The new Red Hot Chili Peppers album is … amazing.
I haven’t been so instantly hooked into an album in years. I’ve listened to the first twenty (or so) songs (it’s mega-huge) and I’ve heard maybe one mediocre song. My favorites so far are “Desecration Smile” and “Storm In A Teacup.” Although “Hump De Bump” makes me want to … move.
Now here’s a concern: does it signal the death knell for a band if someone of my demographic is enthusiastic about their new album?
When I went to pick up Cole from day-camp, the kids and counselors were all immersed in … well, I don’t know what they call this activity: it involves tiny plastic beads being fitted onto tiny plastic spindles in any pattern the artist chooses – then ironed onto waxed paper, so that the beads form a … well, a useless tchotchke. Chirpy, pop-y, upper-octaves music burbled from the nearby boom-box.
Me: Hi, buddy!
Cole: Hey, mom.
Me: How are you?
Cole: Good. Can I finish this thing?
Cole: Mom, have you ever heard of Radio Disney?
Me: Um, yeah, I guess I’ve heard of it. (becomes aware of music) Is that what you’re listening to?
Cole: (darkly) Yes. I’m suffering with it.
I just read Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants. Loved it. Read it and tell me what you think.
As punishment for enjoying a book too much, I made the painful mistake of picking up a Michael Connelly book … just because it was there. Someone at work left it in our little “library,” and I remembered my dad raving about it - The Closers - so I picked it up.
I read the first five pages and thought, “No. You’re kidding me.”
But I endured. I read five more pages. I thought, “No WAY! This guy sells billions of books. Surely he doesn’t write this badly?!”
But it was becoming physically painful to keep reading. I persevered until about page 29. I could not go on. I’m glad my dad enjoyed it. I’m glad for anyone out there reading this who enjoyed it. But it really made me wonder: did his editor (I use the term loosely) tell Connelly to pitch his prose at a third grade reading level?
Damn it, I want Sara Gruen to sell as many books as Michael Connelly!
There is no need to yank on them. It is a blueberry’s fondest desire to explode on your tongue. When they’re ripe, blueberries are ready to slip off the umbilical stems that bind them to the bush. Fit your fingers around their pretty purple skins and give a gentle tug. A ripe blueberry will slide with a sigh into your hand.
Strangest moment of the day:
9:30 at night. Dark, but not pitch-black. There’s a full moon and the scent of linden tree blossoms in the air. The dogs rush forward as far as their leashes allow, tails held high. At the end of the block, I hear male voices coming from the brush by the creek. Uh-oh. I’m a woman alone. They’re headed my way. Well, I am accompanied by two big black dogs. Not that they would lift a dew-claw to protect me … but they look the part.
The two boys emerge from the brush, and I can tell by their voices that they are maybe fourteen. Whew. And what are these potentially threatening thugz discussing?
“The Keira Knightley movie version is okay. But the mini-series is waaay better.”
Pride and Prejudice.