March 2007 Archives
It is its job to have some space available for current tasks, however, and so it is annoying that I can't remember what I had for lunch, can't remember where I'm supposed to be tomorrow morning (daughter's honors breakfast -- be there!), BUT by god, if a bad '70s rock song that I never liked by a band I never cared for comes on the satellite, my brain will skillfully perform a task assigned to it more than 30 years ago and prompt me to sing along, every word. Every awful, hated word. The lyrics to a Bad Company song will stay with me forever; what time I need to pick up a daughter at dance is something I need to double-check every single day. Don't tell me your brain is your friend!
All this melting has brought prodigious fog, which made a drive out to some western reaches of the area more than bit treacherous tonight. I actually had to put on my flashers as insurance against some lumbering tractor-trailer not noticing me, as visibility was down to about 20 feet in spots. Slow, slow going. But very cool, still. For a while it wasn't clear if it was fog, or if the clouds had just come down that low -- it was just continuous vapor from the ground to the sky.
I was tempted to reward myself on the way back with a shake from Coldstone Creamery, something outrageously chocolatey and heavy, but I couldn't face a repeat of the debacle from last summer when I tried to reap that reward. The shake seemed to require special ingredients from "the back," which took some time to procure (long enough that I figured the 20-something scooper was burning one on the way over -- and if you don't know what I mean, you've gotta get into the special features on your "Big Lebowski" disc). Eventually he re-emerged, cellphone to ear, and said to me, "Dude! We're outta milk!" He then explained how the person on the other end of his conversation, his purported "buddy," would be able to bring some milk from the store, like, really soon.
See, here's my thing: I'm way into my 40s. I don't answer to "dude." Don't call me "dude." Just don't. (And not "his dudeness" or "el duderino," either, whether or not you're into the whole brevity thing.) So, I bailed, and since then have feared each time I have gone there that they might not have some essential ingredient that is the very basis of their business model. Tonight, I just wouldn't have been able to take the heartbreak.
You know what's better than endorphins? Me, either.
In pulling up that Amazon link for the book, I tripped across a book I'd never heard of but may have to wade through just for the title: Hotel California: The True-life Adventures of Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, Mitchell, Taylor, Browne, Ronstadt, Geffen, the Eagles, and Their Many Friends. Reminds me of the old Flo & Eddie impression of Joni Mitchell: "I've had Stephen and Graham and Neil and Jackson, and the Eagles, too! How 'bout you?"
And trying to get that lyric right led me to what every Joni-obsessed fan would need: a listing of songs mentioning Joni. And, no, they didn't miss Blotto's "We Are The Nowtones." Now, that's completeness.
Okay, option 2: Also a reality show: Celebrity Runaway Truck Ramp. Each week, we put D-list celebrities in brakeless tractor trailers and film then careening down a mountain pass and coming to a halt in a runaway truck ramp.
Okay, maybe I've been driving the Vermont mountain roads too much. I'll admit it.
It's not that I'm not here, it's just that I'm skiing, and working, and shooting, and figuring out a spring vacation, and trying to figure out my future. And teaching my daughters to play Trivial Pursuit, which is tough when it seems like half the cards in our old, first-generation "genus edition" have wrong answers (or at least answers that time has passed by). Plus, there's the whole tenterhooks situation, which just isn't conducive to the writing. I expect the bottom to drop out of the tenterhooks soon, and then I'll be free to enjoy the spring skiing. And the spring biking. And all that that implies.