Tag Archives: music

More Clues

music, Travel, writing, , , , , ,

My last post (Where Am I?) included two photos and posed the question, “Where Am I?” So far, none of my readers on WordPress, Facebook, or Twitter have come up with an answer. Either you haven’t clicked the link, are too busy with Thanksgiving preparations, or you truly don’t give a crap. It’s understandable. There is just too much crap out here to read right now, and more important things to do. But in the meantime, I’m still hanging out here somewhere, wondering where in the hell I am. So if you happen to know, please tell me so I can find my way home in time for Thanksgiving!

I do have another clue for you. Remember the first clue was “coffeehouse.” The next one is “1960.” Oh, and here’s another photo.

Good luck. Hopefully, I Shall Be Released from this mysterious place soon. (That was another clue, by the way.)

Saturday Night Flight

humor, music, Travel, writing, , , , , , ,

I’m traveling tonight from Tucson, Arizona to Albany, New York. During my 3-hour layover in Chicago, I passed the time by writing a song parody, to be sung to the tune of “Chicago” by Fred Fisher:

Chicago, Chicago

I’m charging my phone,

chrome table, I’m able

to sit here alone

On my way to New York, I plunge a fork into

salad, raw salad,

waiting for connections is just the time to

write ballads, (like this one)!

I’ll soon board

and move toward

that row in the back,

grab aisle seat, throw luggage on the rack

(packed)

settle in now, sit back, close my eyes

soon I will fly in the friendly skies of

Chicago, Chicago and then New York!

(Below: Tucson International Airport, Chicago O’Hare Airport)

Here’s the original version of the song:

https://youtu.be/NoKn7vkSMBc

Eleven Eleven

music, writing, , , , ,

Today’s post was written for the “litebeing chronicles” blog, where a

SENSE-SATIONAL BLOGGING CHALLENGE

is underway for the month of November. When I chose 11/11 as the date for my post, I received the following response:

“11/11 is such an auspicious date, great choice!”

Yes, 11/11 has been auspicious for me. Ten years ago — on 11/11/07 — I met the man I would eventually marry.

Truth be told, we met before that, on match.com, but that doesn’t count, does it? His match.com profile said he played piano and liked Jackson Browne. That would have been enough for me — I play folk guitar and love piano — but in his picture he was riding a train and had a camera slung around his neck, just the right combination of sensitive musician and street-smart artist to hook me in.

We met for coffee on 11/11. We talked a lot about music, and a little about our former marriages. Our first official date (a Herbie Hancock concert) went smoothly. Before long, we played some songs together, and I started to dabble in songwriting. (He’d already done quite a bit of that himself.) Eventually, we decided to record our songs, but we needed a name for our duo.

Because we’d met on 11/11, and his apartment just happened to be #11 (how’s that for auspicious?), I suggested the name Two Candles. But when I Googled “Two Candles,” I found that the name had already been taken … by a store that sold sex toys. We didn’t want any confusion about that, so we crossed Two Candles off our list and kept thinking.

We came up with at least a hundred possible names — I’ve still got the list — before hitting on the one that would stick: Pacific Buffalo. (He’s from the Pacific Northwest and I’m from Buffalo.) For me, the name Pacific Buffalo conjures up oceans and prairies, modern and rustic – and that describes our music, too. There’s no one genre that we fit into, so I’ve made one up: “Cool Americana.”

Writing and recording cool Americana music with my husband has been fulfilling, frustrating, exciting, scary, tedious, and exhausting … but never boring. It’s taught me so much about music, about singing, about breathing, and about myself. It has shown me what a nitpicky perfectionist I can be, and also what a patient person my husband is. It’s made me a better listener. I’ll never hear music the same way again.

It’s also what got me started on blogging. Our band needed a website, so I became the official blogger. For a real treat to your senses, go to our website and check us out!

Which senses bring me joy and delight? They all do, but the one I chose to write about for today is the sense of hearing, and more specifically, of music appreciation. When I listen to music, I’m carried on a sea of sound to a space outside myself, a beautiful space filled with energy, waves, and light. In that way, I get to commune with some really cool, rustic, and positive energy in the universe. It even helps me to believe that there’s some meaning to my life (although I haven’t quite figured out what it all means yet). Is there a song in there somewhere? I sure hope so. Maybe I’ll call it “Eleven Eleven.”

Thank you, litebeing chronicles, for inviting me to write today’s post. My being feels lighter now that I’ve shared my love of music with you.

Tomorrow’s Sense-ational Challenge writer is: Barbara Franken

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Lost and Found

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“Lost and Found” is my first ever guest post! I wrote it for Day 9 of “Rage Against the Machine,” running through November at The Seeker’s Dungeon (hosted by Sreejit Poole). You can find my guest post (with song video) by clicking here.

Many thanks to Sreejit Poole for allowing me to participate in “Rage Against the Machine.” Be sure to visit him at The Seeker’s Dungeon.

This is also my Day 9 post for Nano Poblano. Check out their awesome blog posts here!

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Gonna Be Some Changes

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I’ve recently started going to the gym, but I don’t like it. It’s not any one particular thing — it’s just the whole package. The echoes, the grunts, the smells. Not knowing how the machines work. The pain. And don’t forget the scales, which might not be the most accurate machines ever invented. (I don’t know how I managed it, but recently I weighed .6 pounds more immediately after a workout than I did right before it.)

I used to have some pretty reasonable excuses for not going to the gym: “It’s too expensive.” “I don’t have time.” “It’s too far to drive.” But I can’t use those excuses now that I’ve retired, qualified for a Silver Sneakers (free membership) card, and discovered a Planet Fitness five minutes from my house. And then I read this headline today:

“Mayo Clinic discovers high-intensity aerobic training can reverse aging processes in adults.”

After reading that good news, I thought I might try to hate going to the gym a little less.

According to the study, which was conducted by the Mayo Clinic in 2017 and reported online here, the best method for reversing the aging process may be through interval training. (Disclaimer: I’m not a medical professional and I don’t know how scientifically rigorous the study was. But those two words, “reverse aging,” do have a certain appeal.)

“Interval training” is defined as about three to four minutes of hard exertion — for example, on a stationary bike — and then a rest period. Rinse and repeat. Yay! If they say “three to four minutes,” maybe that really means I can get away with “two to three minutes” as a newbie. And that rest period is appealing, too, since I greatly prefer to do awful things like boring gym exercises in small chunks, with plenty of time for heavy breathing and checking Instagram between the intervals. And I like that word “stationary,” too. I can do stationary quite well.

I have to admit that Planet Fitness is one of the least objectionable gyms I’ve been to. Their color scheme is deep purple, and they keep the lights turned down really low. That’s why I decided to keep going there, actually. It’s so dark that your cellulite looks just like interesting shadows. They even have a huge slogan emblazoned on the wall: “No Judgement.” (I always thought that “judgement” was spelled “judgment.” So whenever I see their sign, I feel judgmental about their spelling. But maybe it’s a British spelling. Does anyone out there know? Because I want to feel less judgmental while I’m in there. “Judge not, lest ye be judged” has special meaning when you’re on public display in your gym shorts.)

I went to the gym yesterday and was hard at work on the treadmill. (This was before I knew about the much easier and relaxing — I hope — interval training method.) I was listening to music through my headphones, a method that I’ve found works well to distract me from the burning in my lungs and the sweat dripping from my brow. About ten minutes into my workout, a song came on that got my adrenaline pumping, and my feet seemed to take on a life of their own. It was the aptly titled “Gonna Be Some Changes Made” by Bruce Hornsby. The tempo was perfect for my treadmill speed (about 2.5 miles per hour) and the music was energizing. It could be the lyrics that motivated me. (It’s hard to think about going home and lying on the couch with a bag of potato chips when you’re listening to him sing about all those changes he’s going to make.)

I think maybe I should download some other songs with the word “change” in the title, and bring them with me to the gym. For example:

Changes (David Bowie)

A Change Would Do You Good (Sheryl Crowe)

Waiting for the World to Change (John Mayer)

A Change is Gonna Come (Sam Cooke)

Change My Way of Living (Allman Brothers)

Change the World (Eric Clapton)

Psychologist Carl Rogers had this to say about change:

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”

OK, that does it. Starting today, I’m going to accept the fact that I dislike the gym. And then there are going to be some changes made … starting tomorrow.

 

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American Dreamer

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Early this morning — around 3 a.m. in fact — I started my new job as a tax preparer. I went out into the busy waiting room and asked, “Who’s next?” A tall man in the front row eagerly raised his hand. It was Ronald Reagan.

I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face while racking my brain for a way out. I could pretend I hadn’t seen him. I could announce that we were closing for lunch. Or I could just quit. But in the end, I knew that I had no choice. I gave him a nod and we walked back to the cubicles.

I asked him if he’d like a more private office, and I was overcome with pangs of guilt for doing so. Why was I giving him royal treatment? I should just treat him like everyone else, I told myself. But it was too late. My co-workers had gotten wind of our special client, and they were hustling to vacate the director’s office so that we could use it. We entered the cushy room with its mahogany desk and velvet chairs, and sat down across from each other.

Suddenly, Reagan pulled out a ragged old newspaper with a shocking headline and risqué photograph of a woman. He thought it was hilarious. I told him that he was being inappropriate. Then I mustered up the courage to say that I really didn’t think I should be doing his taxes, because it was my first day on the job, and I’d never prepared anyone’s taxes before. “And besides,” I said, pausing for effect and looking him straight in the eye, “I’m not at all a Trump supporter!”

Reagan wasn’t fazed at all. He still wanted me to do his taxes, but first, we had to do his laundry. So down into the basement we went. I don’t even remember how we got there, but suddenly we were standing in front of an old washer and dryer in a dark, musty basement, filling up the tub with his dirty clothes. I turned on the machine and almost immediately flooded the basement. Realizing that we were standing in six inches of water, we abandoned our project and rushed toward the stairs. Once safe on the first floor, I pulled out my cell phone, called my mother, and asked her to help.

And then I woke up.

It’s only a dream, I thought with relief. And whatever you do, I told myself, do NOT close your eyes and go back to sleep!

Once fully awake, I tried to analyze the symbols in my dream. New Job. Taxes. Dirty Laundry. Flood. Ronald Reagan. What was my dream trying to tell me?

My first attempt at dream analysis resulted in the following possibilities:

  • New Job = I just started a new “career” (retirement).
  • Taxes = Identification with my father (who worked for the IRS).
  • Dirty Laundry = Scandals in the presidency.
  • Flood = Trickle-down economics.
  • Ronald Reagan = See Flood.

All of that made sense. But then it hit me. Last night, just before bed, I’d been practicing my guitar for the first time in a while. One of the songs I played was “American Dreamer,” something I wrote in 2009, right after the American housing bubble burst. (You can listen to it here.) The song tells the tale of someone who got in over his head because he believed what the banks and the real estate developers were telling him. He’d purchased a home with a balloon mortgage and then had lost his job and his home. People were blaming him for being greedy, but he says his mistake was following someone else’s dream.

So on a deeper level, my dream might symbolize what happens when you’ve gone along with the crowd and then are faced with a dilemma. Do you continue to follow the rules, despite your beliefs, or do you stand up to authority? Because if you don’t, you may find yourself in hot water. With Ronald Reagan.

I once dreamed that Bill Clinton kissed me on the cheek. Luckily, I did not have sexual relations with that man. I haven’t had any Obama dreams yet, although that would be nice. I wouldn’t even try to wake up!