I Need to Have a Few Words With You (Plus Bonus Weed-Eating Tips)

Baroque (I think my sister already added this one, but it bears repeating), Rococo, tchotchke, chartreuse, magenta, periwinkle, erect, macaroon, vinegaroon, anemone, cochlea, evanescence (and I like the band, too-- one of my favorite songs of theirs is Call Me When You're Sober, which reminds me of a similar country song by a guy named Buck Jones, You Only Call Me When You're Drunk). And more words from Milan Kundera: paltry, paradigm, manifesto, vestibule, chrysalis, megalomaniac, narcissism, grotesque, ephemeral, and noxious. Kundera also mentions the French writer, François-René de Châteaubriand. The word Châteaubriand reminds me of a little story. Years ago, a young, kind of nerdy guy I worked with was telling me and another co-worker about his romantic Valentine's Day dinner with his girlfriend. He said he took her to an expensive steak restaurant. My co-worker asked him, "Did you have the Châteaubriand for two?" "No," he said, "we don't drink wine."

Now, indulge me for a moment. (Or feel free to skip this paragraph as it is boring to anyone but me.) One of my other favorite writers is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Back in the late 80s to the mid-90s, I think I read every Milan Kundera and every Gabriel Garcia Marquez book available at that time. Yes, it took me several years. {I need to mention as an aside that one of my newer favorite (or should I say favourite) writers, Nick Hornby, mentions Kundera and Garcia Marquez, one right after the other, on two separate occasions; once in High Fidelity and again in How to be Good--which gave me all the more reason to appreciate Hornby.} Anyway, I'm trudging through this little 168-page Kundera book of literary criticism, and I run across this: "[T]hree Latin American writers came to Prague: [including] Gabriel Garcia Marquez… I spent an unforgettable week with them. We became friends. And just after they left I had the opportunity to read the Czech translation proofs of One Hundred Years of Solitude. . . . Garcia Marquez's novel is free imagination itself. One of the greatest works of poetry I know. Every single sentence sparkles with fantasy, every sentence is surprise, is wonder . . ." I never knew that they had met. I felt some sort of literary harmonic convergence at that moment and was reminded of my early passion for literature that began to fade with the birth of my children. Of course, taking care of kids doesn't leave as much time for reading, but that's not what quelled my passion. Instead, a child awakens a new passion incomparable to anything anyone could feel for even the most extraordinary work of literature. Suddenly, Shakespeare and Homer and even Ovid just didn't make my heart pound like before.

Now, if you have not fallen asleep (or if you indeed had the audacity to skip the previous paragraph) I will provide you with some important and useful weed-eating and leaf-blowing tips. Keep in mind that these things did not necessarily happen to me. And if they did, I would not necessarily admit it.

Things you should not weed-eat and why:
(1) big fat honking dandelion or dollar weeds, because they are juicy and will splatter all over your shins,
(2) any size pile of dog poop (especially fresh), because it tends to spray,
(3) any small oak saplings your husband may have wanted you to spare,
(4) the black foam air-conditioner-compressor hose cover, because you might inhale and choke on the particles or get a piece stuck in your eye,
(5) deer pellets (especially the hardened ones), because they can smack you in the kneecaps, and
(6) ant beds or spiders, for obvious reasons.

You may also want to keep your iPod headphone cord at a safe distance if you choose to leave the weed-eater running while you squat down to pick up your sunglasses if they fall off while you try to rub gasoline out of your eyes.

The leaf blower was much more fun. My only caveats on that:
(1) if you have allergies, be sure to take your medicine first,
(2) keep your shorts from getting sucked up into the air intake, otherwise it can give you an inconvenient frontal wedgie, and
(3) if the wind is blowing, it is futile to work against it.

And don't forget bug repellent and sunscreen.

It's after 1:00 a.m. now. I need to get some sleep before Katy wakes me up with her vomiting again. That's another of my many stories I'll try not to bother you with. Oh, by the way, I put a little video of her on YouTube, because I have no life and so much spare time in which to not live it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9_pYXBsT_M

School of Rock II

You'll find my impromptu post for today in a comment under the last post. It's all in response to one of Chris' bothersome yet thought-provoking comments. In fact, I think some of my best material is in the comments. You may be better off waiting for a real post here, but I'm taking a short hiatus (let's add hiatus to the word list, btw). Sounds like a coital hernia to me. "Whoa! I think you just gave me a hiatus!"

School of Rock

{and Pop}

I have several different music-related topics that have been rattling around in my mind for the past few months. I don't know where to start, so I'll just do a sort of Joycean stream-of-consciousness dictation here. (My apologies to the late James Joyce for having the gall to suggest that I could ever emulate his abstruse style.)

I love that movie, School of Rock. I think I love every Jack Black movie. The first time I truly appreciated him was when I bonded with his character (music-tastewise) in High Fidelity. I think Saving Silverman came out not long after that, which, by the way, included a cameo appearance by none other than Neil Diamond—who was the guest mentor on American Idol tonight. My opinion on that deserves an entirely separate post. (Or not.) Suffice it to say, my boy Jason will soon be on his way back to Texas. Bless his precious little dreadlocked heart.

Now, let me get this part out of the way. My philosophy-professor little brother has recently been dealing with some serious stress. He told me he responded to it by cranking up some Pantera to help him scream out some of the rage. He said he was reminded of me because I knew the band at its inception, when they played in a garage and progressed to gigs at keg parties in high school. I never followed them much over the years (and honestly, had I not known them then, I probably would never have known that they existed at all). Apparently, in the world of heavy metal, they were kind of a big deal. The lead guitarist, Darrell Abbott, became a famous guitar wizard/genius. He was originally known as "Diamond" Darrell, but later became "Dimebag," and then simply "Dime" to his friends and fans. (Whatever.) I just remember him as a scrawny, laid-back, nice boy (for a budding headbanger). He met a tragic and untimely death three or four years ago. If you can't die of a drug overdose or in an aircraft crash, then I guess getting shot to smithereens on stage is quite a rockstar way to go.

Anyway...if you haven't noticed, I've added some more of my favorite songs, just in case you want to enjoy some background music while you read my drivel. Brian Wilson is one of my favorite Barenaked Ladies songs. And don't get the wrong idea. I am not, nor have I ever been, a Beach Boys fan. I just love the song's message. Maybe I identify with the whole depressed-tortured-artist thing too much. The kids prefer BNL's If I Had a Million Dollars because Luke loves the part that says, "But not a real green dress, that's cruel," and Katy loves the part that says, "Haven't you always wanted a monKEY?" Fun song. (Not the kind I normally gravitate to.) Round Here is probably my favorite song. It's at least in my top five. I also wanted to add the Counting Crows version of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi, but it's a WMA file that I can't convert to an MP3. (Don't get me started on how jacked-up all my music files are.) I think Big Yellow Taxi is a classic that everyone should know. And I had to add my favorite Tori Amos song. The CD that song comes from is called Little Earthquakes, but Mike calls it Little Earaches. I included American Girl because it's probably my favorite Tom Petty song and also because I think it's an anthem. I think Don Henley's Boys of Summer and Bryan Adams' Summer of '69 should also be deemed anthems, but I'm no expert. These are just the lame opinions of someone who fancies herself an outdated pop music critic. Of course the real anthems are Free Bird and American Pie (The Day the Music Died). Stairway, of course, is in an anthem class by itself. I'm sure I'm missing several good ones, so please add any suggestions for me to either accept or deride. Good Riddance is here because I think it's pure pop poetry. I like poems that rhyme. (Especially limericks.) The song also reminds me of the Seinfeld finale. They played it at the end of that last, stupid, forgettable episode. I added a Shawn Colvin song because I think she is brilliant. I may have made a mistake in song choice, though. She's a songwriter. But instead of posting one of the many incredible songs she has written, I chose to post her cover of a heartbreaking Bob Dylan song. This way I can include a nod to Bob Dylan without actually having to subject anyone to his voice. Trust me, her version is way better. The other new one is Limp Bizkit's version of The Who's Behind Blue Eyes. I like it, but the more I think about it, the more I think there are better songs to replace it with. My playlist won't be complete until I add Sarah McLachlan, R.E.M., and Nanci Griffith. There are at least a hundred more songs and/or artists I want to mention, so I'll try to toss in a reference here and there as I continue to gunk up cyberspace with my occasional (or all-too-frequent) unsolicited anecdotes and ill-informed opinions.

Well, I gave myself a little less than an hour to get this stuff down, so I never even got to the part about my own personal version of School of Rock. Basically, I play "Name That Band" in the car with the kids. I'll have to tell you more about it in the next installment. Some moms home-school their children. The only home-schooling my kids get involves my stern guidance with how to identify and sing the words of Led Zeppelin, Elvis, AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, The Cure (yes, The Cure) or any other artist or band I deem worthy. Some may see this as a frivolous endeavor. I consider it a Creator-endowed duty to instill in my children the utmost level of mid- to late-20th century popular music literacy. Let's just see what they'll use more in the real world. Trigonometry or tunes? My money's on the music.

First Yardwork De-Brief & More Word Nerd

First, I'm posting this to call attention away from the prior one so as to temper any dreary effect you might be left with had that been your only offering for the day.

I mowed the lawn all on my own for the first time yesterday. That Craftsman riding mower has an amazing turning radius. And the horsepower is impressive as well. (By the way, what's horsepower?) I think I scalped the yard. Here's a tip. You can cut the grass better if you engage and lower the blades. I covered half of our small front yard before I realized I wasn't cutting anything. Also, fill up the tank while the mower is still near the gas, so you don't have to lug the gas can across an acre and slosh it all over yourself on the way. I was fortunate to have had my dear friend Ginger in town and at the ready with a camera to provide proof of my newfound talent. Here's the casualty list: one sprinkler head (that I'm aware of), one rock that I turned into gravel, a garden hose (just kidding, Mike), an Otter Pop wrapper, a small frog, my right thumbnail, and my left cornea. Stay tuned for a soul-stirring weed-eating report.

I'm sorry, but this whole words-I-like or words-I-dislike thing has taken on a life of its own. I have kept it in my head for so long, and now it's out on display for public consumption as if anyone cares. But apparently, many of you do care because you have offered up some of your own favorites. So again, please indulge me and, as always, feel welcome to offer any of your own, albeit probably inferior, suggestions.

More words I like: shenanigans (which really belongs with my earliest list from March), amalgam, conglomeration, antithesis, mercurial, ethereal, karma, dharma, stigma, stigmata, quagmire, pallid, buoyant. More from Kundera: hobo (which I should really attribute to John Hodgman because of his absurd and hilarious hobo obsession in his book Areas of My Expertise), didactic, milieu, Kafka, Balzac, Flaubert, Rabelais, Bovary, Bovaristic, apparatus, Quixotic, Sancho, clairvoyant, burlesque.

Words I prefer not to hear or ponder: slut, menstruate, flaccid, nausea, yearn, spurn.

Again, procrastination break over. Back to work before I get slammed with more of the deadlines breathing down my neck. Not to mention the drippy faucet and weed-eating worries eating at my gut.

Feel Free to Skip This One. Nothing Fun Here.

To die is always a person's last verb. Death their last noun. Yesterday marked 2 years since my dad died. The first year is a blur. The second year brings it into focus. It's odd how the more time passes, the more permanent it seems to become. And just when you think you've accepted the absence, you run across some stupid country song on the radio that makes you cry and you can't bring yourself to change the station. You are driving with sensitive kids in the back seat. They ask what's wrong, and you lie. You blink and brace and breathe. No time, no freedom, no place to cry. You swallow it, suck it up, smile and sigh. Someone who doesn't know calls and asks, "How are you?" "Good. What's up?" you say.

As much as I hate to remember and wish I could forget bad anniversaries, I will always dread every April 27. And every time I chance upon a song that touches my ache, I'll always sob, at least on the inside. I made it through yesterday just fine because I was never alone. Today I am. Hence this delayed reaction and downer post. As I type, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic just started playing on the radio. Great. What timing. Thanks a lot, Daddy.

Don't y'all feel sorry for me? If only doubling-up on my antidepressant would help. A good cry is healthy especially when it's overdue. I promise to be back to "myself" next time. For now, back to work.