Category: pondering

Question is, which sort of person are you?

Last night, The Good Man and I went to the home opener for the San Jose Giants single A baseball team.

I do love minor league baseball. Just thought I’d throw that in.

We got to our seats, got settled in and soon heard, “ladies and gentleman, please rise and remove your caps as we present our national anthem.”

It’s how every baseball game begins. It is ritual.

So quickly this adorable young lady (maybe all of fourteen years old) came out of the home dugout and hit her mark and dived right into the oh-say-can-you-see part of our show.

As she does, I notice that three rows ahead, a gruff man with a gray beard, a Bud in hand, and a mustard stained sweatshirt is singing along. The years of cigarette smoking have made his voice less than melodic, but he doesn’t lack enthusiasm.

Fair enough. He’s the kind of guy who likes to sing along.

At the seventh inning stretch, Colonel Mustard with a Budweiser also belted out a hearty rendition of “God Bless America” which then let him straight to an even more enthusiastic singing of, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.”

Hey, you know, it’s all a part of the experience.

Some guys like to sing along. Some guys don’t.

Me, I usually let the Star Spangled go by. I can’t hit those notes. Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially patriotic, I’ll get into a version of “God Bless America”.

But I always, always sing “Take Me Out…” For me, it’s mandatory.

No, I don’t understand that logic either.

Anyhow, so last night as I sang along, out of tune, I got to thinking about folks at the yard. Seems to me, there are two kinds. Them that sing along, and them that don’t.

Question is…which sort of person are you?

I guess I’d be called a partial singer-alonger.

Anyhoo, when all was said and done last night, after battling from an 8-0 deficit, the hometown nine still lost 9-7. Boo. Go get ’em next time, boys.

As an aside: This year we sat in a different section than usual. In our regular seats, there is a gentleman we know well who also likes to sing along to the Star Spangled. The thing is, he’s part of a local men’s choir and has the voice of an angel. It’s always rather nice to hear him sing. And I’m rather intimidated to try to sing along with him, to be honest.

I felt much better harmonizing with the guy who was six beers and four hotdogs into the night.

(Man, I couldn’t be more excited to use this photo again.)



Image is of Latvian mezzo-soprano Elina Garanca and a pretty extensive web search could not net me the attribution on this photo. I found photos from that same event on the European Commission page which allows for the use of photos with attribution.



My diphenhydramine reality

Whoa, man.

I mean, really.

Whoa.

So I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Don’t know why. I got stuff on my mind, but no more than the usual suspects.

It’s not waking up and worrying or thinking or whatever.

It’s just waking up. And then not going back to sleep.

Exhausted, looking for some help, I decided I’d try some of that over the counter Tylenol PM.

Well, The Good Man astutely pointed out that Tylenol PM is just a mix of Tylenol and diphenhydramine, you know…Benedryl?

I already have Tylenol, so I bought a generic bottle of Benedryl.

Hoping for some quality rest, I followed the exact same doses from the Tylenol PM bottle, mixed up the recipe, swallowed it, then lay down in my bed.

It didn’t take long before my head felt kind of thick and my eyes got heavy.

Awesome! Sleep is on the way!

Did I sleep? Yes, actually pretty well.

But the dreams. Oh the dreams!

Wild, vivid, lucid, long involved dreams.

In one dream, a carload of my friends and I drove over the Golden Gate Bride, but on the OUTSIDE of the asphalt roadway. We sort of floated alongside the bridge, over the water, as we cruised. I was in the passenger seat and I could see the bridge up close. It was the most amazing way to see the entire bridge.

In another I shook hands with Jesse Jackson because he saw me across the room and rushed over to meet me. Said he was a big fan. (not sure what corner of my psyche that came from. I’m not much of a Jesse Jackson person, but ok.)

In several I could run really fast and it felt so good.

In the best dream, turns out The Good Man could fly. If I held tight to his hand, I could fly too. He flew *fast*, we zipped all over, and the wind tugged at my shoes! It was awesome!

Wowowowowow maaaaaaahn. That is some freaky sh–! I had good sleep! Fabulous dreams! And clear sinuses!

Diphenhydramine! You can’t beat this stuff!

So you know what I did, right?

I took it again the next night.

More wild, fabulous and fun dreams. Vivid, happy, trippy stuff.

Once again, I woke up feeling great. No residual antihistamine hangover, just calm and happy and best of all, rested.

So then, of course, owing to my Catholic upbringing or something, I realized that anything that feels that good can’t possibly be good for me, right?

So I put the happy dreams away and tried to sleep on my own last night.

It worked. I actually slept pretty well.

You know, I had a few dreams. Nothing special. Very dull. No flying or anything.

*sigh*

Did you get healed?

Recently, driving around in the Jeep looking for something good to listen to on the radio, I began to think about a CD I own.

By thinking, I mean, wondering where it is. When The Good Man and I moved in together several years ago, I boxed up a lot of stuff and stored it away.

Over the years, occasionally I’ll remember something that I want or need and it’s a hell of a rodeo to find it.

So I put the thought out of mind. Whatever. It’s just a CD. I can probably find it on iTunes or at the library or something.

I tried to dismiss it.

But this thought came with a long strip of Velcro, and wouldn’t let go.

A voice in my mind kept asking, “Where is that CD? You need to listen to it.”

When you get a voice that adamant, it’s kind of hard to ignore.

But I tried.

And tried.

And failed.

Resigned to satisfying that damn voice so it would shut up, I suited up. Our storage is under the place we rent, and that happened to be a very cold and very rainy day.

Determined, under the house I went, poking around in boxes and bags, knocking stuff over and getting lost on that long winding lane called Memory.

Finally, I did find a very heavy box that had a bunch of CD’s, and also most of my VHS movies, that I’d packed away.

I heaved, grunted and lurched the box upstairs and started picking through it.

A lot of heavy memory stuff burbled to the top, clamoring for my attention, which I gave.

But nothing quieted the voice. I kept digging and finally, yes, I found the CD I was looking for.

Best of the Blues, Vol. 1

Yeah. A “best of” compilation. Forgive me ye Gods of the Blues.

I bought this CD back in 1997. I’d just moved to the Bay Area and some good friends (also New Mexico transplants) had introduced me to the thriving blues scene in San Francisco.

I only tangentially knew the music. I’d listened to some B.B. King, some Muddy Waters and some John Lee Hooker in my time. The popular stuff. The stuff everyone knows.

But back then, San Francisco was steeped in the old ways.

During the course of the next decade, I received what can only be called a Blues Education.

I watched some of the not only best blues musicians, but best musicians period, play in craptastic bars like the old Grant & Green (the remodel took the soul out of it) and of course The Saloon, the oldest continually operating bar in the beautiful City of San Francisco. It dates back to the 1861, which means it survived both the ‘quake of 1906 and Prohibition.

There were nights it was too cramped and too hot (and back then, too smoky) in The Saloon for my tastes, so I would step outside the front door. I was dating a musician at the time, so the dyspeptic doorman had to be nice to me. He would let me sit on his stool by the front door where he collected the cover charge.

I’d take his chivalrous gesture and lean back against the battered wood door. I could feel the driving beat in my spine, and I’d watch the fog roll over the tops of the buildings in North Beach.

I learned about the three Kings (B.B., Freddy and Albert).

I learned about Chicago blues, Delta blues and the just plain blues blues.

I heard a thousand different versions of “Matchbox” and “Shotgun” and I watched guys try to be both Stevie Ray Vaughan and Albert King. I began to understand why some songs grab you by the gut and sometimes a song that should grab your gut doesn’t (hint: it has a lot to do with the drummer).

Today, I’m a suburban girl with a quiet, happy life. No regrets here. But sometimes I miss the family I made back then who took me in, protected me and helped me learn the old ways.

You know, they call it stormy Monday…but Tuesday’s just as bad.

This one musician, a hell of guitar player, used to tear it up for four hours, and at the end of the night, he’d ask the frenzied crowd, “Did you get healed?”

And he’d get crazy, drunken, full-throated hollers in return. The music mattered. It got us on a cellular level. We got healed.

I may need to see about a Saturday in North Beach soon, because something feels amiss. It may be time to go back and find if it’s possible to get healed.

Until then, I’ll take the ministrations from that ol’ CD found at the bottom of a moving box.

Image of Ron Hacker, arguably the best slide guitar man in SF and maybe even the world, onstage at The Saloon. (No, he’s not the guy I dated, I’m just a massive fan.)

Photo by Scott Palmer

Literal girl takes things literally

Ok, so there we were on a day of running errands, The Good Man and me.

We pull into a crowded parking lot behind the store where we’ve taken our bicycles to get tuned up.

Fabulous. All good.

TGM parks the car and heads inside while I get out change to go see about the meter.

Muliti-tasking couple, that’s us. Efficiency!

Ok, so we parked in one of those lots where you have to “note your space number and pay at the machine.”

Sure. Ok. I’m in!

So I note “space number 6” and then I swivel my head around to find the pay’er machine.

I see a sign that says, “pay here” and I go toward it like a moth after a 60-watt bulb on a hot summer’s night.

I literally walk right to the “pay here” sign. Seeing ONLY the “pay here sign.”

I arrive at the “pay here” sign to find that there is ONLY a “pay here” sign and no sort of payin’ machine.

What. The. Heck?

Ok. A photo will probably explain this better.

It actually took me several moments to turn around and actually figure out how to get my parking fare paid.

The sign says, “pay here.” It DOES NOT say, “pay over there, like eight feet away.”

Pay here with an arrow means pay there! At the end of the arrow.

Very, very literal girl was really perturbed by this whole setup.

So perturbed I took a dang photo of it!

I totally need to take up yoga.

Or meditation.

Or something with plinky-plunky music that will help lower my blood pressure.

Literal girl is *tense* sometimes…..

Isn’t that just good manners?

Some days I think the world is a very strange place.

Ok, ok. Most days, I think the world is a very strange place.

And the world thinks I’m a very strange girl.

Oddly, I’m ok with that.

But I digress.

Yesterday, I went to my local Safeway to pick up a few items. As you know, I’m a total Trader Joe’s girl. Unfortunately, ol’ Joe doesn’t always have everything I need, so I have to supplement with Safeway (and I feel like I’m cheating).

Anyhow, I took my few purchases to the register, and as I stepped up to take my turn, the checkout guy said, “Hi! How are you doing?”

To which I replied, “I’m fine, thank you. How are you doing today?”

And he responded, “I’m good. Wow, thank you SO much for asking!”

Which brought me up short.

An exuberant “thank you for asking”?

Would imply that most people don’t even bother to ask?

Which really seems rather rude to me.

I mean, I’m no Miss Manners, but my parents did actually teach me my “please and thank you’s”.

I’m not saying we have to go back to old school overly mannered and behaved, but some simple courtesy is a nice thing. A good thing. A missing thing…what’s that old saying? Gone the way of the Dodo bird?

Sure, I may burp in unfortunate locations and situations, sometimes. And I might, though rarely, yell inappropriate things out the car window.

But damn it! I know how to say please and thank you, and I’m polite enough to inquire as to how a nice hardworking grocery store clerk’s day might be going.

I’m just like that.

Cuz I was raised that way.

Why again aren’t people raised that way anymore?