wonderful cat showed up at my son's piano lesson. As I sat on the "waiting couch" to read while my dude played for his teacher, here came a huge, solid-looking orange tabby with light green eyes. He jumped immediately onto the couch with me, proceeded to climb onto my lap, and then, oddly, he sat up and placed his two front paws over my left shoulder. Then he looked at me, imploring me to give the feline species another chance. I asked his name (Mozart—he does belong to a music teacher, after all), and we all chuckled at his very forward behavior. Mozie stayed with me for about 5 minutes, hugging my shoulder, gazing at me meaningfully while I rubbed the top of his head and neck. After a bit, he settled his heavy self next to me on the couch cushion, and napped while I read and the music played. I remembered that not every cat is as ungrateful and ill-mannered as mine. I felt a bit of the bitterness toward our own awful pet leave me, as the weight of that diplomatic orange fellow lifted from my shoulder.

She's still the last cat, though.

The restless beast is stilled—momentarily

I believe in sharing. In theory, anyway. Which is why I'm barking at everyone I talk to today, why I'm muttering moody epithets to myself as I stomp around the house completing jobs, why I have been unsurprised to find myself visibly scowling each time I passed a reflective surface. I'm just sharing my cranky state. The weather stinks, it's mid-winter, I panicked this morning and canceled plans thanks to overly zealous weathermen, and now I have probably missed a perfectly good, sunny afternoon when I might have been out gallivanting... Huff, sigh, groan, growl.

It's been that kind of January, hasn't it?

Anyway, since I've been so eager to share my annoyance, frustration, and irritation with anyone who's willing to tune in, I should (on the flip side) also share something positive and delightful, to make up for my curmudgeon-ness. So, I will.

I had an absolutely fabulous time yesterday afternoon, in spite of snow and slush and icy gusts. My best little guy and I had a date—at the symphony.

Now, we don't go there often, although I'd love to. We've enjoyed the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony Orchestra several times, because it's fun and inspiring to see youngsters playing those instruments with such skill and aplomb. Plus (perhaps I should mention this little tidbit) the PYSO performances are usually free. Yep, gratis. That's double-plus-good for us.

But yesterday's show was a special treat, one that we'd been hoping would come around someday. You see, my son and I are huge John Williams fans. Yes, the John Williams who writes movie music. The true deserver of the moniker America's Composer. I love Copland too, people, but I think JW has him beaten. I do. Who cares what motivated the composition? Does it really matter that it was written to accompany scenes of a film? To me, that makes it even more awesome in a way. I know how it feels to paint a picture that I have chosen to render—and how much more difficult the task becomes when it must be made to order for someone else's preferences...

Anyway, when we heard about this show, even my husband looked pointedly at the two of us JW admirers, and suggested that we go. It was decided. And since my best big boy would be coming back from a weekend out of town on the day of the matinée performance, we decided that only Mom and Son would partake. Then, my charming kiddo stepped into the amazing kid arena by declaring he'd contribute allowance money to the seat purchase so we wouldn't have to sit in peanut heaven. So—I knew without a doubt that he really wanted to go.

We bought the tickets online, and waited for the big day. Which was yesterday, as you know. Even before we got inside the venue, we were met in the lobby by a brass ensemble's swelling performance of the Superman theme, and the music just got better and better. The concert was commanded by resident conductor Lawrence Loh, a gifted, youngish fellow who is also a self-proclaimed JW junkie. He was a perfect choice for the day, introducing each piece or even particular scene with gusto, background information, and an occasional prop or outfit. Loh morphed into a Jedi knight with light saber in hand for Star Wars; then, Professor Dumbledore himself used his "wand" to lead the symphony in selected Harry Potter musical selections. Loh was a fantastic master of ceremonies and maestro, and the perfect choice for such a rousing collection of memorable, heartwarming, bewitching tunes. He made no excuse for Williams' soundtrack niche, acknowledging only his greatness and genius. That gorgeous music filled Heinz Hall's soaring arches and intricate corners, and not a single classical music snob could be found. The adoring audience thanked both conductor and composer with rapt attention, roaring applause, and not a single peep from a cell phone.

The best part of the day occurred to me halfway through the first half, as I sat alternately wiping the corner of my eye (the opening notes of Jurassic Park) and grinning foolishly (Hedwig's Theme): I realized, with quiet shock, that I was sitting perfectly still. I wasn't wiggling a leg, or drumming a finger, or twitching my knee. I was just sitting. I was completely in the moment. Maybe that doesn't sound like such a big deal to you, but for me? A B-I-G D-E-A-L. I cannot sit still easily; long car rides are torture, meetings used to make me alternately yawn and weep, even long movies have become challenging. It just feels like a waste of time, my mind wanders, and my body yearns to move busily about, engaging in restless activity after restless activity.

But yesterday? That music washed over me with a physical presence, a calming aspect that I haven't experienced for months. It was splendid.

And now it's a precious memory. I wish I could have bottled the moment, the scene itself—not just the sounds, but also the smells and sights of that wonderful snapshot. And I wasn't alone. Everywhere around me, people were smiling. I haven't seen that for a long time.

Thanks, Lawrence. Thanks, John. For those two hours, I was completely at home right where I was. What a rare treat.

Ahh, yesteryear

Every now and then, a ditty from my childhood pops into my mind unbidden. I do not know from whence it comes, but it comes nevertheless. One of my recent inexplicable memories was a child's book that included a song.

Back in the day, we didn't have all this here techno-gimmetry. We had a handful of read-aloud books with little 45-rpm records that fit into a slot in the back cover of the book. I'd get the turntable ready, and clumsily put my record on it, then set the needle in position and hurriedly open my book to read along to the scratchy story. I believe I had a rendition of Bambi, or maybe some other tragic Disney story, but my favorite read-along was Johnny Fedora and Alice Bluebonnet.

Being a clueless child, I didn't realize that the genius of Johnny and Alice's story was found in the liltingly beautiful voices singing the words to the storybook—none other than the fabulously talented Andrews Sisters. Add one corny, touching love story to those gorgeous pipes, and you have a winner.

I told my son about it, and he was curious. I found it on YouTube (of course I did, because if you look hard enough, you can find anything on YouTube). I made him listen to it, which he didn't mind because it turns out that my little storybook was based on a cartoon movie that accompanied the song. Then my husband heard us singing the words; it turns out that he was not familiar with this classic. Can you believe it? Grew up in a cultureless vortex, that one...

So we made him listen and watch, too. He wasn't as entranced as I thought he should have been. Alas. I try to bring meaning and purpose to his life in every way I can. If he refuses to accept my offerings? That is beyond my control.

What's that, reader? Is it possible that you, too, are unfamiliar with this gem of Americana? Well, now, we can't have that.

Go here. Enjoy. And remember a time when even children's entertainment was of a higher class.

Sublime stuff

There are certain musical compositions that are able to transport the listener. They stand the test of time, surviving and even flourishing centuries after their creation.

I must be honest: I don't think most music produced today will hold up too well over time. Especially the pop pieces, the flimsy, limpid lyrics sung and accompanied by one-act hacks. How could they hold their own against compositional and technical genius?

(Don't get me wrong; I do find the occasional amazing modern artist, even in the contemporary music world... but it doesn't happen very often. What I see more frequently is that the most talented artists go relatively unnoticed by most of the world.)

However, true musical gifts do still exist. The piece below, to which I've linked, is proof. It doesn't hurt that the musicians featured there are virtuosos in their field, that it's a stringed "supergroup" of sorts.

This wonderful piece takes me to fabulous places in my mind. Why don't you have a listen, and then read below and see if we visited the same location while we listened?

Click here to listen to Attaboy

So, where did I go?

I wandered through a field in springtime, then through budding trees, watched sparrows flitter through the air, stopped by a joyful outdoor picnic and party, then ran with arms outstretched into a sunset over a meadow. And there was sun, not snow, on my shoulders.

Where did you go?

A class act? Del yeah!

One evening last week, the husband, the kid, and I made our hurried, scrambling way to the South Hills to witness a bluegrass legend: the Del McCoury Band. Del and the boys were playing in one of a string of giant stone churches atop Washington Road; the event was a fund-raiser for both a youth organization that began at our church, and for a group for kids based in Dormont, I think.

Anyway, for days before making a decision, we went back and forth about whether to go. Todd loves this guy and his music, I like him too, he's known all through the music industry as the guy who brought back and re-energized bluegrass music, other artists laud and revere him, etc. But the timing couldn't be much worse for us, both schedule-wise and spending-wise. Still, it was for a good cause, and we both knew we might never get such an opportunity so close to home again.

So we scarfed down dinner and jumped into the car. We just made it, tickets were still available, and we got decent seats. The huge, beautifully appointed church was warm and getting warmer, but no one cared too much. We parked ourselves near a fan standing in an outer walkway and waited with anticipation. I took a quick look around at the crowd, a mostly middle-aged to older gathering with a smattering of young adults, a number of families, and a handful of small children sprinkled here and there (ours among them).

Then the lights dimmed, the resident pastor addressed the crowd briefly and told us no video was permitted, and the show began. McCoury and his crew walked onto the small stage, all dressed in suits with ties, carrying their beautifully shined, perfectly tuned instruments.

Del himself addressed their audience at first and many times throughout the show. He was a white-haired, well-groomed man with a kind-hearted, quirky sense of humor; he explained at one point that he'd worked with Bill Monroe (father of bluegrass music) in the early 60s, so I figured Del had to be at least 70. He joked several times about his mind and how it's not what it used to be, but then would tease us that he could only remember the songs that he liked best or the ones that weren't as challenging to play. He spoke to the crowd often, affably and comfortably, telling anecdotes about his past experience, other performers, and the history of the genre. I got the feeling that whether playing a small show inside a church, or performing at Carnegie Hall (which they have), this guy would be the same. In a word, he was delightful.

The other members of the group were clean-cut, well-spoken men, two of whom happened to be named McCoury as well (Del's sons, I'm sure); the youngest appeared to be no more than 30. Each of them was a consummate musical genius, bringing forth unbelievably complex, blisteringly fast melodies from their strings with ease, then switching to quieter, slower tones, then back to traditional driving bluegrass rhythms. The topper, of course, was that in addition to their unbelievable mastery of their instruments, they all could sing fabulously well, and in perfect harmony. While they played.

Even if you abhor this type of music (and I used to really despise it, I'll confess), you could not argue that these fellows are amazingly talented, multi-faceted musicians. Remember this type of entertainer? The dancers/singers/musicians of yesteryear? The type of groups and individuals who looked nice and respectable, who had layers of talent, humility, and good manners on stage to boot? Del and his band covered a couple of tunes, talked about some of the songwriters whose work they'd covered at other shows, and in every instance the man had only good things to say about each of those artists. How refreshing is that, eh? I'll bet I will never read a stupid news story about Del twittering some unkind statements to a competitor, or posting something unflattering on his Facebook wall about another musician. And the band played a long time, two sets, plus a few more songs as an encore. With the suits and ties on the whole time, mopping their sweaty foreheads while they thanked us all for coming. For a charitable show that I'm certain could not have been too profitable for them, if they saw any profit at all.

At one point, Del asked for the mikes to be shut off, and they performed an amazing, quietly moving song about getting down on your knees and praying. There was no pretense, no drama, just heartfelt rendering of words and notes. These folks were, and are, the real deal, or putting on such a good show that they bamboozled me—a scathing skeptic—with ease.

I am so, so glad we went to the trouble to attend. It was rushed, it was hot, my boy got weary before it all ended, but I left that show with hope for the future of entertainment. There are still class acts in the world, even in America. You won't often find them in the headlines, but you can find them.

*****

Here's a little sampling of Del and the boys. Sorry you missed them.

Climbing out of a funk

The best ways I've found to escape a bleak funk? Painting and singing, without a doubt. Cleaning and organization are also effective methods of escape, but they require infinitely more effort, energy, and motivation to begin. So I've chosen the more artistic outlets of late, and I think I'm finished with the funk now.

This little sheep makes me want to own sheep. Don't worry, that's not an easy impulse purchase to make, so I don't think I'll be picking one up anytime soon. I'll enjoy the pictures of Granny Miller's sheep* (that's who this little lovely belongs to) and I'll find some good music to keep me moving.

I think we're finished with snow... so I am planning to attempt an outdoor cushion retrieval from the attic. Wish me luck, and if I disappear for a few weeks, you'll know I stepped through the floor and into the living room below—thus resulting in traction. I'll be careful.

I hope, at some point, to make the sheep image into some cute items on Zazzle, a reportedly awesome site that lets you place your own images on products like shirts, bags, etc. So far, I'm having no luck getting my items onto the products... but I'll keep trying. Stay tuned.

* I did ask Granny for permission to paint her sheep, which she granted; otherwise, I would not have done so. Thank you, Granny!

Unique, amusing, and effective distractions

A few days ago, the kid and I were listening to our city's classical station (89.3 FM). They were discussing an upcoming broadcast of an opera, playing snippets of it, raving about it, etc. Marcus was curious enough to ask me, "Mom, what's an opera?"

"Well, Honey, it's a play that's set to music."

"Who would think of that?"

I pondered this. "I guess people in Europe thought of it. Maybe someone composed the music, someone else added words to some songs, and then another person had the bright idea to base a story on a bunch of the songs together."

"What are they about?" he queried.

Now, I was on some unfamiliar ground here. I like classical music, can recognize a few pieces by ear, and have actually attended two operas in my life: one in German (Threepenny Opera) and the other in Italian (The Barber of Seville), both featuring gauche subtitles that ran over the performers' heads near the ceiling. They were pretty enjoyable—not something of which I'd want to make a steady diet, but pleasant and fun.

"Well," I answered with some hesitation, "they're sometimes about pretty dramatic things, like love and death and people stealing things from each other. But sometimes they're just about life, like on that one Arthur episode we saw where Muffy went to the opera. Remember?"

He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I remember, Binky made her go to the opera in her dream." This led to a discussion of that particular show, and further discussion about a segment after the show—a quick video that featured a real opera singer visiting a school and helping the young students compose an opera about a playground game where one kid wasn't following the rules.

Taking it a step further, I performed an impromptu solo piece, singing as if I were Daddy who just minutes ago had misplaced his keys. (I sang this to that tune from one of the most famous operas ever—I wish I could remember which! It was the same opera that was featured in that classic Bugs Bunny opera cartoon):

I cannot find them
I cannot find them
I cannot find them,
My elusive keys—

Anyway, the kid was amused. We composed another opera later while he took his bath, and this time the parts were played by bath toys like Pink Seal (soprano) and Orca (bass, of course). I voiced most of the silliness, but he did some too, and it cracked him up.

This morning, running on cement, the kid bit the dust and scraped his ankle. The first layer of skin was peeled away in a small spot, and by the time we'd made it into the bathroom for some Neosporin, the little bare circle of exposed under-skin was bloody. He was freaked out (blood always causes this response) and I tried to think of a quick way to avoid an all-out breakdown.

I suggested a spontaneous opera about this most recently acquired, oozing scrape. Better yet, we'd take it into the future when the scrape was already healed nicely. The scab would have a deep voice, but his voice would grow weaker as he prepared to fall off. The new skin would be much higher-pitched, soft at first and then triumphant as she emerged into the brightness of day. I launched into Act I to remove his mind from the current predicament:

Scab: I'm getting weaker... I feel my strength faaaaaaaaiiiiillllling... Oh nooooo! I can't hold on!!!

New Skin: What's this soft breeze? And this bright light? It feels so strange, and yet so right...

(You have to sing these lines for it to work, people. Yes, out loud. Now do it.)

The funny thing is that he stopped crying and started giggling instead. Perhaps that's the best thing about opera: yes, it can be quite dramatic and heart-wrenching and all that... but when you take it off the stage and start singing falsetto arias about the latest crisis in your life, it's nearly impossible not to laugh about it. The operatic interpretation of the mundane elevates that mundane to sublimely silly.

Try it. I'm serious. It's curiously liberating, and it forces a lighter perspective on the vast majority of subjects.

And this person did...what?

Hi, All. Sorry for the hiatus. Take a sick kid (ear infection), add an equally sick mother (unofficial diagnosis of S.A.D.), and you have a blogger with not much to say. But I'm back. Thanks for noticing me. (And thanks to Eeyore for such a great line.)
**********

There are some famous people in this world whose appeal escapes me. A whole slew of them, in fact. So as not to drone on, I’ll try to limit my examples to just a couple:

Sarah Jessica Parker. What is the appeal here? It can’t possibly be her appearance. She’s quite common. I’m no beauty queen myself, but then again I’m not world-renowned, nor am I featured on hair-coloring advertisements. What do people see in this woman? Honestly? She’s thin, yes, but it seems she is famous mostly for her fictional glamorization of sleeping around—at least that’s my understanding of that show that made her famous—and I hardly think that performance merits the hoopla this chica gets from the “in” crowd. I wish someone could explain it to me.

Justin Timberlake. This is a heartthrob? Are you kidding me? Come on, he reminds me of a gal pal’s kid brother who plays little league ball and leaves dirty footprints on the carpet. Sexy? Hardly. Does he even shave? And the musical talent eludes me as well. Take away the driving beat and boy-band harmonies and what have you got? Lame. His participation in the Janet Jackson Super Bowl fiasco only made the whole scam more pathetic.

Obama. Yes, I’m sorry to say, his charm is lost on me, as are his golden-tongued persuasive speeches about rebuilding our country. As the conceited one has already boldly reminded us all, he “won.” So when will he start doing what he said he’d do? I tried to watch that speech to congress last night, I really did. And it read like so many pre-election speeches, meant to inspire and bolster confidence and all that #@&*. I’m all about the action, people—and as much as I love words, I know not to trust them. The more glib the speaker, the more you should beware. This guy scares me.

So, there you have it. Most superstars don’t live up to the hype, and today’s versions are no different—be they actors, musicians, or politicians.

Here’s a great quote I stumbled across, though:

Prosperity is when people buy things they can’t afford; recession is when they stop doing it.
-H. E. Martz, WSJ, 1963

Find more wise chuckles here.

It gets me, every time it hits me

In the past ten years or so, I’ve undergone some pretty major changes in my life. Moving to the ‘Burgh, switching careers, getting back to church, getting married, having a child… It’s enough to make your head spin. Until you wonder what the next ten years might hold. Those last three changes were the biggies for sure. You can change homes and jobs over and over again and still feel the same inside. But you’d be hard-pressed to embrace Christianity, join your life with another person, or become a parent without being altered forever. And those types of monumental changes are the ones that cause you to re-examine your life, yourself, your pursuits and interests, your hobbies and habits all with new eyes.

I guess I started to ponder the things that I surrounded myself with after being at our church for a couple of years. By then, the husband and I knew we were committed to this path, that we’d be staying the course, and that it would require some changes in the way we lived and spent time. We went through books and magazines we’d accumulated, through artwork and collections in general, and we began to sort out the not-so-wholesome things and remove them from our midst.

Some things were easy to toss; others, not so. (Of course, I had no trouble making “toss” recommendations to my husband. Tee hee hee.) But as time passed, we freed ourselves of the items that didn’t feel quite right anymore. There wasn’t a huge amount of undesirables that were sent away, but it was enough that we felt we’d made the effort. Whew, we were good people again.

And then, we decided to try to reproduce. Pregnancy resulted. Then childbirth.

An entirely new level of sorting began. And I’m not talking just about childproofing our house and placing breakable items on high shelves; I’m talking about reconsidering just about every material possession that had come into our home. Any piece that had been riding on the fence as far as acceptability suddenly fell off and hit the ground. And mostly, it was music choices—often from years before we’d married.

Music was hard for me. I love music. Music has shaped who I am and how I handle stress, has maybe even affected how I relate to people and how I form thoughts. And it’s so deeply connected to times in my life, to periods of growth, to experiences that I both cherish and shudder to recall—as it is for all of us. It’s ingrained in my memories of life. To toss out certain pieces of music felt like tossing out a piece of myself.

I got rid of a few CDs and a lot of cassettes (remember those?) that had seen a lot of wear, but not so much recently for a variety of reasons. And I tried to kindle self-interest in good Christian music, and some pop music that was harmless and somewhat palatable. I really did try. And I found a handful of choices that I’ve continued to enjoy since then, music that is both quality listening and has nothing questionable about it; music that causes me absolutely no qualms when my little son listens to it.

But I never really got into a lot of that type of music. And I will confess; I squirreled away part of my old CD collection, locked it in the dark recesses of the stereo cupboard. And I’ll tell you this, too: the local rock ‘n roll station still has a place on my car’s programmed radio channels, even though the DJs are often foul-mouthed and utterly inappropriate for adults, let alone for kids. And I’ll tell you why this is so—and it gets me, every time it hits me—I’ve got a rock ‘n roll heart. (Thanks, Clapton.)

I still hold Led Zeppelin dear. I can’t help it. They are simply genius. They are so talented, so diverse, so amazingly capable of expressing, in guitar licks and melodies, music that matches every one of my moods. I know, I know—some of their songs are about subjects that I hope never to tackle with my kid. I know some of them are overtly flirting with undertones I should eschew. I know. But Page’s handiwork, oh my. And Plant’s voice, from gravely murmuring to heartfelt shrieking, covers it all. Those guys blow me away. And I felt a little pang in my heart when I sold one of my Red Hot Chili Peppers albums. I am fully cognizant that those silly boys, in younger years, performed part of a concert wearing only socks on certain appendages. That’s bizarre, and kind of sick, and probably illegal. I know that. But no one plays the bass like Flea. No one.

I mean, it’s not a big shock, the subject matter of some of these songs. One definition of the very phrase “rock and roll” is a thinly veiled reference to a certain act—did you know that? (Read more here.) I believe it was a phrase among the African-American community in the 50s, possibly earlier. BUT I also know that some of that music is about the same stuff all music is about: love, longing, joy, playful fun, feeling pain and loneliness and melancholia.

So, the other day, when Marcus asked specifically to hear a song with just drums, I dug into the lower shelf of the CD collection and pulled out “Moby Dick/Bonzo’s Montreax” by none other than Led Z. It’s super-heavy on drums, has some great drum solos, and features a heavy guitar as well. Did my little boy like it? At first. Then he grew tired of it, and told me quite clearly when he’d heard enough. So I stopped it—and forced him instead to listen to part of “Fool in the Rain.” Amazing song, with incredibly complex time changes throughout… I dare you to sit still while you listen. He liked it all right. And then we turned on WQED radio again.

And I don’t care. I’m not sorry. I cannot turn away from true musicality even when some of the related material delves into less savory territory—I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I will not forsake great art and a trip to the museum simply because there are a few paintings of nudes mixed in, and I will not forsake all great rock music in spite of the fact that some of the artists dally in some questionable lyrics. Now, hear me: if the lyrics are awful? Disgusting? If they incite killing or violence or senseless uprisings or sacrilege? Of course I’ll turn them off, ban them from my collection. I don’t want anything in our home that encourages or leaves doors open for the enemy of man.

But I will also pull out a song with all drums when the occasion calls for it. Oh, I’ll keep some good gospel mixes in the cupboard, even though I’ll likely give away a lot of the more “pop-py” stuff if it comes my way. The classical greats will always have a place in our home, along with some cool jazz, some oldies… and they'll coexist with some wonderful rockin’ tunes. I can love Jesus and still love some rock ‘n roll. Both of them move me; One, to be a better person, and the other? To move myself off the couch.

Glimpse of my young, silly self

So, the little guy and I are driving along, and I’m listening to BOB-FM; it’s one of several stations that we flip among as we drive, stations with everything from oldies and rock to independent and classical. Anyway, we’re driving and an old song comes on: “Sunglasses at Night” is the title, I believe, by some one-hit wonder named Corey Hart. (I just double-checked it online—that’s his name.) And I say aloud, “I remember this song, I used to really like it.” I tell my son things like this all the time, not because he cares but mostly because I am accustomed to talking to him a lot, the poor kid. And I am listening to the song unfold, and singing along with the lyrics I can recall (not many, but it’s coming back to me) and the song arrives at its chorus section—which sounds like this the first time around:

Don't switch the blade on the guy in shades, oh-no
Don't masquerade with the guy in shades, oh-no
I can't believe it
‘Cause you got it made with the guy in shades, oh-no

I had one of those moments—perhaps you’ve had them too?—a moment where suddenly, with unkind clarity, you glimpse yourself as a stupid kid, prancing around, thinking you’re all that, singing these incredibly shallow songs and being so proud you know the words… I was literally laughing out loud as I listened to the song, not just at the embarrassing memory of myself, or the ridiculous lyrics, but also at the drama with which this Corey character sings them. If you’re familiar with the song, then you know of what I speak; it’s quite comical.

But when I was in high school, there was nothing comical about it. I was quite serious about how cool it was.

This happens to me more and more; I am momentarily reacquainted with something from my distant past, and I am struck by how foolish it truly is and how foolish I must have seemed as I embraced whatever it was in my earnest attempts to be cool—sometimes I was even convinced that I’d succeeded.

Coolness, just like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. A good thing about these glimpses of my young self is that most of the time, they reaffirm my stand that you couldn’t pay me to go back to those teen years. This is definitely one of those times—and I got to have a good chuckle to boot.

Croatians and guns

Every neighborhood, every home, has its sounds. Take our last neighborhood, for example: the summer sounds from that house's porch and yard were little owls hoo-ing in the evenings, peepers peeping on occasion, the crack of the bat from a nearby baseball field, and multi-ton dump trucks lumbering by in the pre-dawn… Well, that’s a story for another post. Actually, for a novel, if I can ever be sufficiently distanced to write it without reliving it psychologically.

But the house we’re in now has its own orchestra, especially when the months turn warm. And on weekends, you’re almost guaranteed to hear gunshots intermingled with Croatians shouting and singing.

The first time I detected the gunfire, I was concerned. Guns? Why so close? And not just any guns—these shots sounded like they’d come from cannons. We found out from a next-door neighbor that there’s a sportsman’s club on the opposing hill, pretty much right across from our own hill—as the crow flies, probably about a half mile away. And apparently, it’s quite a popular place. The weeks leading up to deer season were so peppered with not-so-distant shots that I felt like Scarlett O’Hara in Atlanta, awaiting the Yanks.

But ah, in summer, the whole soundscape gains a new layer of madness. Shortly after we’d noticed all the shooting, we spent an entire Sunday afternoon listening to a mysterious and invisible band play an odd, faraway assortment of 80s pop and strange ethnic music, mixed with what sounded like the background of the pig roast in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” I could almost detect foreign instruments and words in the lyrics, and we were positively flummoxed.

Thank goodness for neighbors with a clue; the young man down the street was kind enough, as we strolled by one evening, to inform us that in addition to the sportsman's club with firing range, there is also a Croatian club on the hill opposite us. Apparently, the two organizations are not related, simply juxtaposed to each other and to our little neighborhood across the way… but you wouldn’t know they are separate entities merely from listening, especially on a warm, sunny weekend when the Croatians are living it up and the sportsmen are shooting every spare round they can load. The shots, the unfamiliar whining music and loud voices, each floats across the low road, joins together, and drifts up through the trees as one weird soundtrack.

And that is the auditory essence of a summer weekend here on my back patio. Croatians, with guns, belting out lusty tunes as they take potshots at each other like a bunch of Slavs from feuding families. Or at least that’s what I picture when I hear the disturbing yet amusing melody.

On being out of touch

I’m a mite sad to tell you that I have no idea who won what at the Oscars—but just a mite. In fact, I think they’re still on. Aren’t they? It’s 11:15 on Sunday evening, and if memory serves me, those silly awards will be handed out for some time yet. But I don’t know for certain, and I flatly refuse to turn on the television and find out. You see, this is just one more area of my life that I’ve pretty much abandoned without looking back.

I looked back for awhile, peered over my shoulder wondering what I was missing, especially when I lost books. Books were big to me for so many years—I mean, I taught English for cryin’ out loud. Books were huge. They shaped me, they entertained me, they spoke to me and were real to me. Now? Not. I just can’t care about them like I used to. Even when I get a chance to read, it’s not the same. I noticed some years back that I was losing my taste for fictional characters, and now I find that I simply have no patience with them. They’re not real. I can no longer justify the time and energy spent on these people. Only the most convincing, human characters can hold me now. I suppose that increasing demands on your time make you more selective about how you spend it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Giving up TV was no biggie—I pretty much gave it up in college, and lost nothing. But even recently, I used to at least watch the news. Now? It’s too depressing. It makes me wonder what I was thinking, bringing a little person into this world. So, I don’t watch the news anymore. I’m lucky to catch the weather in the mornings, and maybe we turn on world news once a week or so, which I then promptly forget to watch because I end up reading stories or talking to someone. I can still scan headlines online, and filter out the stupid, shallow stories, and the ones that fill me with sadness, make me feel heavy and sullen; foxnews.com and NPR will serve me well enough in this period of my life.

I do miss music and movies. Especially music. I used to make it a point to stay on top of new artists, and tours, and who had gone solo, and who had flopped. I used to know what young people were listening to, because I used to listen to it, too. Now, I turn on the “hip” stations and I don’t recognize a single voice. They all sound the same, young and undeveloped, like they’re trying too hard. The same way, I’m sure, that all my favorite childhood bands sounded to my parents. Now I’ve become that person who thinks the music of her youth was superior. I even heard a song from my high school years on the “oldies” station the other day. Now THAT’S a downer. That makes me want to leave the radio off.

Movies, too—once upon a time, I had a clue. I knew who was starring in the box office hits, I knew who was nominated, I’d even seen a few of the well-known titles. I read reviews, I was at least familiar with some of the odd films that were only shown in one local theater, I even knew some of the good foreign films coming down the pike. Nowadays, I don’t have any idea what’s playing. The last film I saw was at Christmas time with a girlfriend (Charlie Wilson’s War) and it was good, but I don’t want to talk about it and think about it and see it again. Before that? I can’t even tell you the last time I was in a movie theater. And rentals? Todd and I are usually catching up on things the whole world already viewed last year. Our last big hit here? The Fox and the Hound, of course. (Marcus adored it, and was only a little bit frightened by the bear at the end.)

I guess it’s all part of the bubble effect of being a stay-at-home-mom and a parent in general. I’m pretty content to leave out the bad stuff, so the news is no loss. And honestly, I’ve always been a person absolutely grounded in reality, and that aspect of my personality seems to have become even more dominant, thus eliminating the need—and desire—to fill my brain with too much mental jewelry. Every day, I care less and less that I know less and less about this stuff. Because honestly, is any of it important? It doesn’t really matter whether I know who sings that song, or who won that Oscar for which movie, or which book Oprah’s pushing and what it's about, or whether Britney remembered to put on panties last night, or whether Jen is still bitter toward Angie, or whether the Police are coming to Pittsburgh on their reunion tour… Well, okay, that one is bothering me a little. Man, I’d really like to see the Police and Elvis Costello. Sigh.

But truly, I’m feeling more peaceful every day about my cultural cluelessness. BTW, can one of you call me if something really important happens?

Oh, Turn It Off (I mean, Oh, Tannenbaum)

Okay, I need to blow off a little steam. Please bear with me. (The pic? The Star Wars Christmas Album. Stoooo-pid.)

One of the Pittsburgh radio stations has begun to play Christmas music. Already! Thanksgiving has not yet arrived, and still I turned on the radio in the car (yes, people, I listen to the radio, not an iPod or XM Satellite radio or any other odd, mutated form of music-related entertainment) and, lo and behold, Christmas music blasted out at me.

And it was terrible music. Terrible. It was the worst Christmas carol ever, as voted by the hubby and me in past years: It was Gloria Estefan’s version of “Let It Snow.” If you haven’t had the displeasure of hearing it for yourself, say a quick prayer that you are spared such punishment forevermore. Another possibility is that you may have heard it and simply not recognized it as that particular little ditty, because it is so very awful and corrupted from the original that it could easily be mistaken for a new and horrible song instead of the horrible remake that it is.

I don’t mind that Christmas carol, nor do I mind most of them. Honestly, I really like quite a few of them. It’s the gut-wrenchingly bad renditions of them that hurt me. Whatever moved Gloria to participate in such an attempt? Blaring horns, escalating to loud, honking musical peaks, strangely discordant vocals instead of blissful harmonies… It’s just the worst. Although, in fairness, I was never a big Gloria E. fan…

I suppose it’s kind of mean to harangue Gloria for her Christmas song. Why would I pinpoint her? There are so, so many bad Christmas songs to choose from. And while they’re not all bad, gosh darn there are SO MANY of them. And how many of these recording artists have ever uttered the name Jesus except to snarl curse words at someone? I’d surely like to know.

I did a quick search on Amazon and found quite an eclectic mix of Christmas albums to choose from. You could be crooning along about the Savior with any of the following: Andy Williams (of course), Amy Grant (of course), Jethro Tull (huh? the flutist rocker?), Jessica Simpson (the cover of this one makes you wonder what Jess has on her mind for Christmas), Nana Mouskouri (remember her? the lady with the glasses?), Raffi (who is this guy? Should I know?), Burl Ives (a given), Ella Fitzgerald, Gladys Knight (nothing bad to say about these ladies), Michael Bolton (cornball), Al Green (I’d like to hear this one), Billy Idol (yep, THAT Billy Idol), Beach Boys, Jackson 5, Air Supply, Tiny Tim, Twisted Sister, and so on, and so on. Moody Blues and Jethro Tull got creative and penned mostly new songs for their efforts, but I’m not even sure whether that’s a good idea… I mean, how many really good, fairly recent Christmas songs can you think of? One? Two? Five at most. It’s a tricky business, writing new carols.

Anyway, don’t take my word for it; check it out for yourself and see what absurdities await you in the land of Christmas listening. And be warned—I’ll be working on my own Christmas album for release soon. If I miss this year, I can always shoot for next Halloween, since that’s likely when they’ll begin spinning the Christmas tunes. I’ll call it “Mel Gives You the Christmas Blues.”

(Get it? A little double entendre there? I can sing the blues for you, and I can also give you the blues by my singing them…?) Okay, then. See you around.

A musical feast—with a side dish of annoyance

Today the kid and I had a lovely opportunity to go hear a live musician who was performing an abbreviated set for little children, in support of his upcoming family album. A local radio station that we support was the sponsor and host, so I pre-registered, we waited with anticipation, and this morning we got ourselves together and drove there.

The performer, Ellis Paul (www.ellispaul.com), was a lively, gifted and patient entertainer who also happens to be a parent. That’s good, since performing for a group of 30-something preschoolers can be rather challenging. He did a fabulous job, sang some old Woody Guthrie tunes, some other popular kid tunes, and he did it all with just an acoustic guitar, a microphone, and an impressive ability to stay focused and tuneful in the face of madness.

And it did become a tad mad. The session was 45 minutes long. That was probably a bit too long for a number of the children gathered there. I must praise my own little guy; he was fully attentive for about 38 minutes, clapping, bobbing his head, really listening and looking at the guy and enjoying himself. Even when he started to fade during the last song or two, I was honestly right there with him—and our distraction was entirely due to the madness. We both have some anxiety issues when the noise and confusion levels are high, especially when there are numerous rowdy strangers around—which was the case.

Where is this going? Well, I just want to sing out loudly in favor of controlling your children. The radio station, God bless ‘em for trying this, asked in the registration confirmation that we bring only a blanket and our best listening skills. Okay—do good listening skills include jumping up and down on a nearby stage to hear the loud thump that the hollow floor makes? Is good listening illustrated by crawling around on the floor, standing, falling forward, nearly hitting a tiny girl in her mom’s lap, all the while growling loudly? Does good listening translate as running through the throngs of people who are seated on the floor, trying to see the singer and listen to his music? And let me make it clear that all this was happening while the poor fellow sang and strummed. I’m not talking about kids dancing; that happened too, and we were all delighted by it. Dancing to the music was not the issue.

I don’t want to be ridiculous in my expectations, because it WAS a roomful of kids under the age of 6. And yet, can’t we begin to set realistic expectations for behavior by controlling, and if necessary removing, the kids who are becoming bored and restless? When an audience member becomes louder than the performer, perhaps that’s a clue that the member in question is no longer interested and might prefer to be elsewhere. Perhaps he or she should be taken out of the situation, thus sending the message that such behavior is inappropriate in that setting and won’t be tolerated. Doesn’t the performer deserve that respect?

Then again, why would kids be any different from adults? I’ve attended countless public events, indoor and outdoor, at which I was appalled by the behavior of the audience regardless of its average age. And if the event is free of charge, as was today’s event…? Oh, my—those are, sadly, the worst examples of human behavior. Rudeness rules at free events. And that’s a shame—because for some attendees, free events are their only options.

Anyway. Am I being silly? Should I just relax and let kids be kids, as I’m so often told? And when does that adage become a hackneyed excuse for poorly behaved children? Let me know where you stand on this. Seriously.

And seriously, thank you thank you thank you to WYEP (www.wyep.org) for holding just such an event. Many more, please! Maybe you can rope off a holding pen for the more rambunctious fans next time…? Or not.