"Most people leave in the summer, you know," Dad said with a grin.
"But it doesn't feel that hot," I told him. And I meant it, too. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit, but I didn't feel hot. I could feel the pressure of the heat on my arms, but that was all it was - a little pressure.
I know about the dangers of the heat. I grew up in Phoenix, after all. We came prepared with "camel packs" for carrying water, extra sunscreen, light clothing, hats, and plans that called for days full of swimming, hiking, driving, and fun sandwiched between days of visiting and sipping cool drinks in the air conditioning.
"And you really want to move back here?" he asked, incredulously.
The thing is, I do; but we tried it before and failed. I'll have to make sure I do it right this time, and I want to be sure that I have a job lined up - preferably one I like as much as my current job - and that all of the other things important to us are possible. I want to settle in Arizona, but I don't want to settle for Arizona.
It is a big state, and we wanted to see a lot of it. We budgeted for a rental car, and plenty of gasoline; we ran without the air on to conserve a bit, and to revel in the dryness and the scents of creosote and blooming cacti. Of course, it's a bit cooler up at the Grand Canyon, where we spent three days (two to travel, one to soak up the splendor) in the middle of the trip. Trade pine trees for creosote and lop 20 degrees off the thermometer; that definitely helps survive the heat.
Sunset was a priority at the Canyon. My lovely bride has photographic ambitions, and wanted to get some shots of the sun going down on that particular horizon. My job was to keep the children from running along (off) the edge while she focused on her task. I grabbed the two smaller ones physically, and they immediately protested.
"Wait, what do you see out there?" I asked excitedly, pointing west. "What's that?"
"It's the sun. Now let me go!" protested our little blond Hercules.
"But what's it made of?" I asked. The little princess was sulking on my lap, but I knew if I could get the boy to answer me, I'd have his attention.
"Burning hot gas," he said.
"Right, but what does it look like it's made of?"
"Gold?" answered the older boy, settling on my other side.
"It does," I said. "In fact, that's what Coyote thought it was made of. That's why he built those wings. But you guys already know about all that."
"No, we don't!" they cried. "What wings?"
I told them how Coyote, who spent most of his days trotting around in the desert, looking for something to eat or for someone to play a trick on, tried to fly to the Sun to steal the big, gleaming pile of gold when it touched the horizon. He knew he couldn't jump high enough to get to the Sun when it was high overhead, but it occurred to him that he should be able to get to it when it set each evening. At first, I had to explain, it was very frustrating for Coyote to figure out where the Sun would touch down. He would watch it set, mark the place with landmarks, and spend all the next day trying to get to the spot where it had landed, only to have it come down somewhere else each night!
He followed the Sun for weeks and weeks, until he came to the rim of the Canyon, and there - on the very spot where we were sitting! - he gave up. "I'll never figure out where the Sun is going to set if it keeps changing every night," he said, and he sat and watched the condors flying around. The next night, while he tried to figure out how to trick one of the condors into landing next to him for dinner, he noticed that the sun was setting on the lip of the Canyon across from him. And it was setting in the very same spot as the night before!
Now this is where Coyote showed how clever he was; he realized that if he tried to get over to that spot during the day, the Sun would see him, and would just set somewhere else. He would need to wait off to the side and then pounce at the last minute. But how to get across that huge Canyon and surprise the Sun?
That's when he got the idea to copy the condors. He went around the desert there, gathering sticky pitch and yucca leaves all day, and stuck the leaves together to make big wings that he could fit on his arms and back. Then he waited until the sun began to settle down on the rim across from him. He ran out to the edge and leapt high, catching the strong winds that up-drafted from the river at the bottom of the Canyon.
Coyote soared high and fast across the Canyon, startling the condors and confusing a cottontail that happened to look up just then. (The cottontail was so scared that he dove into his warren and started digging down so far that he eventually went blind and became a mole.) Coyote only saw his prize ahead of him, though. He reached out, greedily ready to snatch up as much gold as he could grab... but the closer he got to the sun, the hotter it got.
And, of course, you know what happened. The pitch melted, and his wings fell apart, and Coyote fell just short of his goal. Down, down, down into the river at the bottom of the Canyon he fell with a plop.
"Now, you would think Coyote would give up, but he still tries to get that gold. And sometimes, he thinks of a new way to make wings or some other trick to launch himself across the Canyon, so if you sit still and watch carefully, you might see him leap out there tonight."
They all looked out, just as I'd suggested; even the 11-year-old, who was still recovering from the disappointment of not being invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last year. We all watched as tourists snapped photos of squirrels and each other, and leaned precariously over rails and ledges. We watched the birds swirl far below us, and the tiny twist of river turned into molten copper.
"I see him!" cried the little one, pointing. There was nothing there, but they all started shouting and laughing until the sun was all the way down. And my lovely bride got her few moments of peace to snap her photos.
A couple of days later, we were at the Phoenix Zoo, where we were pleasantly surprised to see most of the animals awake and roaming around their pens despite the already oppressive heat. There were two shy coyotes skulking around in their area, but the littlest one had trouble spotting them until one came right up to the front and stopped to watch the human exhibit for a bit. When she saw him, she got very excited, and leaned forward to stage whisper at him:
"Next time, go for the MOON! It's silver, and won't melt you!"
She's a wise one, that littlest little.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Lb4Lb#4: Where There's Smoke There's Fire and Trouble
Just got back from 2 weeks in Arizona, and I state for the record: I'll take 99.9 F° in Phoenix over 85 in Baltimore ANY time. When they say "it's a dry heat", they ain't kiddin'.
But now we're back, and the settling in process can begin: buying groceries, finishing chores that were left hanging (like blogging and posting music journals), and trying to absorb our fortnight of adventure. This includes, of course, scrobbling the 294 tracks played as we drove all over the Grand Canyon state, and ripping the CDs purchased and - so far - unscrobbled.
Great trip, full of music and family and food, and lots of driving. The lovely bride allowed me to pick up the new Weezer (Pork And Beans seemed to be the theme song of the trip), and the recent Lyle Lovett (It's Not Big It's Large), which impressed both my father and my 5-year-old daughter with both Up In Indiana and Up In Indiana (Acoustic Version).
To visit the Grand Canyon, we borrowed my aunt's cabin, which wasn't far from the famed Route 66, a road so famous it has a song ...which is also so famous that I can't link to all of the versions that I know and love in one journal. (I highly recommend comparing the Depeche Mode and John Mayer covers for a real kick in the head.)
But it was a small bit of serendipity that brought my favorite version up on the iPod as we drove along that stretch of road in Flagstaff, Arizona (don't forget Winona): Buckwheat Zydeco's cover on his album Where There's Smoke There's Fire.
Talk about an album made for the "lb4lb" tag; from the smokin' lead off question What You Gonna Do, to the gentle reminder that It's Getting Late, Buck doesn't let up. There's a healthy dose of rollicking blues, pure bayou madness (Pour Tout Quelque'un); Dwight Yoakum shows up to duet on Hey Good Lookin', and David Hidalgo of Los Lobos fame produces the whole shebang. It's simply 11 tracks of pure love & joy being squeezed out of a flaming accordion, and it is Good.
But it's short.
In fact, I'd feel like I was cheating you if I only gave you a taste of this stuff, so I'll mention Buck's more recent release, Trouble, which I'd dare say sounds even better (though none of the tracks are yet available yet on Last.fm).
Man... vacation rocks.
Great trip, full of music and family and food, and lots of driving. The lovely bride allowed me to pick up the new Weezer (Pork And Beans seemed to be the theme song of the trip), and the recent Lyle Lovett (It's Not Big It's Large), which impressed both my father and my 5-year-old daughter with both Up In Indiana and Up In Indiana (Acoustic Version).
To visit the Grand Canyon, we borrowed my aunt's cabin, which wasn't far from the famed Route 66, a road so famous it has a song ...which is also so famous that I can't link to all of the versions that I know and love in one journal. (I highly recommend comparing the Depeche Mode and John Mayer covers for a real kick in the head.)
But it was a small bit of serendipity that brought my favorite version up on the iPod as we drove along that stretch of road in Flagstaff, Arizona (don't forget Winona): Buckwheat Zydeco's cover on his album Where There's Smoke There's Fire.
Talk about an album made for the "lb4lb" tag; from the smokin' lead off question What You Gonna Do, to the gentle reminder that It's Getting Late, Buck doesn't let up. There's a healthy dose of rollicking blues, pure bayou madness (Pour Tout Quelque'un); Dwight Yoakum shows up to duet on Hey Good Lookin', and David Hidalgo of Los Lobos fame produces the whole shebang. It's simply 11 tracks of pure love & joy being squeezed out of a flaming accordion, and it is Good.
But it's short.
In fact, I'd feel like I was cheating you if I only gave you a taste of this stuff, so I'll mention Buck's more recent release, Trouble, which I'd dare say sounds even better (though none of the tracks are yet available yet on Last.fm).
Man... vacation rocks.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Virgin Oil, or, The Fats Out of the Bag
I haven't always been the calm, self-assured celebrity you see before you. In fact, I'm not now. But that's beside the point: I'm here to tell you how it all began. My "big break"; my "discovery"...
We lived out in the sticks when I was a child. I blame my lack of childhood friends on this. My school was the nearest one to us, and it was a good 15 miles - and that was on a cool day. Heat expansion often stretched the journey out to 16 miles. And while my parents were not poor, I certainly was. When I got to that certain, magical age, I wanted to drive to school. Funnily enough, my parents didn't want to drive me, either. But, insurance for a 16-year-old boy is astronomically high. (How astronomically high? Click here.) So my father determined that I should pay my own insurance. And, in order to pay for insurance, I needed a job.
Since I had a pretty full after-school schedule, between band, choir, theater productions, and - uh... something really tough and manly I used to do that would scare you too much to mention here - it was difficult to find the right job.
Then one day, I noticed that one of my fellow band-geeks was working behind the lines in the cafeteria. I asked about the job, liked the terms, and filled out an application. It didn't pay much, but it was enough to make my dad happy. And I got a free lunch every day that I worked. Sweet!
It didn't start out very glamorously. I was a dismal failure at kitchen duty. At home, mom would ask me to help, and after a few clatters, a couple of knife drops, and a little broken glass, she would invariably tell me the same thing: "Go tell your father he wants you." But a school cafeteria's cookware is very durable, and can survive quite a bit of abuse from a high schooler. So with a bit of persistence, patience, and a smidgen of yelling, I got the hang of things.
After a short while, I even found my niche, my place in the universe, my Special Purpose: They made me the fry guy.
It started with a simple task: put the french fries into the paper bowls, and hand them out. Somehow, this tiny bit of social interaction brought out the showman in me. I discovered, welling from deep within my bosom, this amazing gift of repartee! I found 1,000 ways to say "would you like fries with that" and provoke a giggle. My portions became famous ("Dude, he really piled them on!") and my delivery became as polished as the reachable sections of the Blarney Stone.
My God, it was a wonderful time that I looked forward to each day. Girls smiled at me! Guys did that super-cool head-nod thing (and refrained from threatening me with bodily harm). By and large, my classmates - most of whom wouldn't have dignified me with their loathing if I had asked for it, before - actually liked to be served by me. I became a minor high school celebrity. The Fry Guy.
This position of respect led to a few new skills, as well. The boss-lady let me operate the fryer, and I learned the importance of keeping clean, fresh oil heated to just the right temperature. I learned the exact right amount of time to leave the fries down, and how long they would need to drain before serving them up.
Not only did I have insurance money, respect, and a future in the food services, I had fun. I learned how valuable my "enjoy everything" attitude was by volunteering for the seemingly mundane tasks of washing up, and was rewarded by getting asked to do really prestigious jobs, like washing out the 50 gallon cook-pot on chili or beef stew days. (You haven't lived until you've sung "I Am the Pirate King" from inside a suds-filled cauldron. It is, it is a glorious thing!) Truly, I had "arrived".
One fine day, riding on a cresting wave of popularity, and feeling on top of the world as I handed out perfectly crisped and golden potato strings to my fans and admirers, a cloud crossed over the sun. A sulky blond-haired girl came through the line, and glumly took a basket of my now-famous fries... and didn't smile. I made some witty remark - I'm sure it was VERY suave and tasteful - and instead of warming to my charm, she stared into my face with widening eyes, dropped her tray and stormed out of the cafeteria line at a near run.
I shrugged it off; every comedian has to learn to deal with hecklers. No biggie, right? It wasn't, until she came back with three large friends. The largest (but not the tallest) of them leaned over the sneeze guard, seriously encroaching on my personal space.
"Is your name 'Tom'?" she demanded.
"No," I squeaked, manfully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, taken aback. She looked confused, like when a dog licks ice for the first time. Then she turned positively fierce, and snarled, "A guy named Tom got my friend, here, pregnant!" She put her fists on her hips and seemed to be challenging me to answer for my crimes. The other two moved up to flank her, and the blond cowered behind all three of them, peeking out at me furtively.
I was at a loss for words. And, truly, it was as much a sense of shock that I couldn't speak that was keeping me from speaking as anything else. I visualized my mouth as a logjam in the North country, with lots of bearded, en-flanneled miniature Tad-loggers stumbling and slipping on the conflicting idea-logs of fear, outrage, and ill-advised amusement that were trying to flume out of my throat.
One thing I knew: a joke at this point could be fatal.
The situation called for dignity and respect, and so I drew myself to my full 5' 2" height, and looking the bully straight in the eye. "Do you know what I would have to have done with your friend for her to be pregnant?" I asked her. She nodded, again looking surprised that things had not come to blows yet. "Well, I know what I would have to have done, and I have never done that. With anyone. And if I had, I most certainly would have done my best to remember it."
They looked at each other, and at the blond girl, who reappraised me with a bit more confidence, now. What had she to fear of a virgin? She shrugged, and left, her friends straggling out behind her. The big one turned around one more time, though, and stuck out a finger.
"I better not find out you're really Tom," she said. She never really looked away; she just slipped out backwards, and the last I ever saw of any of them was her menacing index finger, waggling in the doorway.
And that, my friends, is why to this very day, I am still not Tom.
We lived out in the sticks when I was a child. I blame my lack of childhood friends on this. My school was the nearest one to us, and it was a good 15 miles - and that was on a cool day. Heat expansion often stretched the journey out to 16 miles. And while my parents were not poor, I certainly was. When I got to that certain, magical age, I wanted to drive to school. Funnily enough, my parents didn't want to drive me, either. But, insurance for a 16-year-old boy is astronomically high. (How astronomically high? Click here.) So my father determined that I should pay my own insurance. And, in order to pay for insurance, I needed a job.
Since I had a pretty full after-school schedule, between band, choir, theater productions, and - uh... something really tough and manly I used to do that would scare you too much to mention here - it was difficult to find the right job.
Then one day, I noticed that one of my fellow band-geeks was working behind the lines in the cafeteria. I asked about the job, liked the terms, and filled out an application. It didn't pay much, but it was enough to make my dad happy. And I got a free lunch every day that I worked. Sweet!
It didn't start out very glamorously. I was a dismal failure at kitchen duty. At home, mom would ask me to help, and after a few clatters, a couple of knife drops, and a little broken glass, she would invariably tell me the same thing: "Go tell your father he wants you." But a school cafeteria's cookware is very durable, and can survive quite a bit of abuse from a high schooler. So with a bit of persistence, patience, and a smidgen of yelling, I got the hang of things.
After a short while, I even found my niche, my place in the universe, my Special Purpose: They made me the fry guy.
It started with a simple task: put the french fries into the paper bowls, and hand them out. Somehow, this tiny bit of social interaction brought out the showman in me. I discovered, welling from deep within my bosom, this amazing gift of repartee! I found 1,000 ways to say "would you like fries with that" and provoke a giggle. My portions became famous ("Dude, he really piled them on!") and my delivery became as polished as the reachable sections of the Blarney Stone.
My God, it was a wonderful time that I looked forward to each day. Girls smiled at me! Guys did that super-cool head-nod thing (and refrained from threatening me with bodily harm). By and large, my classmates - most of whom wouldn't have dignified me with their loathing if I had asked for it, before - actually liked to be served by me. I became a minor high school celebrity. The Fry Guy.
This position of respect led to a few new skills, as well. The boss-lady let me operate the fryer, and I learned the importance of keeping clean, fresh oil heated to just the right temperature. I learned the exact right amount of time to leave the fries down, and how long they would need to drain before serving them up.
Not only did I have insurance money, respect, and a future in the food services, I had fun. I learned how valuable my "enjoy everything" attitude was by volunteering for the seemingly mundane tasks of washing up, and was rewarded by getting asked to do really prestigious jobs, like washing out the 50 gallon cook-pot on chili or beef stew days. (You haven't lived until you've sung "I Am the Pirate King" from inside a suds-filled cauldron. It is, it is a glorious thing!) Truly, I had "arrived".
One fine day, riding on a cresting wave of popularity, and feeling on top of the world as I handed out perfectly crisped and golden potato strings to my fans and admirers, a cloud crossed over the sun. A sulky blond-haired girl came through the line, and glumly took a basket of my now-famous fries... and didn't smile. I made some witty remark - I'm sure it was VERY suave and tasteful - and instead of warming to my charm, she stared into my face with widening eyes, dropped her tray and stormed out of the cafeteria line at a near run.
I shrugged it off; every comedian has to learn to deal with hecklers. No biggie, right? It wasn't, until she came back with three large friends. The largest (but not the tallest) of them leaned over the sneeze guard, seriously encroaching on my personal space.
"Is your name 'Tom'?" she demanded.
"No," I squeaked, manfully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, taken aback. She looked confused, like when a dog licks ice for the first time. Then she turned positively fierce, and snarled, "A guy named Tom got my friend, here, pregnant!" She put her fists on her hips and seemed to be challenging me to answer for my crimes. The other two moved up to flank her, and the blond cowered behind all three of them, peeking out at me furtively.
I was at a loss for words. And, truly, it was as much a sense of shock that I couldn't speak that was keeping me from speaking as anything else. I visualized my mouth as a logjam in the North country, with lots of bearded, en-flanneled miniature Tad-loggers stumbling and slipping on the conflicting idea-logs of fear, outrage, and ill-advised amusement that were trying to flume out of my throat.
One thing I knew: a joke at this point could be fatal.
The situation called for dignity and respect, and so I drew myself to my full 5' 2" height, and looking the bully straight in the eye. "Do you know what I would have to have done with your friend for her to be pregnant?" I asked her. She nodded, again looking surprised that things had not come to blows yet. "Well, I know what I would have to have done, and I have never done that. With anyone. And if I had, I most certainly would have done my best to remember it."
They looked at each other, and at the blond girl, who reappraised me with a bit more confidence, now. What had she to fear of a virgin? She shrugged, and left, her friends straggling out behind her. The big one turned around one more time, though, and stuck out a finger.
"I better not find out you're really Tom," she said. She never really looked away; she just slipped out backwards, and the last I ever saw of any of them was her menacing index finger, waggling in the doorway.
And that, my friends, is why to this very day, I am still not Tom.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Exposure
Everyone suffers from a certain fear of exposure.
We've all had that dream - the one where we are standing in front of a group of peers or superiors wearing less than we should be wearing. Some are standing at the front of their fifth grade class in their underwear; others are naked in church. Still others are simply wearing the wrong tie at a board meeting. Everyone's fear is unique. Everyone's fear is the same.
And we all wake up, trembling and shaken, realizing that we are alone in our own bed and our horrible secret - that we are average, and not as special as we pretend - is still locked up safe inside.
When Andy broke the surface of the day, and swam out of his dream, he was buoyed by that relief that comes from knowing that whatever you just escaped was a dream. This one had been full of strange events, unlikely situations, magic; things he knew couldn't happen had been happening, and even though he had been sure throughout that it was just a dream, it had shaken him.
He sat rubbing his face, chuckling to himself as the last remnants faded from his memory. Running naked from the castle; the clash of swords; huge, hulking beasts, chasing him; escaping through the hedges; flashes of light (magic!) bursting around him.
"Juvenile crap," he said out loud. He climbed out of bed and made his way to the shower, barely glancing in the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Even had he been looking for them, he would have missed the fragments of charred leaves in his hair.
They were gone when he stepped out and wrapped himself in his towel a few minutes later.
Today was an up day. That meant a longer commute, but he looked forward to it, as usual. He strolled out of his apartment, and through the common areas toward the upward ramp. He nodded at the kids tending the gardens along the paths; they did half-hearted work, but it earned them points on their community service requirements, and kept them busy during the hours they were locked out of the network.
Andy took some coffee from a kiosk on the way to his lift, and thanked the operator. The man seemed to know Andy, but Andy couldn't remember his name or his face. He faked it as best as he could and headed on his way, but it made him uneasy. He picked up a screen viewer and pressed a thumbprint on the pad to bring up his homepage. Scanning through his feeds and messages calmed him a bit, and he marveled that only a few years before people had still been tied to "personally owned devices" for this sort of service.
The lift was only half-full when he arrived, so he took a window seat. There was nothing to see while it was at rest, but when the lift merged with the rest of the traffic on the elevator's column, he could expect to catch a glimpse of the terminator receding off to the west as the sun swung up and out of view above. The space elevator was anchored in the Western Sahara, but he never tired of the sight of the Atlantic turning from black into deeper blues and on into that turquoise that he loved so much.
Even as his heart seemed to swell at the thought of that color, another part of him thought it was odd and unreal that he could be on the verge of euphoric over something so trivial as a sunrise. He ran his palm up from his forehead, sweeping his hair back, and rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to sooth the sudden tension there. All of it - the apartment, the neighborhood, the space elevator - seemed at once completely unreal and outlandish, and completely mundane.
He tried to stifle the sense of panic that rose up, but the other seats on the lift were filling now, and the growing crowd only made him claustrophobic. Tossing away his screen, he pushed his way back off the lift, and tried to walk quickly back to his rooms.
People reached for him, calling his name, but he didn't know any of them. He thought he should, but their faces all blurred together. Their voices - their voice - dragged at him, pulling him back, pushing him forward... tearing him apart. "You're dreaming, Andy," the voice said.
He tried to shout, but couldn't breathe; tried to breathe, but couldn't open his mouth. His nose felt stuffed with cotton...
Andy startled awake with a yelp, pushing himself up from his pillow. He had been on his face, mouth open, and he could still feel the cloth on his tongue and see the dark stain of his saliva on the pillow.
He rocked back on his knees, gasping, and almost cried out again when a hand brushed his leg: his wife. She murmured something - "You're dreaming, Andy" - something he thought was meant to be soothing. She rolled back into her own sleep. But her presence seemed to ground him. It gave him a sense of place, something to hold on to.
He pressed his hands to his mouth until the panic was gone, and as he sat there staring around the dark room, his mind ticked off a checklist of familiar things; the clock on the dresser, the light on the telephone. He reached down and felt his slippers where he had left them when he had come in to lie down.
There were no space elevators; no lifts with a view of Africa. No magicians or mythical beasts. Just his wife in his bed, and his kids in the other room. But he could still feel the need to flee, to get away. He slipped out of the bed, and went into the bathroom.
He bent to the tap, and drank for a long time. When he had his fill, he splashed a handful on his face, and then turned to use the toilet. He lifted the window and watched the moon for a while before heading back to bed. A shadow passed across it - a cloud? - and he shivered. The sensation that something had been chasing him passed, but he still felt unreal and disconnected.
Andy pulled the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet out, and angled it so he could see his eyes in the moonlight. They shone with a black depth that he found reassuring. He breathed deeply, staring hard into those eyes. He pushed away the dreams.
He moved quietly back to the bedroom and as he climbed back into bed, a small plastic screen tumbled out of the bed onto the floor. On it were the words, "You're dreaming, Andy."
Andy sat bolt upright in his bed. He was alone, in a messy, familiar room full of sunshine. He moaned, and climbed out of bed, as exhausted as he had been when he fell into it the night before.
"Too many active dreams," he groused.
Andy went to the kitchen and made some coffee. He wasn't certain that this wasn't a dream, but he was beginning not to care.
We've all had that dream - the one where we are standing in front of a group of peers or superiors wearing less than we should be wearing. Some are standing at the front of their fifth grade class in their underwear; others are naked in church. Still others are simply wearing the wrong tie at a board meeting. Everyone's fear is unique. Everyone's fear is the same.
And we all wake up, trembling and shaken, realizing that we are alone in our own bed and our horrible secret - that we are average, and not as special as we pretend - is still locked up safe inside.
When Andy broke the surface of the day, and swam out of his dream, he was buoyed by that relief that comes from knowing that whatever you just escaped was a dream. This one had been full of strange events, unlikely situations, magic; things he knew couldn't happen had been happening, and even though he had been sure throughout that it was just a dream, it had shaken him.
He sat rubbing his face, chuckling to himself as the last remnants faded from his memory. Running naked from the castle; the clash of swords; huge, hulking beasts, chasing him; escaping through the hedges; flashes of light (magic!) bursting around him.
"Juvenile crap," he said out loud. He climbed out of bed and made his way to the shower, barely glancing in the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Even had he been looking for them, he would have missed the fragments of charred leaves in his hair.
They were gone when he stepped out and wrapped himself in his towel a few minutes later.
Today was an up day. That meant a longer commute, but he looked forward to it, as usual. He strolled out of his apartment, and through the common areas toward the upward ramp. He nodded at the kids tending the gardens along the paths; they did half-hearted work, but it earned them points on their community service requirements, and kept them busy during the hours they were locked out of the network.
Andy took some coffee from a kiosk on the way to his lift, and thanked the operator. The man seemed to know Andy, but Andy couldn't remember his name or his face. He faked it as best as he could and headed on his way, but it made him uneasy. He picked up a screen viewer and pressed a thumbprint on the pad to bring up his homepage. Scanning through his feeds and messages calmed him a bit, and he marveled that only a few years before people had still been tied to "personally owned devices" for this sort of service.
The lift was only half-full when he arrived, so he took a window seat. There was nothing to see while it was at rest, but when the lift merged with the rest of the traffic on the elevator's column, he could expect to catch a glimpse of the terminator receding off to the west as the sun swung up and out of view above. The space elevator was anchored in the Western Sahara, but he never tired of the sight of the Atlantic turning from black into deeper blues and on into that turquoise that he loved so much.
Even as his heart seemed to swell at the thought of that color, another part of him thought it was odd and unreal that he could be on the verge of euphoric over something so trivial as a sunrise. He ran his palm up from his forehead, sweeping his hair back, and rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to sooth the sudden tension there. All of it - the apartment, the neighborhood, the space elevator - seemed at once completely unreal and outlandish, and completely mundane.
He tried to stifle the sense of panic that rose up, but the other seats on the lift were filling now, and the growing crowd only made him claustrophobic. Tossing away his screen, he pushed his way back off the lift, and tried to walk quickly back to his rooms.
People reached for him, calling his name, but he didn't know any of them. He thought he should, but their faces all blurred together. Their voices - their voice - dragged at him, pulling him back, pushing him forward... tearing him apart. "You're dreaming, Andy," the voice said.
He tried to shout, but couldn't breathe; tried to breathe, but couldn't open his mouth. His nose felt stuffed with cotton...
Andy startled awake with a yelp, pushing himself up from his pillow. He had been on his face, mouth open, and he could still feel the cloth on his tongue and see the dark stain of his saliva on the pillow.
He rocked back on his knees, gasping, and almost cried out again when a hand brushed his leg: his wife. She murmured something - "You're dreaming, Andy" - something he thought was meant to be soothing. She rolled back into her own sleep. But her presence seemed to ground him. It gave him a sense of place, something to hold on to.
He pressed his hands to his mouth until the panic was gone, and as he sat there staring around the dark room, his mind ticked off a checklist of familiar things; the clock on the dresser, the light on the telephone. He reached down and felt his slippers where he had left them when he had come in to lie down.
There were no space elevators; no lifts with a view of Africa. No magicians or mythical beasts. Just his wife in his bed, and his kids in the other room. But he could still feel the need to flee, to get away. He slipped out of the bed, and went into the bathroom.
He bent to the tap, and drank for a long time. When he had his fill, he splashed a handful on his face, and then turned to use the toilet. He lifted the window and watched the moon for a while before heading back to bed. A shadow passed across it - a cloud? - and he shivered. The sensation that something had been chasing him passed, but he still felt unreal and disconnected.
Andy pulled the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet out, and angled it so he could see his eyes in the moonlight. They shone with a black depth that he found reassuring. He breathed deeply, staring hard into those eyes. He pushed away the dreams.
He moved quietly back to the bedroom and as he climbed back into bed, a small plastic screen tumbled out of the bed onto the floor. On it were the words, "You're dreaming, Andy."
Andy sat bolt upright in his bed. He was alone, in a messy, familiar room full of sunshine. He moaned, and climbed out of bed, as exhausted as he had been when he fell into it the night before.
"Too many active dreams," he groused.
Andy went to the kitchen and made some coffee. He wasn't certain that this wasn't a dream, but he was beginning not to care.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Lb4Lb#3: Kiko, the Pistol, and the Heart
La Bamba is one of those utterly ubiquitous songs; I've heard it played a million times in a million places by a million different bands. From Hawaiian dancers at the Arizona State Fair to a pair of Spanish guitarists in a cafe in St. Petersburg, Russia, it seems like everyone has taken a crack at it.
It's always a fun song to hear, but my favorite version of La Bamba has always been the version that Los Lobos played on the La Bamba film soundtrack (1987). Not only do they manage to capture the sound of Ritchie Valens, but the last few seconds of the song feature the band playing something that sounds more traditionally Mexican. It was this traditional sound that I loved more than anything else about the song.
I was fascinated enough to seek out the band's other albums; they came out with The Neighborhood, and then the awesome Kiko. Kiko was a mind-blowing breakthrough for a number of reasons. I loved the dark innocence of Kiko and the Lavendar Moon, and the wistfully mellow beauty of the Dream In Blue. Peace is still one of the tracks I give people when I want them to discover this band, because it showcases David Hidalgo's fantastic voice and intricate guitar skills so well.
But as much as I enjoyed these songs, I kept going back to the last few seconds of La Bamba, and wishing they'd do more songs with traditional instruments. It reminded me of the restaurant we used to go to with my grandparents on the occasional Sunday afternoon; it made my skin remember the feeling of the Phoenix sun, and I could recall that sensation of being full of exotic food, surrounded by people who loved me and the clean and nourishing smells of tortilla and dust hovering in the dry air.
This was in the days before I had internet, of course, or I would have found La Pistola y el Corazón a lot sooner than I did.
I was cruising through the stacks at the public library, and I was looking for something new. I'd heard about this new Buena Vista Social Club CD, and had wandered into the Spanish-language section to check it out, and there it was: this Los Lobos album full of traditional ballads, corridos, son, and... okay, I'll be honest: I don't know or care what you call them. These are just good songs, and a strong argument against ignoring music in other languages (how much sooner would I have found this gem if it had been sorted with the rest of Los Lobos' albums?)
The album only clocks in at 25 minutes, but it's 25 minutes of pure genius. This is a band that knows how to make beautiful sounds stick to a recording medium, and they are playing the songs that they loved when they were growing up. It's that love that comes through.
I ended up buying a copy - and that's saying something; I'm notoriously cheap. I took it with me to England when we were stationed there in 1998, and when the grey gloom got me down, I would put this album on in my E-reg Mini Cooper, and blast through the tiny villages, fields of rapeseed and rabbits, and across abandoned train tracks with golden sunshine in my heart and badly mispronounced Spanish pouring from my lips.
Needless to say, I've been happy with their more recent stuff; This Time was timeless, and I had a blast hearing favorites like Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, and Richard Thompson cover Los Lobos tracks on The Ride. Cesar Rosas's Soul Disguise was another favorite while I was in the UK.
All good stuff; but when I want to hear Los Lobos, it is La Pistola y el Corazon I reach for every time.
Peace.
It's always a fun song to hear, but my favorite version of La Bamba has always been the version that Los Lobos played on the La Bamba film soundtrack (1987). Not only do they manage to capture the sound of Ritchie Valens, but the last few seconds of the song feature the band playing something that sounds more traditionally Mexican. It was this traditional sound that I loved more than anything else about the song.
I was fascinated enough to seek out the band's other albums; they came out with The Neighborhood, and then the awesome Kiko. Kiko was a mind-blowing breakthrough for a number of reasons. I loved the dark innocence of Kiko and the Lavendar Moon, and the wistfully mellow beauty of the Dream In Blue. Peace is still one of the tracks I give people when I want them to discover this band, because it showcases David Hidalgo's fantastic voice and intricate guitar skills so well.
But as much as I enjoyed these songs, I kept going back to the last few seconds of La Bamba, and wishing they'd do more songs with traditional instruments. It reminded me of the restaurant we used to go to with my grandparents on the occasional Sunday afternoon; it made my skin remember the feeling of the Phoenix sun, and I could recall that sensation of being full of exotic food, surrounded by people who loved me and the clean and nourishing smells of tortilla and dust hovering in the dry air.
This was in the days before I had internet, of course, or I would have found La Pistola y el Corazón a lot sooner than I did.
I was cruising through the stacks at the public library, and I was looking for something new. I'd heard about this new Buena Vista Social Club CD, and had wandered into the Spanish-language section to check it out, and there it was: this Los Lobos album full of traditional ballads, corridos, son, and... okay, I'll be honest: I don't know or care what you call them. These are just good songs, and a strong argument against ignoring music in other languages (how much sooner would I have found this gem if it had been sorted with the rest of Los Lobos' albums?)
The album only clocks in at 25 minutes, but it's 25 minutes of pure genius. This is a band that knows how to make beautiful sounds stick to a recording medium, and they are playing the songs that they loved when they were growing up. It's that love that comes through.
I ended up buying a copy - and that's saying something; I'm notoriously cheap. I took it with me to England when we were stationed there in 1998, and when the grey gloom got me down, I would put this album on in my E-reg Mini Cooper, and blast through the tiny villages, fields of rapeseed and rabbits, and across abandoned train tracks with golden sunshine in my heart and badly mispronounced Spanish pouring from my lips.
Needless to say, I've been happy with their more recent stuff; This Time was timeless, and I had a blast hearing favorites like Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, and Richard Thompson cover Los Lobos tracks on The Ride. Cesar Rosas's Soul Disguise was another favorite while I was in the UK.
All good stuff; but when I want to hear Los Lobos, it is La Pistola y el Corazon I reach for every time.
Peace.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Lb4Lb #2: The Rhythm of the Saints
Some stories are magical, meant to be sung
Song from the mouth of the river
When the world was young
And all of these spirit voices rule the night
-Spirit VoicesIt is hard for me to be moved by poetry. I'm just a little too cynical, and a little too leery of pretty words and images. I find beauty in the broken and the deformed things (see the first Lb4Lb review for proof of that), and tend not to be easily impressed by the flowery or the openly sentimental.
So when I tell you that an album is unapologetically beautiful, deeply moving, and still complex and fascinating after nearly twenty years on my "play often" list, you have to know it is full of powerful stuff.
Soon our fortunes will be made, my darling
And we will leave this loathsome little town
- ProofI discovered Paul Simon's world famous Graceland album near the end of my high school days, and literally wore my first cassette copy out in my car stereo before I graduated.
There was some controversy at the time about the U.S. embargo against apartheid, but it was Graceland that got me heavily into African music about then. I was so in love with the music on that album, I went and sought out every artist related to it I could find: Los Lobos, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, C.J. Chenier, Bakithi Kumalo (who played that wicked 2-measure bass solo on You Can Call Me Al), and eventually the classic compilation, The Indestructible Beat of Soweto - Volume One.
When I found out about the The Rhythm Of The Saints, I couldn't wait to hear it. I scoured the used record shops for a copy, because there was no way I could afford it new, and finally, about a year after it came out, I did hear it... and went back to Graceland.
She says ''Maybe these emotions are
As near to love as love will ever be''
So I agree...
- She Moves OnOkay, so it wasn't an immediate "hit" with me. I liked the rat-a-tat-tat of The Obvious Child and the frenetic guitar work of Proof enough to play it on occasion, and even got to know some of the words well enough to sing along. My best friend loved the soaring Portugese vocals Naná Vasconcelos provided on Spirit Voices enough to go root out his album, Rain Dance, but at the time, I only thought it was a pretty song.
I was immune to the poetry.
Who says: Hard times?
I'm used to them
The speeding planet burns
I'm used to that
My life's so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears
- The Cool, Cool RiverIt was only after a period of about ten years that I began to realize how often I was turning to this album when I had hard times. That line about my life being so common, and music substituting for tears... that captured me. Pretty words mean nothing, but THAT - that struck me to the core of my being.
We had a lot of fun
We had a lot of money
We had a little son and we thought we'd call him Sonny
Sonny gets married and moves away
Sonny has a baby and bills to pay
Sonny gets sunnier
Day by day by day by day
- The Obvious ChildThe ton-of-bricks moment, the moment I realized how deeply this album had hooked me, was when I found myself paging through my yearbook, telling my daughter about the people under the funny haircuts. My god, some of them have died! Some have fled from themselves... and I have certainly struggled from there to get here. And these songs somehow knew before I did, how my life would play out.
That is the work of genius.
These pretty songs, with the flowing rhythms, the lush arrangements, sweet vocals, and the slippery, dancing lyrics; they are not just beautiful: they are beauty. There is no "off note", no track that is not worth plumbing for every word and note. If you are caught singing along to this album while stopped at a traffic light, there is no line that will cause you to feel embarrassed; it is that good.
These stories are magical, indeed, and were meant to be sung again and again. Aloud. In front of strangers.
I know the reason I
Feel so blessed
My heart still splashes
Inside my chest...
- She Moves OnPretty words can betray you, mere skill amounts to cleverness, and cleverness wears thin. But these songs are a constant, brilliant reminder of the magical ingredient that keeps this heart splashing: joy. "The cross is in the ballpark", he sings, but it means nothing without that joy. And that really should be Obvious, child.
Song from the mouth of the river
When the world was young
And all of these spirit voices rule the night
-Spirit VoicesIt is hard for me to be moved by poetry. I'm just a little too cynical, and a little too leery of pretty words and images. I find beauty in the broken and the deformed things (see the first Lb4Lb review for proof of that), and tend not to be easily impressed by the flowery or the openly sentimental.
So when I tell you that an album is unapologetically beautiful, deeply moving, and still complex and fascinating after nearly twenty years on my "play often" list, you have to know it is full of powerful stuff.
Soon our fortunes will be made, my darling
And we will leave this loathsome little town
- ProofI discovered Paul Simon's world famous Graceland album near the end of my high school days, and literally wore my first cassette copy out in my car stereo before I graduated.
There was some controversy at the time about the U.S. embargo against apartheid, but it was Graceland that got me heavily into African music about then. I was so in love with the music on that album, I went and sought out every artist related to it I could find: Los Lobos, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, C.J. Chenier, Bakithi Kumalo (who played that wicked 2-measure bass solo on You Can Call Me Al), and eventually the classic compilation, The Indestructible Beat of Soweto - Volume One.
When I found out about the The Rhythm Of The Saints, I couldn't wait to hear it. I scoured the used record shops for a copy, because there was no way I could afford it new, and finally, about a year after it came out, I did hear it... and went back to Graceland.
She says ''Maybe these emotions are
As near to love as love will ever be''
So I agree...
- She Moves OnOkay, so it wasn't an immediate "hit" with me. I liked the rat-a-tat-tat of The Obvious Child and the frenetic guitar work of Proof enough to play it on occasion, and even got to know some of the words well enough to sing along. My best friend loved the soaring Portugese vocals Naná Vasconcelos provided on Spirit Voices enough to go root out his album, Rain Dance, but at the time, I only thought it was a pretty song.
I was immune to the poetry.
Who says: Hard times?
I'm used to them
The speeding planet burns
I'm used to that
My life's so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears
- The Cool, Cool RiverIt was only after a period of about ten years that I began to realize how often I was turning to this album when I had hard times. That line about my life being so common, and music substituting for tears... that captured me. Pretty words mean nothing, but THAT - that struck me to the core of my being.
We had a lot of fun
We had a lot of money
We had a little son and we thought we'd call him Sonny
Sonny gets married and moves away
Sonny has a baby and bills to pay
Sonny gets sunnier
Day by day by day by day
- The Obvious ChildThe ton-of-bricks moment, the moment I realized how deeply this album had hooked me, was when I found myself paging through my yearbook, telling my daughter about the people under the funny haircuts. My god, some of them have died! Some have fled from themselves... and I have certainly struggled from there to get here. And these songs somehow knew before I did, how my life would play out.
That is the work of genius.
These pretty songs, with the flowing rhythms, the lush arrangements, sweet vocals, and the slippery, dancing lyrics; they are not just beautiful: they are beauty. There is no "off note", no track that is not worth plumbing for every word and note. If you are caught singing along to this album while stopped at a traffic light, there is no line that will cause you to feel embarrassed; it is that good.
These stories are magical, indeed, and were meant to be sung again and again. Aloud. In front of strangers.
I know the reason I
Feel so blessed
My heart still splashes
Inside my chest...
- She Moves OnPretty words can betray you, mere skill amounts to cleverness, and cleverness wears thin. But these songs are a constant, brilliant reminder of the magical ingredient that keeps this heart splashing: joy. "The cross is in the ballpark", he sings, but it means nothing without that joy. And that really should be Obvious, child.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Doots III: The Suspense
The dog brought her head up when she heard the snap, and she thought then that it was all over.
It was not.
Over the next few days, as she roamed the house, she thought she could smell the sweet, clinging odor of decay, but she couldn't localize it. It could have been in the kitchen; could have been in the bathroom. It might even have been behind a wall somewhere. Or it could have just been something in the kitchen trash. One never really knows where bad smells come from when there are children in the home.
It had been weeks since the Mouse Man had come, laying his snap traps and glue strips throughout the house. And since Doots had vanished down the hole under the bathroom sink, she had not seen or heard a whisper from him. The traps had remained empty, though. So the Mouse Man returned, bearing his poisoned grains, and hid those throughout the house, too.
The family had begun speaking of "the mice" rather than "the mouse", though. That had been the only realy change in the great standoff. The Mouse Man had uncovered two corners in the house - both in forgotten spaces in the backs of closets - where the "Mouse" had built nests. Nests: plural. More than one. Thus, "mice" and not "mouse".
And the dog mourned her friend, though she sensed he was not gone.
Winter dragged on, finally giving way to spring. In fact, it tried to leap over spring and directly into summer, but missed by the smallest fraction of an inch, and the weather scrabbled back and forth between blistering humidity and near-freezing rain for a few days.
When the roulette wheel came to a stop, and the little, steel ball finally clicked into "spring", the trees exuded their fine, yellow spunk in one great, universal arboreal orgasm. Everyone developed breathing problems and red, streaming eyes; the dog began shedding her magnificent winter coat; and the windows raised and lowered in accordance with the predicted pollen count each day.
The dog sat locked in her kennel one morning, enjoying the air from the open window next to the box. She was not thinking about lonliness or despair; she was not missing her little friend, or their huddled winter conversations. That was when the voice returned.
"Hey, kibble breath! What's shaking?"
"Doots?" she gasped, and she looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
"Sure, I guess you can call me that," said the voice. "We're all one big family."
The voice peeked out from the corner of the kennel. It was not Doots. This was a smaller, younger mouse. But it carried itself the same way, and spoke in the same manner. She finally had to ask it to be sure.
"Strictly speaking, Doots is dead," said the new mouse. "Though, we never really die. Doots got 'reabsorbed' is all." The new, little mouse licked her lips at the memory. "We're a collective; we share everything, even our bodies and our mind. We are all 'Doots', really. You can think of me as a 'Dootlet' if you want to!" And she giggled a high, squeaky mouse giggle.
The dog was not amused.
Dogs, by their nature, are not great philosophers. Some do enjoy a bit of meditation, but most prefer to nap when they aren't being active. Cats are the thinkers; dogs prefer straightforward action, physical contact, and a clear, stable day to day universe. This whole "mouse collective consciousness" thing was lost on a dog.
And this dog had been suffering. Her friendship with Doots had brought an unfamiliar shame into her relationship with the humans. She had agonized over where her loyalties lay, and had put up with their accusations and their mockery. She had been hurt, and here was a stranger asking her to accept a substitute for that friendship.
She barked. Being part beagle, it was the peculiar baying yelp that said she was on the trail of prey. And the Dootlet - as far as a mouse is able to do so - blanched with terror, and dove under the cushion of the kennel. The dog writhed and tore at the inside of her box, trying to get at the fleeing mouse.
It was a grand ruckus, and it ended with a terror-bleached mouse flinging herself out into the open for a moment, only to dart back under the baseboards.
"Screw you, pup!" the angry little voice shouted. "We coulda been friends!"
"I have friends," said the dog. And she curled up to await the return of her humans.
But she kept one eye on the baseboards. Because now, she knew that the game was on, and which side she was playing for.
It was not.
Over the next few days, as she roamed the house, she thought she could smell the sweet, clinging odor of decay, but she couldn't localize it. It could have been in the kitchen; could have been in the bathroom. It might even have been behind a wall somewhere. Or it could have just been something in the kitchen trash. One never really knows where bad smells come from when there are children in the home.
It had been weeks since the Mouse Man had come, laying his snap traps and glue strips throughout the house. And since Doots had vanished down the hole under the bathroom sink, she had not seen or heard a whisper from him. The traps had remained empty, though. So the Mouse Man returned, bearing his poisoned grains, and hid those throughout the house, too.
The family had begun speaking of "the mice" rather than "the mouse", though. That had been the only realy change in the great standoff. The Mouse Man had uncovered two corners in the house - both in forgotten spaces in the backs of closets - where the "Mouse" had built nests. Nests: plural. More than one. Thus, "mice" and not "mouse".
And the dog mourned her friend, though she sensed he was not gone.
Winter dragged on, finally giving way to spring. In fact, it tried to leap over spring and directly into summer, but missed by the smallest fraction of an inch, and the weather scrabbled back and forth between blistering humidity and near-freezing rain for a few days.
When the roulette wheel came to a stop, and the little, steel ball finally clicked into "spring", the trees exuded their fine, yellow spunk in one great, universal arboreal orgasm. Everyone developed breathing problems and red, streaming eyes; the dog began shedding her magnificent winter coat; and the windows raised and lowered in accordance with the predicted pollen count each day.
The dog sat locked in her kennel one morning, enjoying the air from the open window next to the box. She was not thinking about lonliness or despair; she was not missing her little friend, or their huddled winter conversations. That was when the voice returned.
"Hey, kibble breath! What's shaking?"
"Doots?" she gasped, and she looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
"Sure, I guess you can call me that," said the voice. "We're all one big family."
The voice peeked out from the corner of the kennel. It was not Doots. This was a smaller, younger mouse. But it carried itself the same way, and spoke in the same manner. She finally had to ask it to be sure.
"Strictly speaking, Doots is dead," said the new mouse. "Though, we never really die. Doots got 'reabsorbed' is all." The new, little mouse licked her lips at the memory. "We're a collective; we share everything, even our bodies and our mind. We are all 'Doots', really. You can think of me as a 'Dootlet' if you want to!" And she giggled a high, squeaky mouse giggle.
The dog was not amused.
Dogs, by their nature, are not great philosophers. Some do enjoy a bit of meditation, but most prefer to nap when they aren't being active. Cats are the thinkers; dogs prefer straightforward action, physical contact, and a clear, stable day to day universe. This whole "mouse collective consciousness" thing was lost on a dog.
And this dog had been suffering. Her friendship with Doots had brought an unfamiliar shame into her relationship with the humans. She had agonized over where her loyalties lay, and had put up with their accusations and their mockery. She had been hurt, and here was a stranger asking her to accept a substitute for that friendship.
She barked. Being part beagle, it was the peculiar baying yelp that said she was on the trail of prey. And the Dootlet - as far as a mouse is able to do so - blanched with terror, and dove under the cushion of the kennel. The dog writhed and tore at the inside of her box, trying to get at the fleeing mouse.
It was a grand ruckus, and it ended with a terror-bleached mouse flinging herself out into the open for a moment, only to dart back under the baseboards.
"Screw you, pup!" the angry little voice shouted. "We coulda been friends!"
"I have friends," said the dog. And she curled up to await the return of her humans.
But she kept one eye on the baseboards. Because now, she knew that the game was on, and which side she was playing for.
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