who doesn't love the sound of their own voice?

the sword and the spirit

I caught an airing of Blood Diamond on basic cable not too long ago. In other words, heavily edited for tv. And yet. Did I feel cheated? Somehow robbed of a truer experience, short of actually purchasing a one-way ticket to one of Africa's most morally-deficient cesspools? Was it not a genuine depiction because I missed out on some f-bombs and a few extra glimpses at human brutality?

People who claim that some movies just need to "go there" are kidding themselves. People who "go there" are weak - taking the easy way out. Anyone can do edgy nowadays. Film festivals are full of pretentious, supposedly-first-rate-poke-fun-at-the-mores-of-society pieces of garbage. A couple decades ago, it wouldn't have been garbage. Because it would truly have been eye-opening and worth it's weight in shock value - waking people up to the idea that there are several different states of mind to consider out there.

Now? Now, it's just embarrassing. And what's worse is that the consumers just eat it up. We are spoon-fed trash and, rather unlike the little orphan Oliver who bravely approached the master, we are flaccid and complacent receivers of this trash. We do not expect more. So we do not get it.

Blood Diamond was an exceptional movie. Frightening. Because it was supposed to be. Ugly. Because it needed to be. And I never want to see it again. Because it did its job.

Back in high school, after seeing What's Eating Gilbert Grape, I had to defend my honor in the face of enjoying the acting of Leo DiCaprio when all the little girlyheads thought I liked him because his face was all over Teen Beat. Crushes are for suckers. That kid is brilliant. And I knew it then.

But Djimon Hounsou absolutely steals every scene he's in, and some that he's not. He is the heart of this movie. The frightened, wretched and vengeful yet redemptive heart of this movie. I truly believed in his suffering as Solomon, whose entire life is utterly destroyed by the Sierra Leone Civil War, as he watches his family torn from his grasp and his son taken over to rebel forces, brainwashed such that, later on, he does not even acknowledge his father. Here is a man, caught up in a vicious and bloodthirsty world and involved in a race to the finish with greedy, manipulative, and desperate figures when his real wish is to return to and protect his family, no matter the consequences.

There is an especially riveting and intense scene in which Solomon beats a man to death with a shovel. There are two things I learned from this scene:

1. While informing a friend later of my horror and fear during this scene, he replied, "Man, you should've watched the real thing, unedited." Why? Because somehow it would mean more? Somehow, it could have been more brutal to actually see the results? Pardon me for not having to see to believe that the man attacked was deader than a doornail. I got the idea. And it was horrific. It was a frightening moment of insanity - perfectly performed by Hounsou. And, again, it did its job.

2. I kind of wanted to see more. I hated that man Solomon killed. I found myself perched on the edge of my couch, gritting my teeth and willing him to hit harder. And to never stop. Perhaps I'm not the prudish, self-righteous viewer I claim to be. I felt vindication afterwards. I wanted that man dead the whole time. Now, I think of myself as a relatively compassionate person. Scratch that, not even relatively - most of the time, no matter the circumstance, I'm attempting to be as unbiased as I can - to consider all sides. Because, deep down, we are all human and humans make mistakes and blah, blah, blah. But this man, Poison, played to a peerlessly disgusting point by David Harewood (whom I'd never heard of then and not since) was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad man.

Should I be watching something like this? Something that boils my blood so? Should I subject myself to situations that invoke that kind of behavior from me? On one hand, I appreciate the ability to see within myself like this. When I have the opportunity to watch a realistic world unfold in unreal time. Because you notice things about yourself when you watch movies that wake you up. You realize your basest desires. And, if you're lucky, you begin to understand them. What their triggers are. You can be less ashamed of the natural man and be more accustomed to how to deal with it when he roars his ugly head and tells you to beat a man to a bloody pulp with a rusty shovel.

On the other hand, do I relish the welcoming of the natural man? Is it something I look forward to, as my friend relished in informing me that I should see that shovel scene in all its glory? Is it a step too close to the line?

People watch movies for several reasons - to be entertained, to be enlightened, to be anything but bored, etc. I'm one for the formermost of those reasons. I watched Boy in the Striped Pyjamas and had nightmares for days. That entire movie was a lesson. A lesson we already should have learned. Long ago. It was cheap to pull at heartstrings that were already vulnerable and attune to the suffering of both Jews and children, separately and together. I learned nothing from that movie except that the Nazis were terrible and the Holocaust need never to have occurred if people would only look at one another through a child's eyes. I also learned that true friendship knows no bounds. And that school-aged children are stupid and not actually aware of what's going on around them. Innocence is one thing. Obliviousness is another. Children are rarely the latter.

But when I do watch a particularly enlightening movie. Or one of those "sad, but true" films, I find myself reacting probably as if it were really happening. Sometimes because it has. Sometimes because it is. And often because it could. It's too much. Yay for the directors who think they're frontiersman, pushing envelopes that have already been mailed and returned, but I think film should mostly be fun. Escapism. If you wanna throw a lesson in there somewhere, go ahead but number uno, don't insult our intelligence by taking the low road to teach people what they already know and numero two, try going conservative. After all, that's the minority now. THAT'S edgy!

behold the power

I am so over winter.

I was over winter in November. When the first snow fell, uninvited, and Adam and I spent 3 hours in the car on a trip to Costco (for cheese) that should have taken not more than 15 minutes.

The first 10 minutes being a somewhat uneventful ride other than my usual freaking out as my PTSD over snow and ice reared up bile in my throat and turned my knuckles so white, I thought they might crack open and bleed. If all the blood wasn't distracted pumping through my eyes and ears.

The next 5 or so minutes were a dark and mysterious whirlwind around a Costco taking advantage of its generator power. At this point, it was almost kind of cool - this adventure. We were jewelry bandits, sneaking our way through a gem warehouse full of security lasers, every unknown man a possible guard on duty. Fun, right?

Not for long.

Is every road in this town an upwards hill? It reminded me of my Pop's stories about having to walk to school in the snow and ice and wind, uphill both ways. I had no idea how ridiculously uneven this place is.

Over the course of the next 2 hours and 45 minutes, I think we tried just about every possible way home. It felt like The Day After Tomorrow out there. Every man for himself. The number of near misses was a pure miracle compared to what could have been, having seen the havoc in Seattle later in the news. Or the insanity that was Chicago last month. I did see a fair amount of Good Samaritan toiling going on. But, for the most part, it was as if Kitsap County suddenly gave free cars to monkeys. Blind monkeys. Blind monkeys with their hands tied behind their backs. One woman probably melted her entire engine together, screeching her way up Bucklin Hill. I'm thinking. . ."Was the cheese worth this?"

Adam is quite the trooper - as calm as I could ask him to be (and I never had to ask) he merely trial-and-errored our way through it. Of course, anyone's nerves are bound to fray when you're forced to stop on a hill you've got a good head-start on because a load of civilians are ice skating around your vehicle and performing the international sign for "excuse me, do you have any grey poupon?" then informing you that you need to sit tight so a sand truck can get through and help the roads out a bit.

False.

We made it to the top of the hill, because there's no way human beings are going to listen to other human beings, let alone human beings who are not wearing some sort of outfit to signify any authority. . .and the truck is sitting there. Sitting there. There's plenty of room for it. And it's sitting there. With the driver nowhere to be found. Pfff. In the radio edited words of Cee Lo Green, forget you.

Eventually, we decide we probably need to abandon the car. Absolutely not on the street or in a ditch somewhere. I'm thinking to myself, "I can see it now. . .arriving the next morning in the dawn of a new day when this world has re-emerged and everyone feels slightly embarrassed at their doomsday behavior. . .and my car is totaled - smashed by a secret assailant who probably thinks it's okay because we can just blame it on the weather and no one's really at fault here."

My mind's eye is way too exact at cooking up possible scenarios. So, okay. . .let's find a parking lot. Well, we're far from the commercial district at this point so aside from borrowing someone's yard, what do we do?

Finally, we make it to the fairgrounds and park in the playground lot and enjoy the last half hour or 40 minutes, trudging through the snow on an unlit street in the howling wind, anticipating a face full of pine needles every time the trees sway. Like I need a physical reminder of this night.

We're almost home. You know what, you try crossing a skate rink with no functioning traffic lights. Hey guy who beeped at us! Not cool! It's a stroke of luck I actually wore my new and ludicrously warm boots. Poor Adam and his measly tennis shoes.

Ah. Home again, home again.

Oh yeah. No electricity.

But thank God we've got cheese.

And one and two and make it stop

And she musters the strength to plop her flesh-ribbon arms atop the keyboard.

Today marks the beginning of Adam's and my tone-it-up journey. Headed out to Kitsap Sports to see what there was to see in the way of fitness sundries. Jackpot. Out of 5 pound weights, but I grabbed some 4 pounders. Considering I just read that the average person carries around 5 extra pounds of weight in their colon, I figured I could handle 4 more. Adam played the hero with 10. Not 10 pounds of residue in his colon. The other thing.

Anyway.

We're working on doing sets of timed wall-sits, chest presses, butterflies, overhead tri and planks. Man, if 90 seconds doesn't feel like an eternity when your lower back is about to implode. Those planks are killer. We tried to add pushups to the list but. . .alas, we are just too darn weak and pathetic for that just yet. It's not a matter of pain. They weren't kidding about that mind over matter junk. Who are they anyway? What am I supposed to tell muscles when they absolutely refuse to lift my face off the dirty floor?

Adam spent quite a bit of time on our new exercise spreadsheet, which I think was his favorite part of the workout, so this better be worth it. :)

Ooooh *snorts and pushes up glasses* charts and graphs, hmyeaaah.

Adam working hard on. . .something?

I can do this.

Spared no expense.

Taking walks seems to be our thing now. So long as the sun stays out and the mercury is above 40. Yesterday's hike was nothing compared to today. Today. . .was the speed walk. Who plans a speed walk on a trail with a hill? Especially, the steepest of the steepest hills that's steeper than any steep hill I've ever steeped. Whose idea was this, again?

I love that burst of adrenaline one gets while they're keeping up a good pace. Not quite running, but not taking sweet time, either. Yesterday, even though the path was dirt and stones with the occasional danger-root peeking out, I could feel myself longing to go! Just run! I burst out a sprint once. Just to get it out of my system. Because there was no way, after 2 or 3 months of sedentary Everybody Loves Raymond reruns, that I was going to be able to have the endurance to get in a good, solid dash.

Instead of hitting a pocket of adrenaline today. . .I hit a brick wall. Sure, I'm tired. My shin splints are screaming at me. Plus, my poor injured toe has still not reached maximum healing power. But I didn't think I'd be such a wuss. And so quickly. I was fine.

At the bottom of the hill.

About 1/3 of the way up, I realize it feels loads better to take little jogging steps rather than slap my feet on the pavement, sending shards of pain up my shinbones.

Bad idea.

Just before half-way up this death mound, I can not breathe. I'm literally sucking the air like a fish. I must have looked ridiculous. I'm practically breathing out the same air I'm breathing in, without any of it making it to the necessary areas. I am just not synthesizing that oxygen. All I can hear is the blood racing through my ears. Every breath sounds like it's from inside my head. I'm underwater.

It's a beautiful sunny day. But it's still 43 degrees. And it's as if I've just downed 2 bags of menthol cough drops. My throat turns into a wasteland, completely uninhabited by any precious saliva while my tongue feels like a wad of cotton. And for some odd reason, I'm finding the communication between my brain and my leg muscles has been temporarily cut off. I'm wading through molasses. Mmm. Molasses cookies.

The worst thing about this trail is that, when you hit the corner at the top of the hill, you realize. . .

. . .t's not the top of the hill.

There's not much more to go before you do reach the top, but my goodness, if that doesn't just feel like a full-on slap to the face.

My favorite part of this walk is the shortcut portion that we normally take when we just go to have a talk-walk, not an exercise-walk. On your right for almost the entire trek you have beautiful vistas of the Puget Sound and Mt. Ranier (if it's a clear day.)

On the left?

Well. . .even on a busy work-a-day, this place can be a bit scarily industrial for my taste but, especially on a Sunday, it feels abandoned. Imagine the creepiest night-of-the-living-dead video game or movie you've ever seen and subtract the idea that I'll be wearing anything less than well-fitting pants and a modest t-shirt and jacket.

Small scampering animals in piles of dried leaves. Steam vents. The wind rustling through hanging shredded plastic. Wide-open shipping containers, dredged in dirt and muck, encasing a few odd pieces of furniture and, the worst thing ever, a mirror. And the crows! I swear. These crows need quoth never more.

It also doesn't help that the forest portion of the walk looks like an ethereal primordial forest out of which I expect a velociraptor to come roaring in order to slice open my belly.

Man, I wish that raptor had taken me down on the hill.

fat kids, skinny kids, kids who climb on rocks

There's something to be said for a beautifully clear blue sky kind of day. But especially when you get one of those in or around the Seattle area? It's a notable day, to say the least. It's nice to open my eyes to a pair of windows that does not pretend to signify it is 5pm already. Because, seriously. . .it feels like perpetual twilight in this town.

I have always loved the rain. Probably more than is appropriate. What I missed more than anything in the world about Pittsburgh (other than my family, of course, but I don't associate my family with the 'burgh, it just happens to be where they live) when I moved out west was sitting on the front porch swing underneath a couple of fluffy blankets with a great book. Or any book, really. Who remembers if what I liked back then was any good or not?

Second to the sound of the rain on a tin roof or from inside the car, I love running in it. On a warm spring day in April when the showers promise to bring flowers - nothing like it. First of all, it doesn't matter if you sweat. Secondly, puddles.

Turns out it hardly ever rains in Lewiston, Idaho. Like. . .at all. However, when it does. . .it is quite the doozy. Brilliant lightning storms! Not like the kind I would see on a regular basis back east but still a sight for sore eyes. Of course, when I heard we might be moving to Seattle, I had visions of myself dancing beneath grey skies and casting snarky side-long glances at that song Put on a Happy Face. I really thought seriously about singing in the rain, sans umbrella. Because no true Seattlite would be caught dead with an umbrella. Or maybe they would. In January, anyway.

Now here we are. It rains as much as they've always said it does. And I do love it. In fact, it gives me an excuse to buy all the boots a girl's heart could stand before bursting.

Then, who'd have ever thought I'd give an inkling about the stupid ol' sun? We have a love-hate relationship, the sun and I. But we settled our differences for at least one day. Today.

Adam and I set out on an adventure through the forest and marshes of the Clear Creek Trail. This creek's title is actually earned, unlike all of those motels you sea in vacation spots that display blinking neon signs on some run-down street corner with no water in sight, "Oceanside View" and "Bayshore Suites." The Clear Creek is surprisingly. . .quite clear. And you can see it several times along the trail.

The trail takes you on a winding trek through both charming wooded areas and urban expanses. How strange it is to be walking on spongy moss and listening to the birds chirp whatever it is they talk about and then suddenly find yourself sprung out in front of the entrance to Costco. On a Saturday afternoon. "I wonder what ants sound like to other ants."

We'd been on this trail a couple times before but we attempted new territory this go around. We happened upon a beautiful little pond, inhabited by ducks and birds of all kinds. Never heard of a bufflehead before. Sounds like something Adam and I would have made up ourselves for lack of a better name. And no one else would have found it as funny as we did.

We climbed rocks and crossed bridges, discovered the stumps of 700-year-old Cedars. All in a day's work, I suppose.

       Old Trees!!!













I think about what Adam and I usually do to fill our time - watch TV, play video games, surf around online. Each of us waiting around for the other to suggest something awesome. Or at least something else!

This was such a great day! Fantastic memories. . .and not bad exercise, either.

Next stops:

Dungeness Spit
(again, but this time in warmer weather)

Guillemot Cove
(can't wait to see the Stumphouse)

Palouse Falls
(cause nobody says no to a waterfall)

Multnomah Falls
(I will make it to the top, you old ladies with your walking sticks, I will!)

We should do this again sometime

I just got off the phone with my sister and she says to me, "I'm glad you called, we should do this again sometime." She had a friend over who started laughing which made her burst into a few chuckles which prompted me to ask what was so funny? "Oh he's just laughing at what I said."

I pondered that a moment and then joined the giggle fest, but I continued to wonder. What kind of a sister says that? As if I'm an old friend she hasn't seen in awhile and we have more catching up to do. We're sisters! Of course we're going to do this again sometime. I'm not sure if it's actually humorous that she made the pat comment as something you say at the end of a conversation or meeting. Or if it's sad because she actually meant it.
I miss my sisters terribly. I'm not sure how much they miss me since I've received about 2% of the calls made betwixt us. But I miss them. I moved away from them when I got married. Far, far away. Far away enough to matter to an adult, let alone 11 and 17 year old little girls. What a fragile time of growth and emotional frustration. And I wasn't there. KaraLynn was about to become a senior in high school, to graduate and begin to figure out what she wanted. Mollie was about to turn 12 in 23 days, her teenage years just around the corner. And I wasn't there.

KaraLynn has always been a shy and fastidious young woman, always good for a laugh. And I mean that quite literally. She will laugh at the drop of a hat. In fact, I told her that once, then proceeded to drop an actual hat on the floor of our living room. She is a smile-a-minute. I remember filling our summer days and evenings with the Sarah and Kara Show (using my first name as a stage moniker - you know. . .rhyme's no crime) where we'd interview anyone who would let us and record the most ridiculous c

onversations. Looking back, I'm fairly certain we had better material than most of the unfortunate waste you see on tv today.

Mollie was the wild card. We all knew it from the moment she was born. From before she was even born - when she developed meconium

a

spiration. Look it up. Knowing her personality now, it is so something she would do. She grew up

as a total goof - finding joy in almost everything she saw or heard or felt and especially smelled. That little fart factory. I remember when our mum told us that, during dinner time, if we felt the need we needed to excuse ourselves quietly and go to the bathroom. Of course, Mollie turned it into such an exaggerated affair. She would loudly excuse herself, run ram-rod straight into the bathroom which just so happened to be right off of the dining room, then let 'er rip so audibly that she might as well not have left in the first place. Then, she'd come back out, smiling to high-heaven. Pleased as punch.

Kiki, as we affectionately have always called KaraLynn, was a freak about her baby dolls. Her mothering instinct was frightening at times. She bit my back through a thick wool blanket because I stole one of her babies and threw it up on the ceiling fan. Props to her because I was old enough to know better. She broke the skin.

Mollie has always been a fantastic artist. She began enjoying anime from an early age, starting with nursery anime like Powerpuff Girls and Samurai Jack. She would always feel most akin to Buttercup from PPG, even dressing the part for Halloween. Her drawing style began to reflect this huge-eyed, bobble-headed and mitten-handed approach. But she gave it her own twist.

Kiki is now working way too hard at a job that, though respecting her more than her previous one, still takes advantage of her bright-eyed willingness to please and keep herself busy. Too busy. So busy that I fear she's not dealing with our parents' divorce in the best way. In any way. She tells people what they want to hear. Not to be mean or sneaky. But because that's her coping mechanism. Yet, I'm not worried about her. She'll come around. However. . .

Mollie is slipping away and has become everything she never wanted to be. Certainly, everything I never wanted. It completely breaks my heart to admit that Mollie is, in some ways, gone. When a little 11 year old grows up, of course she changes. Her priorities adjust, her interests advance. A metamorphosis is expected. This is different. This is a mistake. This is a total 180 and I hate it. I loathe it. This little girl had a simple dream of wanting to work in a Wendy's someday - a dream that's actually reachable now! We're not talking "I wanna be a princess, spaceman, actor, etc. . ." This is something that requires no skill but the ability to walk and talk and be somewhere on time. And in 3 years, she hasn't been able to muster the. . .what? Drive? Energy? Motivation? Gall? What?! I realize it's scary. Of all people, the one with the anxiety issues and the social paralysis. . .I get it! But Mollie has always been a go-getter. She is an extrovert. She is confident. Or should I be saying "was"?? Because here I am. . .wishing I had even an ounce of the courage and backbone that kid grew up with. Just a measly ounce. And she's wasting it. She is wasting it. I'm getting angry.

I don't know what happened first. But I do know what's continuing to contribute to this total personality overhaul. And it sucks. Because I can't do anything about it. Because, as the last person she would listen to, the last person she respected, my words, like all that have come before me, have finally been turned into poison. I don't care if it's deliberate and manipulative or not. It is dangerous and venomous. And it's disguised in devotion. Which makes it all the more frightening.

How do you reach a girl who's in love with punishing herself? And how do I do it when I'm not there?

I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello

Everybody knows there's a certain cadence or rhythm to chatting with someone online. It's not like an e-mail where you have all the time in the world to write and rewrite everything to your satisfaction. It's not like a phone conversation where you can subtly pick up on whether someone is about to say something (which I suck at anyway.) It's nothing like a face-to-face conversation in which you can read facial expressions and body language to decipher yours and their next move.

Sometimes, during an online convo, you are privy to the additional things these other people might be doing - watching TV, playing a game, working on a document, talking on the phone, making dinner, surfing around, etc. Sometimes. . .you are not. But, either way, you begin to see a pattern in their responses. You notice the time between your question and their answer. You can figure out whether you are the initiator or the responder. Or, if you're lucky enough, you've both struck a complementary balance.

So, sometimes it's odd to me when the cadence is broken. Extra time goes by. I wonder. . .are we done? There was no proper goodbye. But, so often, there was not much of a proper hello to begin with so. . .how does this work? Did we expound on the topic as much as we could, is the issue exhausted? Did I say something offensive? Did they get murdered? Are they now being hauled away from their computer, knife to their jugular while I'm sitting here worrying about whether it's something I did?

Maybe they had a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Or, possibly they've plugged too many electronics into their wall outlet and what started out as small sparks have now become an all-engulfing and inescapable flash fire. Should I call?

Or. . .maybe something really good is on tv. Or maybe they got called away to do something more important. Like change a diaper or kiss a boo-boo or help with dishes. Maybe they just forgot. Maybe it doesn't really matter.

Maybe I've done the same. Sorry.

Simple Things

It's Valentine's Day.

Last night, I was sifting through one of my old e-mail accounts looking for something else and what I found was just as good.

*******************************************************

Sunday, January 19th 2003 4:05 PM

hello mrs. anderson, how are you? 'tis beth. i would like your help with a little something. valentine's day is coming up and i know adam really really likes that cinnamon raisin bread that you buy for him. i was hoping perhaps i could send him some as a gift. i was just wondering exactly what it was, such as the brand or whatever. i think it would be a nice surprise. so any help out with this would be much appreciated. thank you very much.

--beth

*************************************************

Tuesday, January 21 2003 11:36 AM

I think that is a wonderful idea! Every time he toasted a slice he would think of you (not that he wouldn't be thinking of you anyway!) I don't know the brand without checking at the store. But I will check it out and get back to you.

What a fun idea! Nice to hear from you. Hope school is going well. Keep in touch!

Barbara

*******************************************************

Tuesday, January 21 2003 2:23 PM

OK - just made a run to the bread store. I had to anyway, because Adam left a note on the refrigerator board this morning telling me we were OUT of bread. The bread he likes is called Napa Valley Cinnamon Vanilla Raisin. I would guess that since Napa Valley is in our area and since the package says "Baked fresh in the North West" you might not be able to find it way back in Penn.

The postage to send the bread would probably be as much as the bread (which I think is about $3.00 a loaf - $2.00 if I can find it on sale. How would it be if I bought the loaf and put a ribbon on it?

Have a happy day,

Barbara

*******************************************************

Tuesday, January 21 2003 5:05 PM

hey, actually, that would be great if you could just buy it there, considering i probably won't be able to find the same thing here. that is so awesome of you. yay, this will much fun. ok, so i will send a card to your office so as not to have this secret plan detected by adam, haha. and that would be wonderful if you could just leave it somewhere for him on feb. 14. so, the bread is $3.00? i will send that with the card. i will just need your office address so i can get that out to you as soon as i can. yay, this will make adam happy. thank you so much.

--beth

*******************************************************

Thursday, February 13 2003 1:29 PM

Just want you to know I'm remembering our plans. I will go out today and buy the raisin bread. I will tie it up in a red ribbon and tuck your card under the ribbon. I'll leave it on the table so Adam will find it when he first gets up tomorrow morning. He will be pleased, I know. Have a happy Valentines Day!

Barbara

*************************************************

Tuesday, February 13 2003 10:45 PM

yaaay, i'm so excited. thank you. this is so cool.

--eliza

*************************************************

Tuesday, February 18 2003 4:40 PM

You're very welcome. One thing I like about you two is the happiness you find in simple things. It really is a gift and you seem equally blessed with that attitude. Adam must have liked the bread because as of last night there were only 3-4 slices left. The toaster is out every time I look at the counter. So he has indeed been enjoying! Good idea on your part!

Have a happy day.

Barbara

*************************************************

Old People Music

Well. I'm officially an old fogey. After watching the 53^rd Grammy awards last night, I've come to realize that all this music just sounds like noise to me. I feel like my old Pap who would always throw on some awful crooner record with the scent of incense and old lady perfume in the air, then come over to my house as I listened to the Toadies or Silverchair and exclaim, “What is that? Is that a garbage truck backing up into another garbage truck?”

I am 1 year and 4 months away from 30. Does this happen this soon? I'm afraid if I try to google oldies, I might come up with 3^rd Eye Blind or the Pixies. Are we all destined to become our parents? Or at least our grandparents. Granted, it took a few years of experience to be ready when we discovered our parents' old records of the Byrds, Queen, Bowie, CCR and the Zep but not too many of us ever fell over for Chuck Berry or Perry Como.

I find myself longing for the days of quiet talent. Not opening ceremonies that depict 5 belters vying for the position of loudest and most runs on one syllable. Not insanely theatrical presentations that overcompensate for the music as the forefront art. I'm not that into them but thank God for Lady Antebellum. At least they remember how to use harmony. I should probably be into them. I just can not bring myself to give any of my heart to country. I'm so stubborn. Plus, they'll just make me cry. Every last one of them.

I am that annoying underground hipster. The one who uses phrases like “sell out” and starts to hate a band as soon as they reach the surface. I'm just kidding. I hate those people. But I do love indie music with all my longing-to-be-a-true-hipster-it's-just-actually-really-expensive-even-though-it-gives-the-appearance-of-complete-passivity heart.

Imagine my surprise when, after watching Gaga and Eminem grace the stage to accept their awards, Arcade Fire won best album. Although I find it incredibly strange how they can win best album overall and yet still lose out to best album in their own genre. . .I'm still totally over the moon for them. Another great highlight was a performance by the Avett Bros. Good stuff. And Mick Jagger's first appearance on the Grammy stage.

First? Really? What took so long? How glad I am that I did not exist in the 60's because, though I adore the Beatles now, I'm afraid I would have either completely ignored them because of my abhorrence of the screaming and crying girls or I would have been a total closet fan. In public, I'd have been a Stones girl for sure.

So, okay – popular tunes are not music to my ears. So what do I like? Oh how I dread that question from a new friend. What do you say? I don't want to sound like an elitist jerk and be all, “Probs nothing you hear on the radio. *pffsnort*” And I don't want to sound like a vague mimic of coolness by throwing my hands in my pockets and spouting, “I'm into the indie, underground stuff.” That is so annoying.

You can immediately disregard the years between 10 and 16. That never counts and is better left unsaid as we should never be accountable for our decisions, at least musically, at such an age. I mean my first cassette tapes were Paula Abdul's Forever Your Girl and Quiet Riot's single Cum On Feel the Noize. I'll have you know the latter was the first heavy metal hit to grace the Top 5 of Billboard's Top 100.

I suppose my musical awakening began with Silverchair, continued with the likes of the Pixies, followed by Weezer and culminated in a conglomerate of anything with a wicked keyboard solo and simple vocals. I actually owned Christina Aguilera's first cd and not only because I got it for a penny from the secret underground caverns of BMG Entertainment. I actually did like her. Now I think she's a hot mess. Excluding her Super Bowl performance of the national anthem. That's a hard song to sing. Many before her have made the same mistake. I'm talking about insisting on using all 4 octaves of her once beautiful and controlled voice in every song. It's just irritating now. I'm so over it. A talent in excess.

And so much music now, like everything else these days, is done for us by computers. I love how directors and writers keep making movies about robots taking over. It's always pretty literal but  for crying out loud.  Take a look around.  We've been had.

I'm destined to become a defender of my music as all old people of past generations have been. My children will probably find my old cds or, at this rate, mp3s or some other such nonsense and love it because it's so vintage or hate it because it's too authentic and tangible to their bleeding ears.

Florence and the Machine, I'm sorry to admit you're right. The dog days are over.