Sleeping with Bread Monday: Traffic Time and Reading Time

For more about Sleeping with Bread go here.
What was the least relaxing thing I did last week?

I sat in Friday rush hour traffic needing to pee (pardon my bluntness). If you've been reading my posts for any time at all, you've probably picked up on my I-hate-to-drive-in-traffic theme. Normally XM radio keeps me sufficiently distracted from my annoyance at sitting in traffic, but Friday I was getting a lot of static so my major form of driving entertainment was not so entertaining. I'd already had a lot of coffee during my all day meeting so decided to forgo my usual coffee pacifier for the trip home. Of course, all that coffee meant I had to pee about 9 miles into my 31 mile trip home. I had been in the car for about an hour (yes, it took an hour to drive 9 miles), so this wasn't completely unexpected. I wasn't thrilled with the prospect of making my way across 4 lanes of stop and go traffic in order to exit the freeway in the hopes of finding someplace with a public restroom -- so I held it. Not so relaxing.

What was the most relaxing thing I did last week?

I spent the weekend with my husband and books, books, books. We went out for dinner Friday and then over to the bookstore to browse. I rarely browse bookstores without walking out the door with a purchase. Friday's purchase was "A Thread of Grace" by Mary Doria Russell. I'd previously read her other two books "The Sparrow" and "Children of God" and enjoyed both, so am eager to read this newest of her books. Saturday and Sunday were both spent reading. I took my current read, "Rider at the Gate" by C.J. Cherryh, over to Diedrich's Coffee on Sunday and sat outside alternately reading and staring off into space thinking. Very, very relaxing.

News Break from BREAKING NEWS

Seems like everything is BREAKING NEWS on some 24 hour news channels these days. It used to be if you heard the NEWS ALERT gong come from the TV it meant that something important just happened. Like someone just launched missiles at someone else. Now it seems that the gong goes off every 15 minutes or so and if you are gullible enough to run into the other room to see what is happening, your efforts are rewarded with something like "BREAKING NEWS: THE PRESIDENT IS AT THE WHITE HOUSE"!! Gee, really? The only thing that beats the hyperactive NEWS ALERT gong is the number of car chases that pre-empt scheduled programming in Southern California.

Then there are the FAIR AND BALANCED hostility sessions. I'm all for fair and balanced reporting. But it seems to me that the 24 hour news format for presenting conflicting sides of an issue rarely works and often degenerates into an on-air screaming match between said sides. If I wanted to watch Jerry Springer I wouldn't be tuned in to the news. I guess I have higher expectations from the news channels that are supposed to be bringing us news.

Of course, since the advent of 24 hour news there is an expectation that there will be news. So what's a station to do if there is no new news? Well, you rehash the same story about 5,000 different ways until you get a DEVELOPING STORY. Then you hit the NEWS ALERT gong and let everyone know that there is a DEVELOPING STORY. A DEVELOPING STORY is one in which "nothing has really happened yet, but ... might at any moment, and ... we'll be there if it does." This is the news equivalent of waiting for your elderly dog to finish his business ... nothing really happening, but it might.

So I've turned it off. I'm taking a BREAKING NEWS break. It may even be permanent. I still think it's important to be aware of what is happening in the world around me, so I've found a new ... well, actually a rather old ... way to get my news. It's called the newspaper. Ah, the smell of ink and paper in the morning. Anyway, I figure that if something REALLY BIG happens it will appear on the front page of the paper AND in the local news AND on the radio. Heck, everyone at work will probably be talking about it, so I'm sure I won't get left out.

Now where did that cartoon section go ...

The Blonde ...

Photo of the blonde courtesy of Rockit Music
OR ... I Married a Musician ... OR ... Mr. Distortion Goes to Hollywood. I'm not sure what to name this post, so let me explain. I married a musician who is referred to in some circles as Mr. Distortion and often takes his "blonde" to Hollywood. There.

I occasionally go with Mr. Distortion when he plays the clubs. The music generates a lot of excitement and much activity around the band afterward, so I generally mingle for awhile and chat with those who came to see the show. Eventually, I join Mr. Distortion and am introduced to whoever he is talking to at the moment. There is invariably one female in this post-show group who gushes at me "how COOL to be married to the guitar player"! I can only imagine what this starry-eyed soul is thinking. Perhaps, in her euphoric music-induced state, she imagines I get serenaded with love ballads on a nightly basis or that I am the inspiration for scores of original songs. How romantic. And of course there are the Lear jets, large sums of cash, and constant flow of backstage passes to any number of big name concerts. Uh-huh.

Oh to live in the imagination of that one. Well, here's a peek at what being "married to the guitar player" REALLY looks like...

AT HOME WITH MR. DISTORTION
In our home, TV viewing is a chance to practice guitar by plinking on an unplugged electric -- after all, it isn't plugged in so how distracting can it be? Music coming from the stereo is an immediate signal to pick up the nearest guitar and practice, either plugged or unplugged, by playing along with whatever is on said stereo. (I might add here that I'm not sure what my husband looks like without a guitar.) And forget the love ballads. At home I rarely ever hear anything that even sounds like a song. Guitar practice means that you only hear the guitar parts.

ABOUT TOWN WITH MR. DISTORTION
Musicians' hours are very nocturnal and events in Hollywood start at about 11pm, so one can expect to get home around 3am. Since I'm "married to the guitar player," it is generally in my best interests to transform from wife to roadie 'round about 2am. I'm sure this is one of the glamorous parts the above mentioned female was thinking about. Cough. Now about that transportation ... the ride to and from gigs may sound like a Lear jet, but it definitely looks like a rusty car. (Tip to aspirings: It is better to drive the clunker into Hollywood for late night gigs since the vandalism won't be as annoying.) And the large sums of cash? Let's just say Mr. Distortion has a day job.

That is the reality ... but here is what I think IS cool about being "married to the guitar player." It is exciting to watch my husband do something he absolutely LOVES, to hear the previously disconnected parts turn into an amazing whole, and to experience the energy that his playing generates. I see the reality, but others see and hear the magic. I guess it is cool being married to the guitar player after all.

Some cool local musicians to check out:
Mike Barnet
The Neighborhood Bullys
The Eugene Edwards Band
The Vaquetones

Remembering 9/11

This is a piece I posted in June on my other blog, Mimorian. I wrote this after seeing United 93 and thought it would be appropriate to post here as a 9/11 remembrance, albeit a day late.

Many of us remember exactly where we were and precisely what we were doing when the reports started hitting the news, though I have talked to a few that do not. I remember those moments and I'm struck by the irony of the situation in which I found myself that day. You see, my father was in the critical care unit after having quadruple bypass surgery. I arrived at the hospital on 9/11 around 6am Arizona time, 9am New York time. As I walked into the CCU I noted that the only sounds were the click of respirators, IV machines ... and the sound of many televisions all tuned to the same news channel. Every television in the unit was on, even those in rooms with unconcious patients and no visitors. Doctors and nurses were going about their duties caring for the critically ill while watching the unfolding horror. We were all stunned by the apparent accident at Tower #1. A second plane tunneled into the remaining Tower as a nurse tended to Dad's multiple lifesaving tubes. This was no accident.

When the second plane hit, I remember a word appearing, almost visually, in capital letters across my brain ... INTENTIONAL. That one word stayed right with me for a moment that seemed timeless. I don't know how long I stood there staring and not really seeing or hearing anything more than INTENTIONAL. I pulled back to reality as an alarm went off in another CCU room signaling a life-threatening crisis. Doctors and nurses ran. There was frantic activity to save the life of the one in distress. I stepped out of my Dad's room and took a good look at the men and women working the CCU. I looked back at the television screen showing the death and destruction wrought by a few upon many, but my eyes and ears and entire being were drawn to the many near me that were working hard to save the lives of a few. I can't get that juxtaposed image out of my mind ... nor do I want to. That image keeps me from a bitterness and pessimism that could so easily take over. No matter how dark the world may be sometimes, this image I carry with me is a reminder of a light and goodness that just can't be extinguished.

Dance of the Dragonfly

A bug made me smile today. Yes, as in creepy crawly critter. Well, this one doesn't creep and crawl ... it flies. I was in my car waiting at a red light and listening to a melodic little song called "Forever Is Just a Word in a Lovesong" by Tobias Froberg. Suddenly, a dragonfly dropped into view and hovered on the other side of the windshield looking in at me. Then the little beauty took off and danced around the car, dipping and swirling to "Forever...." This little performance was what made me smile.

The only other bug that has ever made me smile is the firefly. Some call these critters lightning bugs. I think firefly sounds more magical. I remember chasing fireflies on summer nights in Ohio. Ah, the joy we felt as we ran, laughing and squealing with delight, through the tall damp grass at dusk. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still smell that grass. I regret that we trapped them in jars and held them captive overnight. Most likely they didn't survive until morning. I can't remember. What I do remember is laying in the dark watching them blink away in the jar on my dresser. We moved to Arizona when I was six; a place without fireflies. My six year old curiosity soon turned to my new environment and I forgot all about the little blinkers. Then ... I took a trip to Tennessee a few years ago. Sometime around dusk I was out walking and saw a flash from the corner of my eye. By the time I looked, the light had disappeared. I thought one of the sidewalk lights had flickered. About a minute later I caught another burst of light but was unable to locate the source. I didn't have to wait long though for an explanation. Within moments the air was full of little winking lights. Fireflies! I stood, enchanted, and lost track of time as I watched them glitter all around me through the trees and grass. The original twinkle lights. Again, I smiled.

I'm still amazed that a couple of bugs can make me smile. What makes you smile?

Of Seasons and Marketing

This last week Kvetch, over at Kvetch Blog, wrote a piece called A Fond Adieu to the White Shoe and got me thinking about the seasons as a state of mind. As she puts it, seasons can be "meteorological or theoretical." For some, the seasons definitely tie in nicely with reality. For the rest of us? It's all in the head.

Having grown up in the deserts of Arizona and now living in Southern California, I have no reason to expect traditional seasonality. Here is what I SHOULD expect:

the not-hot-but-might-get-hot-any-minute-OR-might-rain season

the not-hot-and-probably-won't-get-hot-everything's-blooming-allergy season

the hot-hotter-than-hell-aren't-we-in-hell-smog-and-fire season

the hotter-than-hell-but-everyone-wants-to-pretend-it's-cool-and-crispy season

That's MY reality. If you need a translation, talk to an Angeleno.

OK, now that we've got Southern California seasonal expectations all sorted out, let's talk about marketing. Listen up you department store people. Do you really think we don't notice that the weather here rarely gets below 50 degrees fahrenheit?? What is with the bulky sweaters, three-layer look, and parkas rated for 30 below zero? A few stores that specialize in these cold weather items would be nice since some of us travel out of state or go to the mountains and play in the snow when it is available ... but ENTIRE MALLS FULL OF THIS STUFF??? We've got your number. You are $$banking$$ on our ancestral memories of actual seasons. And for those who don't have the ancestral-memory-thingy going on, there is always media reinforcement. Gorgeously photographed catalog depictions of laughing people wearing turtleneck sweaters as they frolic among multi-colored leaves and pumpkins. Or Scandinavian models hanging out in forests full of snow in their fur-trimmed snow boots and parkas. OR indoor shots of huggy couples in front of blazing fireplaces wearing heavy flannel, wool booties, and holding steaming mugs of, well ... something hot.

Since I don't live in any of the places depicted in these photographs, I'm lucky if I get to pull out some fall or winter wear for ... oh ... about a week before waking up one December morning to the radio telling me it will be a sunny 95 degrees out. If I was S-T-O-O-P-I-D enough to actually pack away my warm weather clothing, I will spend a frantic morning trying to find something to wear that won't send me into heat stroke the moment I walk out the front door.

Well, it is September ... and as I hear from friends that live in more traditionally seasoned areas of the country about the "nip in the air," I laugh while the Fall catalogs pour into my Southern California mailbox trying to tempt me into buying for the season. It is 103 degrees out. Can you hear me laughing?