One of the most rewarding and confounding things about being an Earthling who loves music is watching my tastes change with time, or better said, watching them grow – I don’t think there’s very much music I once loved I no longer do. My first favorite acts (at age 3) were The Beatles, Linda Ronstadt, and The Chipmunks, and I still adore them all today.
More surprising to me is how much I’ve come to cherish music I would have once loathed. 2010 became the year I “discovered” easy listening, both light music (which can be found in Amoeba Music's classical section) and lounge music (which can be found in the coincidentally-named Lounge section).
I take the bus to and from work at Amoeba Music, and rarely do I disembark without witnessing something story-worthy. Unfortunately, these stories usually fall under the “horror” genre. Occasionally I tell them to the boyfriend, but usually I tell no one, because even remarkable things become forgettable when they happen constantly.
The above filmed snippet occurred on my way home after working a recent Friday. The elderly woman in the seat in front of me is flipping-off the many people, both locals and tourists, men, women and children, that swarm the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard at night. What everyone did that so riled the wrinkly rider remains a mystery. Later on in our journey, when the bus stopped in front of an assisted living establishment, she began gesticulating again, only this time she waved (to no-one – there was no-one standing outside the building) and crossed herself like a good Catholic. In-between these two fits of cursing/blessing, she simply sat and sniffled into her small stash of tissue, kept clutched in her claw. Aww.
If I was a smarter writer, I would simply ride these buses daily and record the many scenes I see. As it is, I stuff my Skullcandy earbudsEustachian tube deep (often vainly), trying to block out all external noise with sweeter sounds such as these:
Don’t take this personally, but I totally don’t feel like writing this paragraph you’re reading. As grateful as I am to have a slot on the illustrious Amoeblog, and even though I have a great big crush on you, dear reader, there are times (they’re rare, but there) when I feel like I have nothing to give, and this is one of those times.
A week ago I was sick, and this week I had a brief but intense emotional breakdown; I cried so hard I dry-heaved, and gave voice to deeply personal and vulnerable psychological wounds in a tone not unlike Mary Tyler Moore when she got very upset with Rob Petrie or Lou Grant.
I mean really... what's the point of anything, anyhow?
As if all this wasn’t enough to render me limp, I discovered today that our young cat, Maybe, has a taste for new, unused garbage bags…
I am not a strong man. Well, physically I’m totally strong and could absolutely beat up your dad, but my heart is tender and prone to aching. This world often feels too cruel and complicated for the likes of me. Usually I can fake it, but every once in a while the stress and fear and sadness fills my holding tank to capacity, and there’s spillage.
Today the boyfriend and I celebrate the fourth anniversary of our first seeing each other’s faces. Upon awakening this morning, we each remarked that it hasn’t felt like four years, but shorter. In part this could be because we have so much fun together, but it also helps that the season-less weather of LA makes everything feel like one, very long year.
It was music that brought us together, which is funny when you consider we often have such different tastes. For instance, he thinks cranking some Tori Amos while taking a hot bubble bath is swell, while I find the very idea akin to suicide; when curling up with a good book, I like to listen to some classical lieder, an past-time he would typically describe as “poop-facey.”
Our first connection was made on Friendster. You young ‘uns won’t know anything about this, but long, long ago – before there was Facebook (yes, it’s true!) – there was a site called Friendster, which amounted to about the same thing: letting you maintain the illusion that you’re “in touch” with everyone you care about and simultaneously allowing you to seek out companionship with strangers based on what movies/music they list as liking.
“He’s a surgeon who looks like a young George Clooney but oh – I could never date a guy who likes 311 and Matrix Reloaded. Our babies would have webbed feet.”