From Michael at Innocents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations:
I get really defensive when something I love is criticized. Which is stupid. It’s not a criticism of me, just of a work of art that I had no part in creating. But it feels like it’s a refutation of my world view-that if you don’t feel like I feel about it, I must be crazy. Which is also stupid.
But, as Joyce Carol Oates once put it, because it is bitter, and because it is my heart, that’s how I feel. Billy Joel is good because he speaks to me, and you can't convince me otherwise.
This one always speaks to me.
And now I'm headed to a wedding rehearsal in Cleveland. I'm singing hymns in the wedding tomorrow. Lots of Alleluias and Hearts Filled with Joy and several Maria Gratia Plenas. I don't know the bride and groom but my best friend does, and she says they're in love, that they were made for each other.
It's going to be a beautiful spring day. The tulips are up and the trees are in full bloom. And I'm looking forward to witnessing their I Do's from the balcony of an old stone church. Alleluia!
I was standing in Milan's great railway station and found that I wanted to become something else, a mythological bush or tree perhaps. There in that Milanese crowd, clutching my slippery suitcase, a man among thousands, one with an ache at the base of his skull, I saw that I needed to become Daphne. Ovidian Daphne. Formerly a thing of flesh and then a flowering thing. “Bring on the metamorphosis,” I thought. “Gods, help me for once!”
An old woman saw I was talking to myself and she gave me the stink eye. I smiled as if she was a beloved relative. They hate that, the stink eye people. She scurried off bobbing her head like a magpie.
“Oh bring on the disambiguation! Come on, Apollo!”
Did the Gods help Professor Kuusisto? Did he morph? Did he run into anymore stink eye people? You'll have to read his entire post to find out.
I'm on my new Typepad dashboard (a name that drives me nuts because it's just a little too clever and that I get a kick out of all at the same time) trying to find my Typelists, which of course I can't find because when some computer wizard makes things better, especially on some digital dashboard, you can't find whatever it is you're looking for that you used to be able to find in one second flat, and if you can find it? Doesn't work.
Anyway, I got bored trying to find my Typelist area and started to read Typepad's suggestions for what to call your blog if you were just starting to blog (does anyone do that anymore?) and are trying to think of a name. Here is their suggestion:
Give your blog a name that captures who you are and what you’re writing about. Make it memorable. Make it unique. Use descriptive words and phrases — like wicked or juicy or pan-fried.
The Skimmer, Blue Kid and I were sitting in the living room together, a rare occurrence these days. We had just finished up a breakfast of bacon and eggs The Skimmer had made for us. Blue Kid was watching Across the Universe, I was watching it too, stopping every few minutes to read from my new book, Imperfect Birds by Anne Lamott, wondering why I was reading a book about living with a rotten yet beloved teenager when I was living with my own. Reminded me of what The Skimmer used to say to me years ago when I'd want him to watch Thirtysomething with me.
"Why would I want to watch that stupid show? I'm living it!"
When the movie ended Blue Kid said, "We were trying to figure out our favorite songs of all time last night."
"Those are good ones. Listen to this. I took this stupid quiz (h/t Kathleen) on the Internet yesterday. You had to name, like, 30 Classic Rock songs..."
The Skimmer said, "Is that what you were doing? I was trying to name them."
Blue Kid said under his breath, "Ugh, Classic Rock..."
"Yes! And I only got about half. Can you believe that? What is Don't Fear the Reaper called? Just Don't Fear? Just Reaper? More Cowbell?!"
"I think it's just called The Reaper."
"Well, that's stupid. And get this. The ones I got right were, like, Foghat and Lynyrd Skynyrd. What does that say about me?!"
From the look on Blue Kid's face, I probably don't want to know what he thinks that says about me. Although I'll bet he's never even heard of Foghat.
What a dork!
"Mom, the only reason there is such a thing as Classic Rock is because at the time that's all there was and no one had a choice. Because if they would have had a choice, they wouldn't have chosen that."
"Oh, shut up. My music is awesome. It's throwing frisbees, barefoot in the park on a sunny day music. It's driving around with your friends on a Saturday night music. Did I tell you I friended Peter Frampton on Facebook last week? Well, I did!"
"Ew!"
"Heh."
BK continued, "Well, I wouldn't have been listening to Classic Rock. I would have been listening to the blues."
"Well, lah-tee-dah for you. Did I ever tell you I caught a frisbee Peter Frampton threw off the stage?! How cool was I?!"
And with that and another disgusted look, Blue Kid ran up the stairs and into his room. I went back to my book, where Rosie, the daughter character, was erupting at her mother once again:
"How stupid are you? You're a joke. Why would you ever think that?"
I paused and thought, BK knows better than to ever come right out and call me stupid or a joke. And then I heard the music he turned up loud, coming from his room.
I am not in a lovey-dovey mood today. I'm tired. I'm hungry. And. I'm unmotivated. To even write a sentence in a coherent fashion.
So, I'm surprised that I'm finding things on the Internets that I love... I was going to write "this morning," but alas, it is already "this afternoon." Where did my morning go? My life is passing me by.
Anyway, back to the things I've found that I love this afternoon.
Oh my god, I know! It's so cold! We're all so cold, and wet, and it's gray and it sucks and what the fuck.
Listen, remember two days ago? When it was 80 degrees and beautiful, and you were all running and biking, and there were no dead bodies/deer on the side of 90 or mining disasters?
Oh, you don't remember, do you? Because you are apparently incapable of remembering anything that happened beyond the last 24 hours.
I see now that I'm 55 that I'm for "small graces"--that it may be the only thing to strive for. I should add "anymore" to the end of that. That's what they do in Iowa. They say: "It's getting so your house costs less than a tank of gas, anymore." Or: "I could use some more bacon on my bacon, anymore." Anymore is one of the small graces.
I went outside and watched a man in a chicken suit--a large chicken suit, a large man, all feathers white in the noon sun, watched him parade up and down clutching a sign on a stick which said "We Deliver" and I wanted to add "anymore" but decided I didn't want to talk to the chicken so I kept moving.
I pass a man every day at lunch time who stands near the edge of a busy road, holding a sign on a stick for a fast food chain. He's not large and he doesn't wear a chicken suit. He seems to shrink in the noon sun. He's scrawny, shorter than the hand-drawn sign, and he appears to be in need of a bath. I peg him as older, whatever older is to me these days, but I'd bet he's younger than he looks. His face is deeply lined. Two pack a day smoker. He's usually wearing dirty old blue jeans and a plaid overcoat as he gloomily squints into the middle distance, waving at drivers who pay him no mind.
I like his style though.
He waves like Queen Elizabeth.
Left hand cupped tightly, swiveling to and fro non-stop, at a slow steady pace.
I thought to wave back yesterday but jerked my hand back for some reason. Changed the radio station instead. But, I think I'll wave back on Monday. I'll go with the fast, fingers apart open handed wave. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left.
One day I might even pull in and buy a sandwich.
In either event, I imagine he'll keep staring east, paying me no mind at all.
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