Have you ever seen that Saturday Night Live digital short with Justin Timberlake, Andy Samberg, and Lady Gaga? I have no way to describe it other than saying it's hilarious. It's also the only thing that comes even remotely close to, "Two it's you, three it's me, and five it's gay..." the search string that someone used to find my blog. Yes. Really.
Now, for the record, for those of you who DON'T know me, the closest I've ever come to a three-way (let alone a five-way) is that SNL skit. Seriously. Because, although I went to Catholic school in Appalachia, I was raised so WASP that I actually once walked into the confessional and said, "Bless me father for I have sinned... and this is our family attorney, Ms. Bertling." Anyway, regardless of the reason, upbringing or education, I got the message. Group sex was off-limits. My hippie brother, however, did not. In fact, he subscribed to the Woody Allen school of thought, "Sex between two people is a beautiful thing — between five, it's fantastic." And, though he swears it never happened, when we were in college, I swear that I heard two women talking about it and him.
You see, we both went to Penn State, and during my freshman and his sophomore year, my "free-love" loving sibling lived at a commune. It wasn't a crazy religious one. It was just a bunch of like-minded, liberal students co-habitating in a socially conscious, co-operative way. My parents, to their credit, didn't like it, but they didn't stop him. After all, it was his life to live not theirs. That said, they didn't approve and when my sister needed directions to visit him, my mother said "Drive with your windows down. When you're overwhelmed by the stench of patchouli, turn left. If you don't see partially naked liberals within five minutes, you took a wrong turn."
At the risk of digressing too far, it should be said that my father was a Franklin Delano Roosevelt Democrat and my mother is a Teddy Roosevelt Republican. This is a woman who voted for Nixon... and admits it. I think she even believes that Nixon's only mistake was getting caught. But I digress. The point is that my brother not only lived there, he loved it. Too bad, my mother (though completely wrong about Watergate) was absolutely right about socialism, "It's a great hobby. It's just doesn't pay the bills." And so, when it was time to grow up, he did... kind of. Personally, I think he still subscribes to the Peter Pan philosophy that "Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is optional." It's why I will always adore him... As to whether or not I'm right about the group sex thing when he was at PSU, I can't say. It's been over two decades and when I brought it up, all he said was, "After twenty years, people are more disappointed by the things they didn't do than by the ones they did." Either way, that's the closest I've ever come to, "two it's you, three it's me, and five it's gay." Happy New Year!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Single Woman Seeks...
Happy New Years! I have good news and bad. The good news is that, thanks to your wonderful comments, mkromd just made a $30 donation to Heifer International to purchase honey bees for a village in South America. Why? To quote the Bee Movie, "Bees have never afraid to change the world. Look at Bee-Jesus." Now for the bad news.
One of my closest friends (the one about whom I wrote, "St. Valentine's Day Massacre... Take Two") asked me to look at her online dating profile and give feedback. And not just because I know her pretty well, but because I love her dearly and genuinely want her to be happy. That said, given that she would never use my edits (and I no longer work for her), I'm posting them here. Sorry KJ. This time it's better to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission.
Without further ado, here's what I would write if I were her:
"Single woman seeks... what? A much-needed vacation? A well-deserved raise? A spa day? A good dinner and a bad joke? YES... YES... YES... and YES. But I'm also looking for someone to share those moments with... other than gay men and straight women. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends. I'm just not IN LOVE with them. So who?
I could write that I want someone warm, fun-loving, and loyal; however, if I wanted that - I'd get a dog. I want someone who is himself. Actually, scratch that. I want someone who is himself and doesn't care that I want to be myself.... and not just because Oscar Wilde is right, "everyone else is already taken," but because I'm a genuinely interesting person. I'm well-read, well-educated (CPA), and well-traveled (I've visited and/or worked on six continents). I'm also a work-a-holic. At thirty-six, I'm an IT Communications Manager at a Fortune 100 company. And, while I'm extremely proud of my professional accomplishments, I'm tired of being married to my job. Not that I want to be married to anything else, but I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. You know?
With that, here's what I don't want. Marathoners... mean people... mean marathoners. In other words, serious athletes need not apply. I feel about runners the way homophobes feel about gay men. I don't care if you work out, I just don't want to see you do it in public. Seriously, if I was interested in seeing someone put Vaseline on their thighs or pant, sweat, and grab their calf muscles, I'd be sleeping with them - not working out with them. Don't get me wrong, I like hiking and scuba diving. I don't even mind biking around town. I just hate gyms. All the tight pants and muscle shirts make me feel like I'm at Studio 54, except there's no Village People or alcohol - the two things that actually make tight pants and muscle shirts almost bearable. What else?
Assholes, cheaters, and perverts need not apply either, especially twisted polygamists who act like dickheads. Seriously - to the fetish crowd... to quote my dear friend, mkromd, "There's a fine line between 'trust me baby you're gonna dig it' and 'wow, I fucking hate you. You should leave now." And I refuse to cross it. Because if we can't make eye contact, how can we have a relationship? I'm not saying I'm not into things, I am. I grew up in Nebraska, so I'm very into college football. I also love baseball and tennis. I'm just not into things that require me to sign a medical waiver or consent form. Other than that...
Yes, I'm attractive, and no -I don't want a knight in shining armor to rescue me or sweep me off my feet. I like them being firmly planted on the ground and I can take care of myself. I'd just like some good company while I'm doing it."
At any rate, that's what I would write if I were her. Talk to you next week and thanks again for all of the wonderful comments. Go Heifer Go.
One of my closest friends (the one about whom I wrote, "St. Valentine's Day Massacre... Take Two") asked me to look at her online dating profile and give feedback. And not just because I know her pretty well, but because I love her dearly and genuinely want her to be happy. That said, given that she would never use my edits (and I no longer work for her), I'm posting them here. Sorry KJ. This time it's better to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission.
Without further ado, here's what I would write if I were her:
"Single woman seeks... what? A much-needed vacation? A well-deserved raise? A spa day? A good dinner and a bad joke? YES... YES... YES... and YES. But I'm also looking for someone to share those moments with... other than gay men and straight women. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends. I'm just not IN LOVE with them. So who?
I could write that I want someone warm, fun-loving, and loyal; however, if I wanted that - I'd get a dog. I want someone who is himself. Actually, scratch that. I want someone who is himself and doesn't care that I want to be myself.... and not just because Oscar Wilde is right, "everyone else is already taken," but because I'm a genuinely interesting person. I'm well-read, well-educated (CPA), and well-traveled (I've visited and/or worked on six continents). I'm also a work-a-holic. At thirty-six, I'm an IT Communications Manager at a Fortune 100 company. And, while I'm extremely proud of my professional accomplishments, I'm tired of being married to my job. Not that I want to be married to anything else, but I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. You know?
With that, here's what I don't want. Marathoners... mean people... mean marathoners. In other words, serious athletes need not apply. I feel about runners the way homophobes feel about gay men. I don't care if you work out, I just don't want to see you do it in public. Seriously, if I was interested in seeing someone put Vaseline on their thighs or pant, sweat, and grab their calf muscles, I'd be sleeping with them - not working out with them. Don't get me wrong, I like hiking and scuba diving. I don't even mind biking around town. I just hate gyms. All the tight pants and muscle shirts make me feel like I'm at Studio 54, except there's no Village People or alcohol - the two things that actually make tight pants and muscle shirts almost bearable. What else?
Assholes, cheaters, and perverts need not apply either, especially twisted polygamists who act like dickheads. Seriously - to the fetish crowd... to quote my dear friend, mkromd, "There's a fine line between 'trust me baby you're gonna dig it' and 'wow, I fucking hate you. You should leave now." And I refuse to cross it. Because if we can't make eye contact, how can we have a relationship? I'm not saying I'm not into things, I am. I grew up in Nebraska, so I'm very into college football. I also love baseball and tennis. I'm just not into things that require me to sign a medical waiver or consent form. Other than that...
Yes, I'm attractive, and no -I don't want a knight in shining armor to rescue me or sweep me off my feet. I like them being firmly planted on the ground and I can take care of myself. I'd just like some good company while I'm doing it."
At any rate, that's what I would write if I were her. Talk to you next week and thanks again for all of the wonderful comments. Go Heifer Go.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas is coming. My ass is getting fat. Please put some money in my Kate Spade bag!
Actually, it's not for me. It's for Nathan Bransford's annual Hooray for Heifer drive, where he sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Here’s the deal, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should REALLY do this! For each comment that you post below (until the first week of January 2012), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf (up to $50 total). This is the third year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post, "tap tap tap... is this thing on?" As dysfunctional as it is, it's the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.
With that, happy holidays.
*********
Just when I thought no one was paying attention because the Indonesian Blog, kewtawa lucu, is kicking my ass, someone sent me a note me about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma). And... for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.
That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.
You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.
So there I was... walking around... outside... in India... without shoes on... when I stepped in bird poop.
If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot RIGHT in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry – I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”
Now, if you know anything about Islam, then you probably know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it… EVER!
2. Never show a Muslim the bottom of your feet. It’s like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things is offensive.
4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.
I now know that too…
That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself - which naturally resulted in a MASSIVE tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally JAUNTED (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.
Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.
Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? OMG… ME EITHER!
But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage, and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs… for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in NO parallel universe would those have worked - even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.
So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.
I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.
After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor... engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”
To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).
Have a great holiday! Talk to you next week.
With that, happy holidays.
*********
Just when I thought no one was paying attention because the Indonesian Blog, kewtawa lucu, is kicking my ass, someone sent me a note me about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma). And... for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.
That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.
You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.
So there I was... walking around... outside... in India... without shoes on... when I stepped in bird poop.
If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot RIGHT in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry – I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”
Now, if you know anything about Islam, then you probably know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it… EVER!
2. Never show a Muslim the bottom of your feet. It’s like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things is offensive.
4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.
I now know that too…
That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself - which naturally resulted in a MASSIVE tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally JAUNTED (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.
Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.
Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? OMG… ME EITHER!
But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage, and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs… for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in NO parallel universe would those have worked - even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.
So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.
I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.
After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor... engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”
To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).
Have a great holiday! Talk to you next week.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Panama!
If you have no idea who Van Halen or who David Lee Roth is, this post won't make any sense to you at all, and I apologize in advance. That said - it might not make sense to you even if you do know, and I’m sorry for that, too. Either way, disclaimer disclaimed, our story begins...
Last week, two Van Halen related things happened to me. One, according to Blogger's analytics, we have a reader in Panama (the southernmost country of Central America, not the song "Panama Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah PANAMA"). And two, I discovered that a friend of mine's ring tone is "Just a Gigolo." In other words, every time you call it, you hear "HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Yes. Really.
Now, at the risk of blaming the victim, you can't have a mobile which does that and not expect me to exploit you for my own personal delight. Because, let's be honest, you may think you know how funny it is to see a grown man's pants burst into, "Just a Gigolo," but you don't. In fact, the only thing funnier than that is going into multiple conference rooms and calling him from different telephone numbers …over… and over…. and over… so he doesn't know whether to take the call or not. Sadly though, after the fourth or fifth call, he put it on vibrate and stole my joy, which forced me send the following text, "whoa oh oh mkromd's crying." To which this friend of over a decade wittily replied, "I KNEW it was you. I’m going to “Finish What You Started,” an obscure reference to a song from the album OU812.
Please know that when you throw down a ‘battle of the band’ gauntlet, I will pick it up like a middle-aged, wanna-be music nerd. Below is a copy of the threaded conversation that immediately ensued.
me: REALLY?
him: That’s right. “You Really got Me,” but I “Won't get Fooled Again!”
me: Nicely played. Points awarded. But it’s GO time. You and me… in the parking lot… NOW. When you wake up in a week, you’ll be humming “Outside Woman Blues.”
him: Oh, hell no, “Poundcake.” That “Dream is Over!”
me: That’s right. One song for you, “Black and Blue.”
him: But we’re friends. “Why can’t this be Love?”
me: Cause, I “Ain't talkin' 'bout Love.” I’m talkin’ ‘bout, “Somebody Get U a Doctor.”
him: LOL! How ‘bout lunch? “Everybody wants some. I want some, too.”
me: TOTALLY! I’ll be at your desk in two minutes.
Then, on the way to his cubicle, I called his cell phone one last time and heard, “HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Thank God some things never change.
Last week, two Van Halen related things happened to me. One, according to Blogger's analytics, we have a reader in Panama (the southernmost country of Central America, not the song "Panama Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah PANAMA"). And two, I discovered that a friend of mine's ring tone is "Just a Gigolo." In other words, every time you call it, you hear "HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Yes. Really.
Now, at the risk of blaming the victim, you can't have a mobile which does that and not expect me to exploit you for my own personal delight. Because, let's be honest, you may think you know how funny it is to see a grown man's pants burst into, "Just a Gigolo," but you don't. In fact, the only thing funnier than that is going into multiple conference rooms and calling him from different telephone numbers …over… and over…. and over… so he doesn't know whether to take the call or not. Sadly though, after the fourth or fifth call, he put it on vibrate and stole my joy, which forced me send the following text, "whoa oh oh mkromd's crying." To which this friend of over a decade wittily replied, "I KNEW it was you. I’m going to “Finish What You Started,” an obscure reference to a song from the album OU812.
Please know that when you throw down a ‘battle of the band’ gauntlet, I will pick it up like a middle-aged, wanna-be music nerd. Below is a copy of the threaded conversation that immediately ensued.
me: REALLY?
him: That’s right. “You Really got Me,” but I “Won't get Fooled Again!”
me: Nicely played. Points awarded. But it’s GO time. You and me… in the parking lot… NOW. When you wake up in a week, you’ll be humming “Outside Woman Blues.”
him: Oh, hell no, “Poundcake.” That “Dream is Over!”
me: That’s right. One song for you, “Black and Blue.”
him: But we’re friends. “Why can’t this be Love?”
me: Cause, I “Ain't talkin' 'bout Love.” I’m talkin’ ‘bout, “Somebody Get U a Doctor.”
him: LOL! How ‘bout lunch? “Everybody wants some. I want some, too.”
me: TOTALLY! I’ll be at your desk in two minutes.
Then, on the way to his cubicle, I called his cell phone one last time and heard, “HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Thank God some things never change.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
To quote Mofro, “I believe in everything.”
When asked what the song means, JJ Grey said, “Since believing in nothing is too vast, you really only have one other option - to believe that anything is possible. That way, you don't waste time wondering. You go right to acceptance.” Anyway, for some reason, the second I heard that, I was instantly reminded of Steve Jobs, whose last words were, “OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.” (As opposed to mine, which will probably be, "Oh shit, really??? I KNEW it!”). But I digress. Whatever the reason, since Apple's founder died, I wanted to write something eloquent about how utterly amazing he was and how much he inspired the world. However, I’m not that talented. And so, with that, I defer to his sister, a real writer, who did his eulogy...
"I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying.
Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day. That’s incredibly simple, but true. He was the opposite of absent-minded. He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying, maybe I didn’t have to be.
When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting president. Steve hadn’t been invited. He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day.
Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was.
For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably enough black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church.
He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age.
His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something like this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.” Steve always aspired to make beautiful later.
He was willing to be misunderstood.
Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his same black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly inventing the platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program for the World Wide Web.
Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love. Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried about the romantic lives of the people working with him. Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out, “Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?”
I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her.”
When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored. None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene of Reed and Steve slow dancing. His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.
Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him. Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With just the right, recently snipped, herb.
Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d be standing there in his jeans. When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered, “Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?”
When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene, Erin and Eve all went wiccan.
They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.
This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best bike there. And he did.
Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning. Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.
Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?
He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase.
With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.
He treasured happiness.
Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.
Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.
Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away.
I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther. Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes. “You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.
He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man.
I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.
Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham. One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially. I told him: Steve, this is special treatment. He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”
Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake itself on his face. For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to. By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice.
None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding.
We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.
I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us.
What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died. Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us. He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.” “I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.” When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze. Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple. Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us. His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.
This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it.
He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was going to a better place. Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night. He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again. This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous journey, some steep path, altitude. He seemed to be climbing.
But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still more beautiful later. Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times. Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their shoulders past them. Steve’s final words were:
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW."
Rest in peace Mac Daddy, Steve Jobs. I hope the Grateful Dead were right about this life. May you wake up on the other side of this limited consciousness thinking, "What a long strange trip it's been."
"I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying.
Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day. That’s incredibly simple, but true. He was the opposite of absent-minded. He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying, maybe I didn’t have to be.
When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting president. Steve hadn’t been invited. He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day.
Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was.
For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably enough black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church.
He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age.
His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something like this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.” Steve always aspired to make beautiful later.
He was willing to be misunderstood.
Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his same black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly inventing the platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program for the World Wide Web.
Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love. Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried about the romantic lives of the people working with him. Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out, “Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?”
I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her.”
When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored. None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene of Reed and Steve slow dancing. His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.
Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him. Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With just the right, recently snipped, herb.
Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d be standing there in his jeans. When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered, “Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?”
When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene, Erin and Eve all went wiccan.
They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.
This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best bike there. And he did.
Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning. Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.
Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?
He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase.
With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.
He treasured happiness.
Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.
Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.
Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away.
I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther. Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes. “You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.
He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man.
I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.
Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham. One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially. I told him: Steve, this is special treatment. He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”
Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake itself on his face. For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to. By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice.
None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding.
We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.
I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us.
What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died. Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us. He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.” “I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.” When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze. Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple. Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us. His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.
This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it.
He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was going to a better place. Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night. He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again. This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous journey, some steep path, altitude. He seemed to be climbing.
But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still more beautiful later. Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times. Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their shoulders past them. Steve’s final words were:
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW."
Rest in peace Mac Daddy, Steve Jobs. I hope the Grateful Dead were right about this life. May you wake up on the other side of this limited consciousness thinking, "What a long strange trip it's been."
Thursday, October 27, 2011
You shall not pass!
W. C. Fields once said, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it." In other words, I didn't win the writing contest. Actually, scratch that. In the spirit of full disclosure, I epically failed it. Of the four judges who reviewed my submission, the kindest comment was, "The best part of your entry was your cover letter." And while I wanted to reply, "Be fruitful and multiple" (but not in those words), I went to a local cemetery instead and cried. Because, let's be honest, where else can you weep and no one thinks it's odd?
Now… at this part of the story, you need to know two things before we can continue. One, this cemetery is very old. And two, the part of it that I love the most is quite secluded. It has sprawling family plots with magnificent Oak trees and the occasional bench. The good news is that it’s the perfect place for a pity party. The bad news is that this perfect place is full of “loops.” In other words, the roads to these family plots all have semi-private circular driveways. Which normally isn’t a problem, unless you’re sitting in your car… crying… and a funeral party arrives… and blocks you in.
Yes. You read that correctly. I was sitting… in my car… crying… when a hearse and several limousines showed up and blocked the driveway’s entrance and exit. You see, when I pulled in, I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed the SIX FOOT HOLE IN THE GROUND that was immediately to the left of my car door. In fact, I hadn’t noticed much of anything until it was too late. At which point, approximately twenty-five people were standing there staring at me and wondering who the hell I was. And, while I don’t know the protocol for said event, I’m pretty sure what was going through my head wasn’t it:
At any rate, as I sat there, refusing to dignify my presence to strangers, simultaneously facing my mortality and my failure, I remembered Tolkien again. Only this time, I didn’t hear Gandalf. I heard Gimli, “Certainty of death, small chance of success... What are we waiting for?” I guess another writing contest, but who knows. When I told my mother that night, she only said, “Everyone fails, but not everyone keeps going. Make a choice.” I think I’m still deciding. Til then, talk to you later.
Now… at this part of the story, you need to know two things before we can continue. One, this cemetery is very old. And two, the part of it that I love the most is quite secluded. It has sprawling family plots with magnificent Oak trees and the occasional bench. The good news is that it’s the perfect place for a pity party. The bad news is that this perfect place is full of “loops.” In other words, the roads to these family plots all have semi-private circular driveways. Which normally isn’t a problem, unless you’re sitting in your car… crying… and a funeral party arrives… and blocks you in.
Yes. You read that correctly. I was sitting… in my car… crying… when a hearse and several limousines showed up and blocked the driveway’s entrance and exit. You see, when I pulled in, I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed the SIX FOOT HOLE IN THE GROUND that was immediately to the left of my car door. In fact, I hadn’t noticed much of anything until it was too late. At which point, approximately twenty-five people were standing there staring at me and wondering who the hell I was. And, while I don’t know the protocol for said event, I’m pretty sure what was going through my head wasn’t it:
- Silently join them and let them wonder if I was the deceased’s friend/mistress/illegitimate child.
- Stay in my car and let them wonder if I was the deceased’s friend/mistress/illegitimate child.
- Get out of my car and explain that I wasn’t the deceased’s friend/mistress/illegitimate child.
At any rate, as I sat there, refusing to dignify my presence to strangers, simultaneously facing my mortality and my failure, I remembered Tolkien again. Only this time, I didn’t hear Gandalf. I heard Gimli, “Certainty of death, small chance of success... What are we waiting for?” I guess another writing contest, but who knows. When I told my mother that night, she only said, “Everyone fails, but not everyone keeps going. Make a choice.” I think I’m still deciding. Til then, talk to you later.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Headbangers Ball... The Home Edition
Sorry I haven't written in a while. Over the last few weeks, I've had major Bronchitis and a mild concussion... and, believe it or not - the two are actually related. However, first things first. You may be wondering about this blog post's title and why a middle-aged woman knows anything about a Metal show on MTV. Well, to answer your question, it's because Headbangers Ball aired for the first time in 1987, when I was a sophomore in high school, and yes - I used to watch it. That said, as old as that makes me feel... and it does, it's not even the reason I believe I'm so utterly ancient right now. That honor goes to the fact that the infant on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album turned twenty this year. TWENTY.
In other words, I could almost legally buy my cassette tape a beer.
Yes, you read that correctly. I didn't download it from iTunes or even own it as a CD. I bought it in 1991 ON CASSETTE. At any rate, to mark this musical milestone, I pulled out my tape, dusted it off, then cranked it. And as I drove around town listening to Smells Like Teen Spirit, I remembered the first time I'd ever heard Nirvana and wondered how many hours of my life were spent copying their songs (and others) onto mixed tapes for friends (instead of studying for exams). Who knows? Maybe Frank Zappa was right. Maybe "You go to college to party. You go to a library for an education." But I digress. The point is that I miss making and getting mixed tapes.
Now... I realize that some of you have no idea what a cassette tape is let alone a mixed tape, but I honestly don't know how to explain the whole concept without loosely quoting John Cusack, "Making a good compilation tape is a subtle art with lots of do's and don'ts. Think of it like breaking up - it's hard to do and takes way longer than it might seem." Anyway, with Christmas right around the corner, I began wondering if I should get old-school this year and make a mixed tape for DB. And, if so, what should I put on it? That's when I had a blinding flash of brilliance. DB loves JJ Grey and Mofro. I could make a mixed tape of their songs and get tickets for us to see them in concert.
The good news is that it's a GREAT idea. The bad news is that the blinding flash I saw was actually ME giving MYSELF a concussion. Yup. I rounded a corner in our beautiful new home... sneezed... and smacked my forehead... on a wall. It's true, and as I lay on the floor, trying to focus, I didn't just hear ringing in my ears. I also heard JJ Grey's funk-filled backwoods wisdom in my head. Too bad the only thing that came to mind was his song, Dirt Floor Cracker.
Once DB got me off the floor and onto the couch, he turned on Palladia - a music television station for adults. Ironically enough, they were airing Back and Forth - a documentary about the Foo Fighters, which actually isn't that ironic if you know that the front man for the Foo used to be Nirvana's drummer. And while I knew that, I had no idea that their seventh (and best) album, Wasting Light, was recorded in Dave Grohl's garage using analog tape instead of digital technology.
That's right. I'm not the only one who misses mixed tapes. Dave Grohl does, too... and he's cool. As for the JJ Grey and Mofro concert, thank God they play blues instead of rock because clearly, at forty, the only headbanging I'm meant to do is at home against a load-bearing wall.
In other words, I could almost legally buy my cassette tape a beer.
Yes, you read that correctly. I didn't download it from iTunes or even own it as a CD. I bought it in 1991 ON CASSETTE. At any rate, to mark this musical milestone, I pulled out my tape, dusted it off, then cranked it. And as I drove around town listening to Smells Like Teen Spirit, I remembered the first time I'd ever heard Nirvana and wondered how many hours of my life were spent copying their songs (and others) onto mixed tapes for friends (instead of studying for exams). Who knows? Maybe Frank Zappa was right. Maybe "You go to college to party. You go to a library for an education." But I digress. The point is that I miss making and getting mixed tapes.
Now... I realize that some of you have no idea what a cassette tape is let alone a mixed tape, but I honestly don't know how to explain the whole concept without loosely quoting John Cusack, "Making a good compilation tape is a subtle art with lots of do's and don'ts. Think of it like breaking up - it's hard to do and takes way longer than it might seem." Anyway, with Christmas right around the corner, I began wondering if I should get old-school this year and make a mixed tape for DB. And, if so, what should I put on it? That's when I had a blinding flash of brilliance. DB loves JJ Grey and Mofro. I could make a mixed tape of their songs and get tickets for us to see them in concert.
The good news is that it's a GREAT idea. The bad news is that the blinding flash I saw was actually ME giving MYSELF a concussion. Yup. I rounded a corner in our beautiful new home... sneezed... and smacked my forehead... on a wall. It's true, and as I lay on the floor, trying to focus, I didn't just hear ringing in my ears. I also heard JJ Grey's funk-filled backwoods wisdom in my head. Too bad the only thing that came to mind was his song, Dirt Floor Cracker.
Once DB got me off the floor and onto the couch, he turned on Palladia - a music television station for adults. Ironically enough, they were airing Back and Forth - a documentary about the Foo Fighters, which actually isn't that ironic if you know that the front man for the Foo used to be Nirvana's drummer. And while I knew that, I had no idea that their seventh (and best) album, Wasting Light, was recorded in Dave Grohl's garage using analog tape instead of digital technology.
That's right. I'm not the only one who misses mixed tapes. Dave Grohl does, too... and he's cool. As for the JJ Grey and Mofro concert, thank God they play blues instead of rock because clearly, at forty, the only headbanging I'm meant to do is at home against a load-bearing wall.
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