I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers, and I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers More

Today's post is brought to you by two of my best friends-I've-never-met, Bill the Butcher and Allie Cat, who have no clue that they both gave me the same idea. Great minds, etc.

Sidebar: 

The phrase "Great minds think alike" - shortened above with the "etc." to show that I'm one of the Internet cool kids - is itself abbreviated from its original form, which is "Great minds think alike, though fools seldom differ." That happens to be a sentiment I love - "Agree with me, but not too much, because that's highly suspect and makes you seem weird and creepy." The longer saying is great relationship advice, the more common shorter version is how pundits on all points of the political spectrum manage to convince themselves they're relevant even though they're actually emotionally stunted, attention-starved bores.

See also: "Money is the root of all evil," which it's totally not and I'll prove it to you as soon as I have some.

Anyway, back to our post. Last week in this space I wrote about the mystery of the four-ounce Camembert cheese. To which Bill the Butcher - who claims to live in some place called "India," if you can believe that - commented "What is an 'ounce' in human-comprehensible units?"

How rude. Everyone knows that an ounce is the amount of weed that a cop will "confiscate as evidence" instead of just pouring it out on the ground in front of you. Or so I've heard. 

But it was 14.17 grams of oregano for my mom,
I swear, officer.

So then I saw a post from Allie Cat on Facebook, talking about how we Americans look stupid because we stubbornly refuse to adopt the metric system. STUPID? I take umbrage with that. When it comes to our decades-long resistance to adopting the measuring standards of the entire rest of the world, Americans may look willfully ignorant, uneducated, unenlightened, hidebound, parochial, narrow-minded, and obtuse. But we are not stupid.

Some of us are stupid for myriad other reasons.

And by the way, we don't completely eschew the use of the metric system. For instance, you can buy weed in either grams or ounces. In fact, the average stoner is fairly expert in converting metric to imperial measurements. Weed is magical that way. And America has been buying its cocaine and heroin in grams and kilos since before disco was a thing, which is a long time, children. 

The point is, if it's something important, of course Americans use the metric system.

But Allie and Bill did get me thinking of my own history with learning the metric system.  I was brought up in the Shiny Seventies, which means I was subjected to the U.S. government's sustained and hilarious attempts to indoctrinate American children into adopting the vernacular of meters, grams, and Celsiuseses. We were going to be the vanguard, the ones who would help the citizens before us and the citizens yet to come to shed the archaic shackles of acres and bushels and hogsheads and barleycorns. We would eat 30-centimeter hot dogs and wash them down with 1.18-liter malt liquors. For the good of America.

Looking back, it was one of the earliest examples of Baby Boomers expecting Gen X to do the heavy lifting for the rest of society. And in true Gen X fashion, our collective response was "lol wut."

If our parents had just gotten us one of these bikes
for Christmas, the world might be very different today.

But the government tried, it really did. It tried to be hip and with-it and speak to us kids in the language we best understood. Which was cartoons. Hey, they weren't wrong. The government wisely chose to emulate the framework of "Schoolhouse Rock," aka the only reason I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution and multiply by eight in my head.

We got off on our new math tricks,
and we liked it.

So throughout the 70s, my peers and I were shown various short animated films about the metric system. But instead of being broadcast on network television, like "Schoolhouse Rock," we watched these during school hours, on the giant TV rolled out on the magic cart. And instead of enjoying them over a bowl of Froot Loops on a Saturday morning, we were a captive audience that didn't get to go to recess until we had absorbed government-approved ditties about how the U.S. was going to lead the world by doing what the rest of it was already doing. So the metric system had a distinct disadvantage over, say, "Conjunction Junction," passive-learning-wise.

I found the two metric system videos I remember best on YouTube for your enjoyment. Now, I'm not gonna lie: On playing these clips, I found I was able to sing along with them, word for word, after 40+ years. To this day, the only reason I have any clue how long a meter is or what 25 degrees Celsius feels like is because these little jingles play in my head when I need to retrieve that knowledge. So on that level, they were quite successful.

On the other hand, after 40+ years the sum total of my knowledge of the metric system is that a gram is "the weight of a single raisin." And in the real world, the ability to quickly convert ounces to raisins is not as useful as you might imagine.

So instead of a raising a generation of metric-fluent adults, America created a generation of chronic  underachievers who can win at bar trivia as long as a significant portion of the questions involve the metric weight of dried fruit or the history of white Americans, set to music.

And that's why America still doesn't use the metric system. 

Here are the clips, in case you want to know what my inner soundtrack sounds like. You can thank Allie Cat and Bill the Butcher for the earworms.

Au Courant

Me, currently.

Reading: Elton John's memoir, Me. It's fabulous. I really feel Elton and I could be soulmates if I worked harder, had more talent, and weren't afraid to wear satin during the day. Other than that, we're like this:

But with, like, sequins and feathers
and stuff.

Watching: Fleabag on Amazon Prime. Amazing show. Great for exercising to. I love, love, love Andrew Scott. I have one more episode to watch, and don't you dare tell me what happens. I will go off on you like the Godmother.

Drinking: Diet Squirt. Does anybody drink Squirt? It's supposed to be a grapefruit-flavored soda. But I loathe grapefruit, yet I love Squirt. And I had to search high and low to find the diet version. I don't think it tastes like grapefruit at all. If you're a certain age, you may remember that 7Up used to be called "the un-cola." I think Squirt tastes like the un-7Up.

Digesting: A bowl of fettuccine with yummy homemade sausage-studded marinara that Drummer Boy and I made last weekend. But also pondering: Why the box the pasta came in (in which the pasta came...whatever) says "fettuccine" when it's clearly linguine? This is fettuccine:

And this is linguine:

And they are totally different. Get your act together, Market Pantry. Linguine rules, fettuccine drools.

Envying: Precocious Daughter, who earlier this week got to see a screening of Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood that was attended by Mike Moh, who played Bruce Lee in the movie. How great is that? I don't recall doing as many cool things in college as she does. When I was her age I was on the brink of getting engaged to my future ex-spouse. I thought that was pretty cool at the time. I really should have gone to more movie screenings.

Mourning: The end of Elizabeth Warren's candidacy. I was very, very late to jump on the Warren bandwagon. In fact, until I watched her on the debate stage over the last several weeks, I had never warmed to her at all. But I was so damn impressed with her positions, her intelligence, her poise. So I voted for her on Super Tuesday, and two days later she dropped out of the race. I am a political Grim Reaper, apparently. Hell, I voted for Michael Dukakis in 1988. That was also just before I got engaged to my then-future-former-husband-to-be. The 80s were a decade of bad choices, children.

Writing: This, and kicking myself for not writing more. I'd really like to get back to writing and blogging on a regular basis. Maybe even tilting at my personal windmill of having something accepted by McSweeney's. Bwahahahahaha. No, seriously, it could happen. I mean, Joe Biden is finally winning primaries after 30 years of trying. Anything could happen.

Believing: Elton John and I could sing "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" together wearing matching lime-green tuxedos.

Not currently. But you gotta start somewhere.

Farewell, Pete

You guys.

I've lost the love of my life.

I think Drummer Boy will be OK with me saying that. At least today.

Peter Tork - Monkee, musician, human being - has passed away.

I am beyond devastated, Drunkards.

Peter was a gifted multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter who found himself immortalized in a TV pop band. He got the part, or at least the audition, because he looked like Stephen Stills. This world is random and has a perverse sense of humor.

They're both gone.

In 2013, I was privileged to see Peter perform live at the Granada Theater in Dallas. I met him. He autographed my ticket.

He was the second best part of an amazing night.

The best part was sharing it with my dear friend BekS and my darling Drummer Boy.

They've both reached out to share our collective grief that this sweet, talented, gifted person has left us.

Peter was on my list - you know, that list of people your significant other knows and understands you would def sleep with if you had the chance. Hell, Peter basically was my list. Thing is, my ex-spouse was good with it, and Drummer Boy was good with it. Because...fucking Peter Tork. He was probably on their lists, as well. Peter was that kind of guy.

Oh, Peter. I'll forever remember your bassline on "Pleasant Valley Sunday" and your harpsichord on "The Girl That I Knew Somewhere" and your vocal on "Do I Have to Do This All Over Again." I'll remember your stellar solo work, most recently with Shoe Suede Blues.

And I'll forever remember meeting you and sharing a smile with you, and knowing that you were (or at least acted) as pleased to be seated next to me as I was to be seated next to you.

Rest in peace, sweet Peter. I hope you recognized a bare fraction of the love you made while you were here.

I miss you already.

Nirvana vs. Hendrix: Radio's Battle to Win GenX

At 12:30 p.m. on Thursday, October 25, 2018, my local classic rock radio station played a Nirvana song.

Pay attention, Dave. This is significant.

I'd been wondering if classic rock radio would ever get around to acknowledging grunge.

I listen to Dallas FM station KZPS (currently known as Lone Star 92.5) every day. Because silence frightens me, but that's another story. I've been listening since (gulp) 1988. Back then, the format was  "Classic Hits" by day and "Enerjazz" by night. Really. My then-boyfriend liked jazz, so I listened to a lot of goddamn smooth jazz during our evenings together. The things we do for love.

By 1990, 92.5 had morphed into full-on classic rock. At the time, it was a fairly new format; before that, we just called it "rock." But the Baby Boomers, whose first wave had just entered their 40s, were turning nostalgia into gold and former underground FM stations into the corporate radio landscape we know and, um, love today.

If you've listened to a classic rock station for more than an afternoon, you know the playlist, I'm sure: A Led Zeppelin song, a Boston song, a Rolling Stones song, "Baker Street." Rinse, repeat.

Scott Parkin, a Los Angeles-based voice-over actor and coach, was a disc jockey at KZPS during this period. He told me: "I was not fond of the classic rock format...In fact, one of the reasons I was fired from KZPS was that I would say things like 'Here's Layla...again.'"

Despite (or because of) its reputation as the place where great music goes to die, the format has evolved over the years. The window defining "classic" has slid forward to include newer old music. Somewhere along the line, Dire Straits became classic rock. Ditto The Police. Ditto Talking Heads and Billy Idol and Guns N Roses. Yeah, it's a bit disconcerting to realize that songs I first listened to in college are now "oldies." Scratch that - it's a freaking jarring reminder of my mortality that I didn't want, don't need and didn't ask for, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Shit.

But I digress.

I get that when I tune into a classic rock station, I'm going to be presented with a thoroughly market-researched subset of music history, carefully curated for my demographic group

Also: Jeebus, I hate the term "curated." Museum collections should be curated. Rock music and overpriced meal kits should not be "curated."

Let's continue to discuss the evolution of the classic rock format. WARNING: Math ahead.

When KZPS started calling itself "classic rock" in 1990, the Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's album - an iconic release of the genre if ever there was one - was 23 years old. Nirvana's Nevermind came out in 1991. By the logic of the format, it became "classic rock" in 2013. Yet "Smells Like Teen Spirit" somehow failed to be placed in rotation by KZPS or other classic rock stations. That's when I began to realize that the evolution of the format seemingly had ground to a halt when grunge came on the scene.

To be fair, I did search the playlists of the top 10 "classic rock" stations in the US. A few have indeed incorporated Nirvana and Pearl Jam into their playlists, albeit as outliers among heavy airplay of Ozzy and The Doors.

That raises the question: Does grunge belong in the classic rock pantheon?

According to radio veteran Parkin, "It's difficult to say that grunge belongs with classic rock....I wish they wouldn't pigeonhole things and would allow different things." Note: KZPS personnel didn't respond to requests for comment.

Me, too. And in fact, Dallas is fortunate to be the home of KXT, a public radio station that plays songs from multiple decades and genres. I listen to it frequently, and appreciate its diversity of musical influences.

Still, I'm a rock and roll girl. And Dallas is a tough market for GenX lovers of rock that includes everything from the Beatles to the Struts.

I guess that's why we have Spotify. But damn, I'm old enough to appreciate the power of radio to play my favorites AND introduce me to tracks that might become my favorites.

Anyway, congrats to KZPS for playing "Come As You Are." Personally, I found it a welcome respite from Zeppelin's ode to nerdism "Ramble On" for the thousandth time. I suppose only time and market research will tell if you actually play Pearl Jam or Screaming Trees next.

Screaming into the Voidz

One of Precocious Daughter's favorite bands is The Strokes.

And The Strokes' lead singer, Julian Casablancas, has a side project called The Voidz. And she loves them, too.

The Voidz are headlining the first night of the Fortress Festival in Fort Worth, which begins today.

And that's where PDaughter is heading right now.

She has my car, a full tank of gas, a GPS, a good friend...and a mom who is a nervous wreck.

My baby girl is going to her first music festival. It's not like she's driving to freaking Burning Man or anything - Fort Worth is less than an hour from our cozy suburb - but this is certainly the largest event she's attended without adult supervision of any kind.

Except that, you know, she herself is an adult.

PDaughter and her guy friend (I've known him and his parents for years, and they're wonderful folks, all of them) are good kids. Smart, level-headed, as mature as a couple of dopey high-school seniors can be. She's a good driver. I know Benedict Cumberhatch is in good shape, because I just got him serviced. The festival is being held in Fort Worth's Museum District, one of the loveliest and safest parts of the city. She has cash and, of course, her cell phone.

Nothing at all to worry about, right?

Tell that to the little voice inside my head that invariably laser-focuses me on every possible worst-case scenario in situations like this.

My ex used to say it was better to be a pessimist than an optimist, because optimists can only be disappointed, while pessimists can always be pleasantly surprised. What he never considered is that, for some people, pessimism goes way beyond simply being mentally prepared for bad things to happen. Some people (like me) become paralyzed by the crushing fear that the worst could happen at any time. Almost superstitiously, we force ourselves to mentally rehearse the most catastrophic potential outcomes, as if by putting ourselves through hell pre-emptively, we might actually absorb enough bad karma to keep bad things from happening to us or the ones we love.

For people like me, our reaction to a better-than-feared outcome isn't pleasant surprise. It's a helpless, exhausting rush of relief. And it doesn't fill us with hope for a good outcome the next time we face worry; it simply fuels our irrational belief that our fear and dread actually prevent catastrophes from occurring and are thus an absolutely necessary emotional reaction.

If that sounds like it sucks...yeah, it sucks.

Fear is a liar, but a goddamn effective one.

But I think I curbed my borderline-hysterical internal monologue pretty well as PDaughter was getting ready to head out. I  flat-out told her that I would be worrying about her until she got home - she knows me far too well to try to pretend otherwise. But I kept things positive and practical, making sure she had sunscreen and ID and a refillable water bottle, reminding her to keep her bag on her person at all times, telling to her to look out for crazy drivers on I-30. All normal mom-stuff, said with a smile.

If she realized I was screaming on the inside, she let it slide. As I said, she knows me.

So yeah, tonight she'll get to see her idols play, and tomorrow she'll go back for more. The closing act tomorrow night is Father John Misty, and I'm way jealous that I don't get to see him, but I'm glad she gets to see him.

Because I don't have a car, I'm going to stay home and watch documentaries and chill.

Maybe "chill" isn't the word, but you know.

I'm going to do my best.

Isn't It a Pity

February 25th is the 75th anniversary of George Harrison's birth.

I wish it were his 75th birthday. But of course, George is no longer with us.

I miss you, Beatle George.

I hope that he and Tom Petty and Roy Orbison are singing Traveling Wilburys songs in the afterlife, waiting patiently for Jeff Lynne and Bob Dylan to finish their (long, long) lives so they can get the band back together.

Ditto for Paul and Ringo. I hope the Beatles reunion doesn't happen for a good long while.

But Sunday is George's day.

I can't really pick a favorite Harrisong. There are too many.

But this one will do. Seven minutes of greatness here.

Happy Birthday, Beatle George.

An Open Letter to Paul Simon

Dear Paul Simon:

I have something I want to say. And I'd like to say it the way your song lyrics taught me things could (and should) be said: With softness, strength, wry humor, and an economy of language that belies a wealth of emotion.

So here goes:

Godammit, Paul, you can't fucking do this to me!

Do you mind if I call you Paul?

No, your disarming smile won't make it all better this time.

Look, I don't know how often you read my little blog. In my humble opinion, you really should keep up with it. You would learn about monkey art, and how to make pea soup and sweetheart balls and how to grow beans. You would be introduced to my poetry, which sometimes is (I think) truly poetic and sometimes is just about penises. The way poetry is, as you know.

You would also see that I'm a longtime and devoted fan of your music and of you personally. To me, there's only one person in the world worthy of receiving the coveted "Left-Handed Jewish Singer-Songwriters Married to a Former Member of New Bohemians" tag, and it's you, Paul.

Even Artie misses by that much.

The point is, way back in high school - a long, long time ago, even before you released Graceland - I said in a high-school writing assignment that one of my greatest goals in life was to see concerts by Bob Dylan and Paul Simon (that's you). I've seen Bob in concert twice, as you surely know if in fact you do read my blog. Or if Bob reads my blog and has told you about it. If you guys ever get together and chat about blogs you enjoy. Maybe over some nice pea soup. 

But I digress.

But while I've seen Mr. Dylan perform, I've never seen you. I've actually seen a number of my 60s musical heroes live: Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, the Moody Blues, Ringo Starr, Brian Wilson. Yet if all these talented artists are like stuffed heads hanging over the mantel of my heart, then one mahogany plaque is still missing its lovingly amputated and painstakingly preserved trophy: Paulsimonicus harmonius newyorkicus.

If that's not, you know, pushing the metaphor too far.

Anyway, today you announced on social media that your upcoming tour will be your last. Thankfully, this will bring you to Dallas one final time, on June 1. Your retirement is not immediate, unlike Neil Diamond's, who just jerked the fucking rug out from under all of us who have spent their lives hoping to you see sing in person, just once, even while their sister has seen him multiple times, not that I begrudge her that joy.

You know?

Paul, I love you and Neil almost as much as I love
my sister. Can I call you Paul?

I don't hold out great hope that I'll have the opportunity to catch your final Dallas show. Or the means. My Precocious Daughter graduates in June, and apparently it now costs as much to graduate from high school as it cost me to get an entire college education. She's my priority, emotionally and financially, but believe me, if I could save enough money for front-row tickets to your show by not eating between now and June 1, I'd totally do it. I can always eat on June 2, right?

I'm sad, is what I'm trying to say. Sad that you're in the twilight of your illustrious career, sad that we can't always tick off all the items on our bucket lists, sad that time merely shrugs at our best efforts to slow it to an endless waltz instead of a headlong jitterbug through life.

Fucking time.

But I'm happy to hear your voice - on my records, my CDs, my streams, and of course, in my head.

Still, that long-ago invitation to come to my place and sing "Mother and Child Reunion" to me is always open. You can bring Edie. I'll make some sweetheart balls.

Love,

Chuck

Weekend Update

I had a pretty incredible weekend.

Drummer Boy, Precocious Daughter, and I got to see an amazing night of music by co-headliners and iconic 90s bands Everclear and Toadies at a free music festival that happened to be a three-minute walk from my front door.

Occasionally life is awesome like that.

We're somewhere near the center of this photo,
rocking our asses off.

The three of us watched Everclear together, and godDAMN but Art Alezakis and his band have still got it.

Then PDaughter ended up meeting a friend in the crowd and watching Toadies from a spectacular front-left-corner-stage vantage point. Drummer Boy and I stayed in the middle-front-center and took in their awesome set.

PDaughter had a blast. She knows good music, what can I say? And DB and I had a blast. We met up afterwards and walked home, and everyone was so damn happy.

Vaden Todd Lewis and company gave a fantastic set. They opened with "I Come from the Water," which happens to be my favorite Toadies song, and finished with a literally spine-tingling cover of "I Put a Spell on You" with a mind-blowing vocal from Vaden.

It was a great night.

And then Drummer Boy slept over, and we spent Sunday together. And while PDaughter watched the Cowboys game with her dad, DB and I watched it together and made yummy cheeseburgers and fries. After the game PDaughter came home, and the three of us watched several episodes of "How I Met Your Mother."

(Backstory: HIMYM is being pulled from Netflix on November 13, and we're currently near the end of Season 8 and trying to make it to the end of Season 9 in the next eight days. [In best Robin-speaking-to-Patrice voice, I don't want any SPOILERS YOU GUYS.])

There is so much shitty stuff taking place in the world right now. The Pentagon is threatening to invade North Korea. Some random asshole gunned down 26 people in a tiny church in Texas. The President of the United States continues to be a sociopathic narcissist who has no clue how to conduct diplomacy.

So you've got to concentrate on the little things that affirm the goodness of life.

Like the love of a good man and an exemplary daughter. Like a shared sense of community. Like the power of peace, love, and rock and roll.

Neither DB nor I slept well Saturday night. He found my fold-out couch terribly uncomfortable, and I was plagued by bad dreams. On Sunday I told him I had had nightmares that we had gone to a sort of indoor/outdoor mall/educational facility, and he had been not just angry or disappointed but contemptuous of the way I interacted with the people and exhibits there.

He said, "That sounds more like the way (my ex-spouse) would react." Which was exactly what I was about to say.

Projection is a thing, you guys.

Don't ever blame someone else for the demons sent to you by the past.

Love each other, and love life.

That's all.

A Few Days in the Life

Allow me to present Precocious Daughter's schedule from the last few days (keeping in mind that much of this is also my schedule):

Thursday

Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Karate 4:15-5:30 p.m.
Wind ensemble rehearsal (including drive time) 6:30-10:30 p.m.

Friday

Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Football game (including prep and travel) 3:30-11:00 p.m.

Saturday

Marching competition (including rehearsal and travel) 7:00 a.m.- 5:30 p.m.
Fill out college financial aid forms 7:00-8:00 p.m.

Sunday

Wind ensemble concert (including travel time) 1:00-4:15 p.m.
Impromptu trip to Six Flags with friend (because why not?) 5:00-10:00 p.m.

Monday

Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Time with her dad 4:00-?

Tuesday

Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Marching band UIL competition (including prep and travel) 3:30-10:00 p.m.

As you can see, she actually got a good night's sleep Saturday into Sunday. Other than that, it's been up at 5:30 a.m. and asleep no earlier than 11:00 p.m. the whole damn time. And she just keeps going. My child is the damn Energizer bunny.

Slacker.

She never, ever stops smiling.

Oh, and at her wind ensemble concert yesterday, she signed her first autograph for a little boy who shyly handed her his program. It was adorable.

My kid is a rock star.

Me, I'm tired just writing about her.

You're So Vain, 2017 Version

All the apologies ever to Carly Simon...but you inspired me.

Here's a parody of "You're So Vain" for 2017.

*****

You walked into the White House
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hair strategically combed
Around your scalp
Your skin it was apricot
You had one eye on your Twitter as
Your feed was spammed by bots
And all of the trolls wished that
They'd be your next block
They'd be your next block

And you're so vain
You probably think Americans want you
You're so vain
You probably think Americans want you
Don't you
Don't you?

You had a university
That failed, you were quite naive
And you tried to sell steaks,
And vodka and things,
But they were not well received
Well you disavowed the things that tanked
And claimed they won bigly
I had a dream
That a clown won the White House
Clown won the White House

And you're so vain
You think the freaking world is about you
You're so vain
You think the freaking world is about you
Don't you
Don't you?

Well I hear you went down to Mar-a-Lago
And played golf, and naturally won
Then you took a vacation at Bedminster
To play more golf because golf is fun
You're on social media all the time
And when you're not you're with
Some ex-Soviet spy
Or your new current mistress
New current mistress

And you're so vain
You fired Steve Bannon, now he will get you
You're so vain
You fired Steve Bannon, now he will get you
Get you
Get you
Get you.

Fin.

Odds and Sods

I'm on vacation this week, but here are a few random bits from the past few days.

On Monday I took Precocious Daughter to the airport for her New York trip. I got a flat tire on the way. At nearly 70 mph. Yeah. Fortunately, it was on a toll road, and the North Texas Toll Authority provides complimentary roadside assistance. Complimentary and, fortunately, fast. From the time I pulled off the road to the time we were back on our way was 20 minutes, tops. And the very nice man who installed Bene's spare wouldn't even take a tip, although I've never wanted to tip anyone more in my life. We got to the airport in plenty of time, PDaughter proudly showed her temporary learner's permit at security, and off she went.

Taking my heart with her, as always.

The next day I took my car to Discount Tire and got the flat replaced for free, because Discount Tire is awesome. (Not a paid endorsement - I just really love Discount Tire.) It turned out that my two front tires had almost no tread left, so it still cost me $300+ to get rolling again. But now, all four tires are covered under warranty, so there's that. Also, I felt slightly terrible that PDaughter's first week of driving lessons were on tires that were potentially unsafe. I've got to say, Benedict Cumberhatch handles much better with four good tires.

Speaking of Benedicts, happy birthday to Benedict Cumberbatch! Smoooooooch.

I'm so glad I named my car after him.

My sweet Drummer Boy is staying with me this week. We both took the week off so that we could...well, so far, not do much of anything except put new tires on my car and go grocery shopping. Unless snuggling counts as something. (Snuggling, of course, counts for a lot.) Unfortunately, I think I'm some kind of car jinx. As we were driving to SuperTarget yesterday in his car, something flew up from the freeway and smacked a big old six-pointed star into his windshield. I seem to be causing expensive damage to automobiles this week, which wasn't my intention when I took the week off. I'm hoping the car-boo-boo gods are now satiated and will wreak no further havoc on our vehicles.

Drummer Boy brought his electric drum kit to my place. Because of course he's not going to give up practicing just to spend time with little old me. The benefit of an electric drum kit is that the sound of drumsticks hitting the drum pads is much quieter than actual drums. What I didn't realize is that Drummer Boy pounds the hell out of the foot pedal for his hi-hat, so my downstairs neighbors are likely to hate me before the week is out. Tough beans. I love watching him play - not only is he an amazing drummer, but it's sexy af to get a private performance.

Lol, this is what came up when I Googled "sexy drummer."
Sorry, doesn't do a thing for me.

Finally, on a more somber note, I just heard that Senator John McCain (R-AZ) had an aggressive brain tumor removed last week. I have my political differences with Sen. McCain, but I greatly respect his service, his intelligence, and his love of country. I hope he makes a full recovery. My thoughts are with him and his family.

Back to vacation. I'll check in later, Drunkards.

Trivial Pursuits

This evening, looking for something to do, Precocious Daughter and I dug out our Trivial Pursuit game. We didn't set up the board or anything (because it's not much fun with only two players), we just took turns asking each other questions off the cards. I thought it might be a fun diversion for 20 or 30 minutes.

We ended up spending two hours answering trivia questions.

We laughed a lot, and even learned a few things.

I might have quoted Bill Cosby from the opening
of "Fat Albert" if he weren't a despicable sexual predator.

Just a couple of nerdy smart chicks having fun on a Friday night.

Among the things we ended up talking about, either because they were trivia questions or because we went off on a wild tangent:

Renoir's "Luncheon of the Boating Party":

Raise your hand if you had this in your dorm room or first apartment.

Shirley Bassey, who sang THREE James Bond theme songs:

Did you know she's Welsh?
I did not know she's Welsh.

The state flag of Hawaii:

The only U.S. state flag to feature the Union Jack.

Justin and Britney's infamous American Music Awards look from 2001:

JT would later become one of Earth's
suavest dudes, which nobody
would have predicted from this photo.

Teletubbies, and specifically how PDaughter did not know until tonight it was a British show (she said she "didn't have a concept of faraway places" back then):

You guys, the baby in the sun is a freaking grown-up now.

Indira Gandhi, and specifically how I did not know until tonight that she 1) was not related to Mahatma Gandhi and 2) was related to Nehru:

It's a good day when I can fill in a gap
in my knowledge.

Corgi puppies!

Such floofy goodness.

And finally, Nelson Mandela's involvement in legal negotiations following the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988:

May take a bit of time to process this, actually.

All in a Friday night, I guess.

I should mention that I was supposed to spend time with Drummer Boy this evening, but missed out because PDaughter and I were so caught up in our trivia game.

I'm sorry about that, but...

I regret nothing.

What are your favorite bits of obscure trivia, Drunkards? Share and edify the rest of us, please.

...In The USA. Damn Right.

From the How Far Have We Come? department:

I've often thought that my Precocious Daughter is an old soul in a young body. That may be because she is a 21st-century human but also is among the last people born in the 20th century. Or maybe because she has always seemed smarter and more perceptive than her years - I'll never forget the day she complained that she was bored because her teacher kept repeating the same things over and over...in kindergarten.

Or maybe I simply admire the grace and tolerance with which she puts up with me on a daily basis.

One more way Hillary Clinton let me down.

Yet for all her poise, strength, and general shit-having-togetherness, she is still just a teenager. She doesn't know everything. I don't care how many A's show up on her report card, she is the product of her environment, and her environment at this young age is (blissfully) limited in scope.

Case in point.

Tonight we were watching TV, and a commercial came on for...I don't know, some damn pickup truck. And the soundtrack to this commercial was John Mellencamp's "R-O-C-K in the U.S.A.," which was a big hit when I was just about PDaughter's age. Because apparently I'm now the target demographic for buying big ugly pickup trucks, even though I'd drive the old dilapidated 1984 Subaru hatchback I owned in the 90s for the rest of my life before I'd drive a goddamn pickup truck.

The story of how I came to drive this sweetheart
will totally be in the book, I promise.

Anyway, PDaughter asked me, in all seriousness, "Why is it called 'rock' music? Where did the 'rock' come from?"

She wasn't kidding. She really didn't know.

WHOOOOOOOO!

Now, PDaughter has, um, been deflowered. She's experimented with certain medicinal herbs. She regularly explains memes to be that I had no idea were scandalous and/or salacious. She's no wallflower.

Yet she lacked the slightest clue how rock and roll got its name and reputation.

So, being the mom I am (DON'T JUDGE), I explained that the prhase originated in the blues community, for example, with the Trixie Smith song "My Daddy Rocks Me (With One Steady Roll)."

Eventually, black R&B culture, and subsequently white America, adopted "rock and roll" as the pet name for the new, raw musical movement that engulfed the country circa 1955 and later the world in later years.

To this day, the greatest rock 'n roll songs are about sex. And sex. And also sex.

But we owe it all to R&B and blues of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s,

John Mellencamp, bless his heart, is both entirely relevant and woefully behind in his attempt to influence young (car-buying) culture.

One steady roll?

Your opinion is more than welcome, Drunkards.

Tuesday Endorsements

I have five things to endorse today.

1) The Bai TV commercial featuring Christopher Walken and Justin Timberlake. This is off the freaking chain. Precocious Daughter recently stopped drinking soda and has switched to Bai. I continue to suck down Coke Zero, and also I'm not an *NSYNC fan. But anything that CWalk and PDaughter like, I will support.



2) Cold pork 'n beans. Not just room temperature, but actually stick-a-can-of-Van-Kamps-in-the-fridge cold. I'll eat 'em room temperature, I'll def eat 'em heated up. But coooooold p'n'b reminds me of my childhood and makes me happy.

3) Chopped Jr. Yes, the Food Network show. Over the past 25 years I've become a pretty damn decent scratch cook. But when I was in middle school? I could not have turned fried pickles and mole sauce into a Korean-infused entree. Hell, I couldn't do that now. Mad props to these kids. Also, it's hosted by Ted Allen, who always was my favorite Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

4) Claude Taylor. If you're on Twitter and haven't followed this former White House staffer-cum-artist-cum-SJW, you should. His nose for new is razor-sharp, particularly when it comes to the latest Trump intel. Also, he seems like a genuinely nice guy.

5) Otters. Why we can't all be more like otters? Feisty, smart, loving, and adorable af. Just saying.

What five things do you recommend today? Share, please.

He Blew His Mind Out in the Oval Office

President Donald Trump struck a blow for Philistines and robber barons today by announcing that the United States of America would withdraw from the Paris Accords on climate change.

Because my God he's bad at this and easily swayed by evil people.

Basically, the USA just ceded its leadership of the free world. That's pretty damn sad, you know?

So I decided to think about something happier, like the fact that The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band is 50 years old today. Not only is it an awesome, groundbreaking album, but it will always be older than me, which I appreciate more and more as the years whoosh by.

Anyway, I decided to combine the sublime with the ridiculous and pen this ode to Trump's boneheaded decision, to the tune of probably my favorite Beatles song, "A Day in the Life."

If you don't know "A Day in the Life," shame the hell on you. YouTube it, people.

Enjoy.

*****

A Day in the Life (of a Crazy-Ass POTUS)

So Trump withdrew today, oh boy
He called shenanigans on climate change
And though he blew off the Accords
Well, I still tried to laugh
Because he sounded daft

He said America comes first
Twenty-two Senators backed up his claims
A large majority cried foul
And I just have to add
Forty-five is bad

I'd love to kick...him...out...

Woke up, here's what I read
America's leadership was dead
We are victims of hysteria
With Syria, and Nicaragua, too (gasp, cough, choke, wheeze)

CO2 pollutes the air
But Trump insists there's nothing there
He believes he's more than just a joke
But Bannon spoke, and of course he went along

Aaaaaaaaa....aaashole....
Aaaaaaaaa....aaashole....
Aaaassssss....hole...
Aaasshole...
Aaaaaashhooole...

I watched the news today, oh boy
France's Macron took pity on our souls
And though the world was rather kind
Everybody knows the President has lost his freaking mind

I'd love to kick...him...out...

(Crescendo)

(Long piano chord)

(Silence)

Even When She Just Had to Crash (Yesssss)

Honestly, Drunkards, right now I have a backlog of blog topics.

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

I'd rather write about how Bestest Friend is handling her daughter's Senior Prom tonight. How the President of the United States bragged to the Russians about firing the Director of the FBI. How my mom is having heart surgery in five days.

Among other things.

Instead, I'm writing about this,because knee-jerk outrage sometimes helps us cope with larger, much more complex emotional scenarios.

So here goes.

Some Canadian college students have apologized for playing Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" at an event, expressing regrets for its "transphobic" lyrics.

Honest to effing Christian God.

You guys.

I don't remember exactly when, or how, I first discovered Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground.

My best guess is 1982-1983, which was a uniquely tumultuous time in my life.

I'm almost positive that my dear friend Trips had something to do with it (because she also introduced me to Bob Marley, the Cure, XTC, Talking Heads, and so many others).

The thing is, I have all of VU's official releases on vinyl, as well as all of their unofficial output on CD. I'm not unique in claiming Lou Reed and VU as major influences on my musical taste and societal attitude.

I'm just lucky to be included in such a rarefied group.

"Walk on the Wild Side" is a very special solo track from Mr. Reed. It was produced by David Bowie, and together they created a deeply haunting and affecting song. One of my favorite singles ever. Ever, ever, ever.

It is - famously - about trans people and others seeking a place in society.

It is - unabashedly - honest and non-judgmental about those people.

In the back room she was everybody's darling.

The fact that being inclusive and accepting of a minority like trans people can be twisted into transphobia by those who actually serve to silence alternative viewpoints...

makes me effing sick.

People who are different from me don't hurt me.

I don't understand why I (and like-minded others) have to keep broadcasting this opinion.

Be different.

I will be envious.

I will support you and love you.

Those who condemn you for being different...

Need to suffer the consequences of a global fuck-off, you bigoted twats.

I can't guarantee that.

But I support it.

Love is love.

And I love everyone reading this.

Please share that.

OK?

Placeholder Guinea Pigs

Oh gosh, I just realized that I haven't written a post since the sad poem I wrote because last week was tough.

Because when the going gets tough, the tough write sad poems. Apparently.

Anyway, things are good. I have a post I want to write, but it's already getting late and it requires me to download pictures from my phone, and who wants to do that? Not me right now.

Here's my "I can't even" face.

Still, I don't want my sad little poem to be the first thing people see when (if) they visit my little corner of the Web. So here's something to keep folks entertained until I do my next real post.

Which WILL be awesome. People will LAUGH and CRY and WET THEMSELVES. /sean spicer voice

I leave you with guinea pigs, Japanese innovation, and the greatness of Parry Gripp.




Next up: Why you should definitely invite me to your next silent auction.

Poem (With Apologies to Michael Nesmith)

Short poem for a Thursday night, Drunkards.

I have
Never
Felt so untouched

As today's
Numb reachless
Nothing
Touch.

I am
Stronger
When not compromised

By false
Daily routine
Taps on my

Vulnerabilities.

Probably you're hearing music
Without me.
And that is good.

The music I hear
Doesn't need
Your validation.

Go, listen.

You and I
Travel
To the beat
Of a different drum.

Confession, or Lover's Lament

I'm going to make an informed guess that, among my 15 or so readers, at least a couple of you have experienced being in a relationship with a musician.

Always assuming that either Edie Brickell or Paul Simon
is a loyal Drunkard. Right?

Musicians are amazing, you know? They're talented, they're sensitive (at least when they're playing), they're perpetually interesting.

And the love of their life is...their music.

I get it. Really. Because I'm a writer.

Hard cold truth: Loving a musician means - at best - sharing his/her heart with music.

If you love a musician, the best you can hope for is a polyamorous relationship. You will never be their only love. Their first love? PAFF. Musicians will never put you first. No matter how much they love you, they cannot ever put you first. Music is always #1.

If you can accept that, you can share a piece of their heart. Which is a beautiful thing. Maybe the most beautiful thing you'll ever know.

But you will not - cannot - command their devotion. They can't hear you over the constant cacophony in their head.

Don't even try shouting. Trust me.

Love yourself before even attempting to love a musician. It's your only - only - shot at survival.

I'm in love with a musician. But I have no intention of sacrificing my soul to the capricious winds of his attention.

I am myself. No matter what.

I believe that he and I will meet halfway in our respective arts.

It's the only way I can love him.

If I'm wrong, I still have my soul.

How many of you can say that?

Collaboration

Last night, Drummer Boy and I saw Shawn Phillips perform at Poor David's Pub in Dallas.

I told you guys that I'd bought tickets for this show.

I told you guys how much I loved his music.

Last night was about a million times better than I ever dreamed of.

Thank you, sir.

We were literally front row, center stage. He was no more than eight feet from us. Numerous times during the show he made direct eye contact with us when he spoke between songs.

OK, to be honest, he and DB developed a bit of bromance during the show, I think. I mean, one long-haired, graying musician to another, they bonded.

Maybe not McKellen/Stewart level. But you know, they shared moments.

Shawn Phillips is legit one of the best musicians I've ever seen live. And I've seen Jeff Beck, and Santana.

So.

Please, please, please, go to Napster, or Pandora, or Spotify, and look him up. Incredible.

Also, he played four songs from his upcoming album (to be released in June), and they were absolutely the equal of any rock or indie music coming out right now.

Dude is 74 years old. And fucking rocks.

And graciously signed CDs and memorabilia after the show like it was no thang.

The best part is, I got to share this wonderful musician with DB, who knew nothing about him before last night. And he was blown away.

I was, too.

Thank you, Shawn Phillips, for sharing your prodigious gifts with us. And thank you, Poor David's Pub, for providing the opportunity.

And thanks to Drummer Boy for coming along and having faith in my musical taste.

I can't even tell you how full of love my heart was, and is, for this experience.

Who is your favorite hidden musical treasure?

I'm open to new loves.