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NEW NOW
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PART TWO!
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BOOK
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NEWSPAPER
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 Great good fine day. Banged out one column this morning, did another this afternoon while Gnat did Thinking Lessons, went to the Play Place, hit Target, grilled chicken, walked the dog while listening to the Northern Alliance do a stellar job sitting in for Hewitt, then bludgeoned my way on the show to speak with Charles Johnson, proprietor of LGF. One by one, I meet all my heroes. Then I got in the car and sped to the Apple Store; the computer was wheeled out to my car. Lugged it up the stairs, swapped it out, got to work. Time for Column the Third!
No ideas!
None! And it’s the big marquee Sunday column, too. Well, back to work, then. In a minute.
You know what love is? Love is TiVoing the penultimate American Fargin’ Idol for your wife instead of the season finale of “Enterprise.” Okay, it’s repeated Sunday, but I should wait? I should.
And go, Fantasia.
Driving to Target today, listening to a CD of 60s production music. (More on that tomorrow, with links to discs you can buy – I’d do it today, but I have to edit & upload the samples and hoover up the html from Amazon, and I don’t have the time, this being Three Column Tuesday.) One of the tunes was a dabadaba number, complete with breathy female voices singing, well, daba daba. I hit pause at the stoplight to check the liner notes.
“That’s a lot of daba daba,” Gnat said from the back seat.
“Why – yes. Yes, it is.”
Put her finger right on the essence of the genre, she did. Other observations from the child today: “Holding your own self hand is a strange thing, I think.”
“It depends,” I said.
“But it’s okay when you’re scared. It’s okay when you’re playing scary music, Daddy. To hold your own self hand.”
“I don’t play scary music, do I?”
“Sometimes you do. But it’s okay. I’m not really scared. But sometimes I hold my own self hand anyway.”
You and me both, kid. I wonder what the scary music might be. Perhaps the Matrix main title, which I crank up on occasion? Couldn’t be the Traveling Willburys, which I really blasted out the other day. Odd: I have no love for Dylan, at all. Don’t care much one way or the other for Petty or Harrison; I have a strange admiration for Jeff Lynne, and I love Roy Orbison. The whole Wilbury thing didn’t do much for me. Not a genre I like much. But “End of the Line” I love beyond measure. I got it the other day; hadn’t heard it in years. Every time Roy sings I am remade into gooseflesh. Just because.
Damn: play that one at the end of your funeral, and everyone’s smiling by the time they reach the door. Dance at the wake, I say. Dance!
Anyway, this being the dreaded triple column day, I leave you with the usual Wednesday update. It’s an addendum to Celery Fo-Mo. Prepare for the power of Peptopicon Pepule Pepsin Products to Punish Phthisis, People! Peace out.
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