I’m hopelessly old and out of date in terms of music. I love Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. I still play their music regularly. Jeeze, I’m hopeless. Anything new I like has to somehow sound a little bit like the best in old-timey vocal female jazz. So I like young singers like Norah Jones, Molly Johnson, Bernadette Seacrest, Patrice Pike, Diane Schuur and Diane Reeves. These are women who know how to sing and don’t hide behind a lot of noise; they are out there with their voice and no other protection.
What I hate are vocalists you can’t even hear for all the crap beating in the background. Janet Jackson is a good example. Can she even sing? Who knows? You can’t hear a damn thing she says over the . . .
Tiny red and white blossoms from the trees scatter in front of my windshield in the spring breeze. It’s like being in a multicolored snowstorm when it’s 80 degrees outside. Fallen blossoms pile up to kickable depths on the sidewalks, just like the leaves did in fall. I keep finding blossoms on my carpet that have ridden home with me in the tread of my athletic shoes.
I saw a quail today, trotting across the trail near the park. Just one. Where were his pals? I saw mating roadrunners on the same trail a day or two ago. Such a voyeur I turned out to be.
This morning there was a pile of scattered bits of fur beside the trail. A stark reminder that if you let your cats roam the neighborhood they will become coyote kibble. . . .
It was my first visit to Aunt Lily’s. I didn’t know she existed until a week ago. It took ages to find the place, and I ducked desperately into the bathroom almost the moment I arrived. There was a home-made sign on the bathroom wall: Godesses Have Hips. Next to it was a framed photo of the Venus de Milo, armless and not particularly hippy, either.
Aunt Lily waited in the living room, thin and defintely not hippy herself. She offered me some iced tea, “Now that you’ve drained,” and plucked nervously at the hem of her shirt. . . .
Flying a kite
In the chilly
Makes you remember
The tug of the string
On your hand
When you were a kid,
Makes you remember
The thrill of that
Miracle of staying
In the air
It’s not the wind
Or the kite
It’s the remembering.
I stood in the dusty and fly-blown museum before a display of mastodon bones. All the tiny building’s doors and windows stood open to the blazing July heat radiating from the ancient Italian rocks lining the street outside.
The stone floor echoed with the clicking of high heels. I looked up to see a chic woman in a business suit, her hair immaculate in a dark twist atop her head, her eyes flaming with anger.
Paolo! she shouted, and burst through a small door into what looked like . . .
Okay, then. You want the Code A plan? The phone salesman looked at me expectantly. I realized I hadn’t listened to his last five minutes of sales pitch.
Code. That’s the thought that kept sticking in my head. If I could dream up an outgoing voice mail message that was in code, then the one person I wanted to know where I was going would understand. I could disappear, just me and my cell phone.
The mob wise guys wouldn’t have a clue . . .
A candlelit dinner
Grade A+ presentation
Ample pasta and
Thick hunks of
Sounds so romantic
But it’s just
I’ll make it
Not first and
But all the way
All the way
The best time I had as a child was playing hide-and-seek in my grandmother’s three story rooming house. With the basement and the front porch thrown in, the house was a treasure chest of hidden alcoves, narrow stairwells, obscure corners and roomy built-in cabinetry. You could move silently from floor to floor on the downhill route because you could slide down the banisters. If you held really still and didn’t breathe, searchers would pass right by your hiding place and not notice you there. Of course, you couldn’t go into rooms that were rented out to grandma’s roomers, but you could . . .
She held the box under my chin. I poked my nose in the Celestial Seasonings package hoping for a clue about what to expect from the Blueberry Zinger. Instead I inhaled a lingering whiff of hand soap. The smell of skin and soap seem much more interesting than the aroma of the tea, so I took her hand and pulled it closer.
Her skin was warm and dry and I turned her hand so I could explore the innerside of her wrist with my nose and mouth.
Oh, she breathed, and dropped the box of tea to cup my face . . .
Who woulda thunk that Anthony Hopkins would become a romantic leading man in his older years? But he is in the movie
The World’s Fastest Indian, a wonderful story about achieving lifetime goals. There’s an undercurrent of seniors in love (or at least in bed) in the story.
The highlight of the movie for me (not counting the speed-racing success) was the very real looking Diane Ladd, whose skin is not stretched to the slickness of a skating rink. She looks natural and more beautiful than ever.
Now, about that little prostate problem the hero . . .