A hell of a place to find heaven

This has been one strange Christmas. Not awful, but not one we'll forget in a hurry. Details later.

In the meantime, here's one of the odder Christmas songs I've encountered. It's called "Joseph, Better You Than Me", by The Killers, released in 2008.

The vocals are provided by lead singer Brandon Flowers, with guest vocalists Elton John and Neil Tennant (of the Pet Shop Boys).

 

[Vocalist: Brandon Flowers] 

Well your eyes just haven't been the same, Joseph 

Are you bad at dealing with the fame, Joseph? 

There's a pale moonshine above you 

Do you see both sides? 

Do they shove you around? 

[Vocalists: Elton John & Brandon Flowers] 

Is the touchstone forcing you to hide, Joseph? 

Are the rumours eating you alive, Joseph? 

When the holy night is upon you 

Will you do what's right? 

The position is yours 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a child 

When she took her stand, did she hold your hand? 

Will your faith stand still or run away? 

Run away 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

When they've driven you so far 

That you think you're gonna drop 

Do you wish you were back there at the carpenter shop? 

[Vocalist: Neil Tennant] 

With the plane and the lathe 

The work never drove you mad 

You're a maker, a creator 

Not just somebody's dad 

[Vocalists: Brandon Flowers, Elton John & Neil Tennant] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a man 

When I take the stand, will he hold my hand? 

Will my faith stand still or run away?

And the desert, it's a hell of a place to find heaven 

Forty years lost in the wilderness, looking for God 

And you climb to the top of the mountain 

Looking down on the city where you were born 

(Oh, the years since you left gave you time to sit back and reflect)

Better you than me  

Better you than me, yeah 

Well, the holy night is upon you  

Do you see both sides, do they shove you around? 

Better you than me, Joseph

Making waves

There are waves of fatigue, and waves of fear.

The Resident Fan Boy was awash in a tide of terror in the wake of a too-close-for-comfort encounter in the park. 

While I was mixing flour and lard for tourtières this afternoon while battling off the fatigue of a slowly healing arm, elder daughter hastily did some last-minute Christmas shopping through a haze of jet lag, then met up with her father and sister for lunch, followed by a walk in the park, where younger daughter loves to feed the ducks.  She told me this story first, with the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter supplying details later.

As they walked along one of the small lakes in Beacon Hill Park, a man approached, bellowing at all he passed.  Sadly, this is not that unusual an occurrence, but usually shouty, deranged people in Victoria are not screaming at people we can see.  This guy was making eye contact.

Swearing vociferously and continually, he observed the Resident Fan Boy looking anxiously at younger daughter, and spat, "Don't look at her; that won't protect you!"

Elder daughter and the RFB closed ranks, and guided younger daughter past. Younger daughter, her high clear voice ringing out from the spectrum where she lives, declared:  "That was unacceptable!!"

Her father and sister gently hushed her, and she protested:  "But he shouldn't be using those bad words!"

The deranged bellower was now walking away, but with each of younger daughter's comments, stopped, turned, and glared.

Walking steadily, and speaking softly, elder daughter and the RFB explained that the man wasn't well.  Younger daughter accepted that, but when I asked her about it on her return a couple of hours later, she repeated solemnly:  "It was unacceptable."

"I know," I nodded, "but his mind isn't working very well.  Every day must be pretty scary for him."  Perhaps even as scary as it was for the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter for that one awful moment of being taken for the enemy.

Love the Guest is on the way

The Resident Fan Boy has taxied out to the airport. Elder daughter left Heathrow at breakfast time in Victoria. Her bed's ready. Just gotta get out the towels, pillows and facecloths.

Fading

Elder daughter shows up tomorrow. 

This is fabulous, of course, but I'm nowhere near ready, so seized the opportunity today to locate the box with the Christmas wrapping bags and stockings in it, which I stored under several boxes in a corner of our bedroom.  My rationale was that, instead of having to retrieve it from our storage locker, it would be more accessible.

I hadn't factored in the possibility of a fall, and the consequent pain and fatigue.  Oh, I'm getting better.  By centimetres.  I find that every time I tackle a project requiring actual energy, I'm reduced to a quivering mass in less time than it takes to accomplish the task.  This is a heckuva problem, considering Christmas is coming, and this requires finishing gift-shopping, wrapping said gifts, preparing Christmas tourtières, and cleaning the damn house.

It's still a shock when the fatigue wipes me out like a chalk drawing.  It's a bit like being pregnant again.  To what am I giving birth? (I have a nasty feeling it's a much older version of myself.)

Meanwhile, the Resident Fan Boy has noticed more people are asking him to speak up.  He didn't think much of it until younger daughter, who has the hearing of a fruit bat, and can hear what we say from her bedroom with the door closed and our television on - particularly when we're discussing her - also starting asking him to speak up.  His fellow cathedral volunteers opine that this is wide-spread, and a result of a combination of isolation and ZOOM meetings.

I guess that, along with everything else, our diaphragms are atrophying from not having to talk boisterously to one another out of doors.

No wonder I find the cyclists at the coffee shop so loud and obnoxious.

I'm dreaming - oh gawd, I'm dreaming...

 Struggled awake from one of my "failure dreams" in which I've failed to prepare for something, my injured arm aching dully.

I don't need an analyst for dream interpretation.  I'm terrified and frozen, as Christmas bears down on me like a bright SUV -- or a horde of cyclists.  I'm healing, slowly and steadily, from my fall two and a half weeks ago, but I tire easily, and find myself slow to attempt even the least labour-intensive tasks.

Elder daughter arrives in two days; American Cousin arrives in a week.  I'd so hoped to have everything prepared by then.  I haven't even finished the damn online shopping.

Among the things I have been doing is uploading my favourite Christmas videos on to the Resident Fan Boy's YouTube channel, so we can watch them on the large screen television.  In doing so, we've discovered that the RFB really needs to sign into his YouTube account, rather than just watching without doing so.  Apparently, if you don't, the algorithms decide what might appeal to you, and put them into your "Watch Later" file.  The RFB was horrified.  I had to show him how to delete stuff. I'll spare you.

Most of my favourite Christmas offerings have shown up on my blog at some point, but I don't think this one has, probably because it's usually viral during the holidays, and is customarily shared without giving credit to the animator.  Mind you, it's not that easy to give credit where credit is due, because there is surprisingly little information about Joshua Held online.  I gather that he is an animator, film-maker, and writer.  He was born in 1967 in Tuscany.

I leave you with this, as I've got a lot more procrastinating to do.  (I'm sure you've already seen this anyway.)

What's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me

So, yesterday, Annie Lennox showed up on my Twitterfeed. (Yes, I'm still following Twitter; what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me.)

Wowza!! I just saw this incredible interpretation of SWEET DREAMS…
Gentlemen..You’re AMAZING!!!
Thanks for choosing our song!
ps.. Who ARE you???? pic.twitter.com/uQFLUYZ5iI

— Annie Lennox (@AnnieLennox) December 10, 2022

And I had to look, because what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me - I suggest you play the video, too. The trees and pavement looked very Vancouver Island to me, and sure enough, someone responded in the comments that the dancers were Canadian. I quickly looked them up.

They call themselves Funkanometry, and the shorter one is Jacksun (yes, that's how he spells it) Fryer, and the blond guy is Carlow Rush.  I think they're based in Nanaimo, where they clearly film a lot of their videos. I think Carlow may be from Duncan, which is midway between Victoria and Nanaimo, but it's safe to say they are Cowichan Valley boys.

In the comments in response to Annie Lennox, someone remarked, not quite sardonically, that the guys were finally responding after an hour or so (with a very Canadian graciousness, of course).  I thought, given the time difference, that this was a little harsh.

I soon found out, with local news coverage, that the reason for the delay was that, just as Annie Lennox had never heard of them, neither boy knew who Annie Lennox was.  Carlow was born in 2002, and Jacksun in 2003.  I guess neither of them caught the Eurythmics' induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year.

Their respective parents had to explain to them why this tweet was so significant. (Sadly, what appears to have really clued the boys in was the fact that Jennifer Aniston "liked" the tweet. They know who she is.)

Their videos are generally clips, for a generation with a short attention span, I guess.  Still very clever and entertaining, with good production values, a lot of skill, and superb synchronization . They remind me a bit of Hall and Oates, not that Funkanometry would recognize them, either. 

I particularly like this one, mainly because, being a dinosaur, I know who Roland Orzabal is.

(Update: Apparently Tears for Fears also responded promptly to this video.)

Womansplaining

I posted this song years ago, but I've come across a much cleaner, clearer copy, and more information about it. 

In the intro, included in the better defined edition posted below, Michael Nesmith mentions in passing that Martin Mull is performing with "Mrs Mull". 

She is, in fact, Wendy Haas, Martin Mull's third wife, and had some street cred in the music field, as a vocalist and keyboardist. 

HBO is currently running a documentary about Fanny, a rock group considered at the time to be a novelty, because all the members were women. (I believe the late George Harrison suggested the name, perhaps mischievously, knowing that Americans are not familiar with English slang.) 

Anyway, Wendy Haas was in the band before it morphed into Fanny, and has also performed with the likes of Santana and Melissa Manchester. 

This song appears in Martin Mull's 1977 album I'm Everyone I Ever Loved, where the backup vocals for "They Never Met" were supplied by Melissa Manchester. The following version appeared on Television Parts in the summer of 1985:     The boy was almost forty-eight years old. 

All he'd ever gone to bed with, was a cold. 

And he said to his mama, "Mama, I'm afraid it's true; 

Th'only woman that could love me is you." 

The girl could almost drink her age in beer-- 

Couple cases, give or take a year. 

She worked at the hospital -  hey, lots of people do. 

That's where they fell in love 

(Oh God, I wish that that was true).

 

But they never met, 

Not even briefly. 

I know what you thought, 

You thought that they might. 

Now, what was the problem? 

The problem was, chiefly, 

She worked the day shift 

And he worked the night. 

They never met, not even inform'ly-- 

I know you thought things like this work out right. 

No, no, they never met, not even abnorm'ly. 

She worked the day shift 

And he worked the night. 

Now the boy is almost fifty-nine. 

You ask him, "How's it goin', Frank?" and he says, "Fine." 

"And what's become of Mama?" "Well, Mama's in a better place." 

And he points his finger right straight out in space. 

The girl is finally chief admitting nurse; 

Considering what she had for brains, it could be worse. 

She could have been a victim of the dreaded Asian Flu; 

She could have had to live with you-know-who-- 

Now the boy's gone to meet his mom-- 

Natural causes: the bottle, not the bomb. 

They found him in the dining room; his face was in a stew. 

They dressed him in a suit of shiny blue. 

That same year, the girl gave up the ghost. 

The minister said she'd be missed the most. 

Her patients cried a tear, recalling how she signed their casts. 

The nurses said she'd find a man at last.  

They never met, 

Not even in spirit-- 

I know you thought things like this work out right! 

No, no, she went to Heaven... 

But he's nowhere near it. 

She works the day shift 

And he works the night.

Peeping Mom

 I've run out of day again (which seems to happen more often in December; shall I blame the Soltice?), so here's my Advent calendar this year. It's the kind of Advent calendar I loved as a child: where you open the doors and windows and see what's behind them.

Or else something has changed.

I still love it.

Good night.

Music therapy

An impossible day. Well, clearly not impossible - I got through it.

Due to a delayed grocery delivery, I found myself at Demeter's at 2 pm trying to serve and clean up after lobster bisque without running water.  I only remembered when I went to fill the kitchen sink that there was a scheduled water turn-off for Demeter's building that afternoon.

As I was boiling pots of water to clean the dishes, and trying to wipe up sticky umbre soup drips without scalding my fingers, a waltz tune drifted into my addled brain, along with snippets of song.

I realised it was The Story of Celeste, something I hadn't heard since I was quite a little girl.  It was written and performed by Paul Tripp with an orchestra, back in the days when there were quite a few of these kids' stories with symphonic orchestras making the rounds and being recorded.  Tripp also wrote the rather better-known Tubby the Tuba, but as a little girl, I thought Celeste's waltz tune was just the most beautiful thing ever.

It's a Cinderella story, with Celeste, an orphaned tune looking for an owner, being locked up by the cruel Miss Squeak (a clarinet), who detests tinkly tunes.  Celeste, of course, finally wins the heart of Prince Cello, and becomes his tune. So she can belong to him.  And he can play her. 

Okay, perhaps it's wiser not to look too deeply into this story, but the music is lovely.

Close to tears from fatigue, I left Demeter's and ran into her neighbour, who told me what a good daughter I was, and thumped me approvingly on my injured arm.  

I didn't cry out, but staggered home to see if I could dig up the recording I remembered.  YouTube didn't fail me.  It's about fifteen minutes of your time, if you have it:

Dieu veille

When we had small children, a new mortgage, and little money, I made "blessing bags" on Christmas for the Resident Fan Boy, Demeter, and my Friend of the Right Hand. The idea came from the "Angel Cards" we had on a table at Victoria Hospice. One of the nurses told me that if you drew three at a time, you would have many, many combinations.

The Resident Fan Boy didn't seem to have much use for his, so I commandeered it, and draw three blessings each day.

It was only this morning, after a sad phone-call about a professional set-back for elder daughter in London, that I remembered I had tucked a handful of keepsakes and inspirations in the blessing bag as well.

Among them is a treasure from Mary Helen, the friend who died three weeks, but the news only reached me yesterday.

(Courage donc, et patience, monsieur. Courage pour les grandes douleurs de la vie, et patience pour les petites. Et puis, quand vous avez laborieusement accompli votre ouvrage de chaque jour, endormez-vous avec sérénité. Dieu veille.  - from an 1841 letter written to Savinien Lapointe, a cobbler and a poet, whom Victor Hugo encouraged.)

Mary Helen gave me this years ago, during one of my summers in retreat to Victoria from Hades.  It was probably during one of my "used years".  She scribbled it on the back of one of her business cards.  I hadn't forgotten it was there, because I regularly take it out when I've used all the blessings and shuffle them before returning them to the bag.  But, in the shock of yesterday, it had slipped my mind.

It's a message from her, on repeat, every few months.  It's a comfort to know that this will continue.

Quo vadis

I feel slapped.  

The day was going well, and I left younger daughter happily listening to Michael Bublé Christmas music while preparing macaroni and cheese, went over to Demeter's, bearing Wednesday's lunch, courtesy of the local Japanese eatery.

Demeter looked up from her book.  "Did you know that Mary Helen died on November 13th?"

I froze, gaping at her.  

Mary Helen was diagnosed with ovarian cancer something like five years ago.  Immunotherapy, a relatively new break-through in cancer treatment, brought her a fair whack of quality living, reducing her pain and boosting her energy for a couple of years.  The final descent began a few months ago, while visiting friends and family in another province.  A "Go-Fund-Me" was set up to pay for the astronomical cost of bringing her back to Victoria via air ambulance.  (Demeter and I sent modest donations.)

The last report I'd heard, via Demeter's church, indicated that she was doing well in hospital and regaining some independence.

Then I had eye surgery.

Then I fell.

And there I was, reeling at this expected and unexpected news, realising that I hadn't checked Demeter's emails for more than six weeks, which is why neither Demeter nor I had heard.  Holding back tears, I set up email reminders for me to check every other day.  

Demeter herself seemed relatively unmoved.  She's at that stage of life, when letting people go has become a necessity.  It's a necessity for me, too, I guess, but I'm still pretty bad at it.

Mary Helen was one of the most centred people I've known. She was one of those highly organised, capable women, who did not use her capabilities and organisation to bludgeon those less so.  She used those gifts for good, finding time to help and support, even when illness clouded her final years and sapped her energy.

If I wish to truly honour her memory, I need to attempt to emulate her.  I'd never fully succeed, but I'd be a far, far better person.

So many will miss her.  Surely, that's a great way to go out, with family and friends sad to see you go, but letting you go, wherever it is we have to go.

I spy with my little eye

Today would have been my second eye operation, but my tumble to the pavement ten days ago has pushed the procedure into late January.

Never mind.  Having just one eye done has made a significant difference.

I was just reading my journal entry from six weeks ago.  It sounds euphoric, to say the least:

Oh. My. God. I CAN SEE.

Today was my first post-operative visit to Moka House.  In the pre-dawn light, I peered into the lit windows of the buildings I passed: lamps and shelves and wallpaper.  In the arch of trees, I could see branches, leaves.

Walking by a man at the bus stop, whose figure stood out in clear relief.  He stared into nothingness, listening to whatever was in his white earbuds.  He didn't appear to notice me, but, by golly, I could see him: his side profile, the strands of his blond hair.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps leading into the coffeehouse patio, taking in the individual bulbs in the string of lights.  I entered and could actually see the baked goods, and read the menu on the chalkboard.  For the first time in over a year, I read the posted clip of the day's horoscope by the pick-up station.

There's a beautiful, small, dark painting on the wall opposite me.  I've never noticed it before.  The other paintings are clear and colourful, not impressionistic at all.

And this was long after the Ativan wore off.  On the morning of my operation, I was offered medication, as I sat in a recliner in the waiting room, my eye full of various preparatory drops.  I told the nurse that giving birth twice has taught me to accept any drugs offered before a procedure.

"Fair," he said, cheerfully, giving me the tiny pill to pop under my tongue.  A fair bit later, I was gingerly positioning myself on the narrow operating bed, and the doctor pressed a kind of white gel pack to my eye, through which he opened a hole.

And all I could see was a kaleidoscope of brilliant oozy smears of light, blobs that changed colour from magenta to royal blue to poison green.  It reminded of the "Stargate" bit from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Thank goodness they were playing a classical guitar piece, and not the weird music from that part of the film -- or the rather clubby, thumpy stuff which was on when I came in.

I was told to focus on the farthest left of a cluster of three brilliant orbs, and I held my breath, then forced myself to breathe slowly, trying to relax my hands, under the blanket which firmly swaddled me to the stretcher.

It was a short procedure which seemed to take forever.

I had no trouble rising and walking on my own back to recovery.  Yes, I could see, but nothing dramatic.  At home my operated eye was cloudy, but nowhere near as bad as it has been for the past year.

It was early the next morning en route to the first operative check that I noticed I could read signs out the taxi window.  After the appointment, we elected to take transit, and the Resident Fan Boy commented on an approaching bus, several blocks away.  Without thinking, I told him it was a "Not in Service", then realized the significance of what I'd just said.

On another bus, which was in service, I gazed at the faces around me, the braids of the girl ahead of me, the couple bent over their phones, the details of the design on the ancient seat upholstery.

By evening, the images on the big screen television - purchased because I could barely make out things on the smaller screen of our old TV - were vibrant and clear.

"They always were, " said the Resident Fan Boy.

"Shut up," I told him.

By bedtime, I realized I could read books again.  I could make out what I'd written in my journals.

My mocha is topped with bubbles edged in brown, I noted in my current journal, my first morning back in the coffeeshop.  The croissant is made up of crisp crumbs and flakes.  I can see.

I can wait for my other eye.  When I close my new "good eye", the old "good eye" reminds me of what was.  For now.

This is vastly more entertaining than it sounds

Okay, I've spoken about Jay Foreman's videos before, but I'm married to a maps geek -- particularly transit maps. As the Resident Fan Boy is a Doctor Who fan, this may not surprise you. 

This is the second half of Foreman's dizzying verbal essay on the classic London Tube map, and like all of his videos, it's advisable to keep your finger on the pause button to catch the visual jokes that flash by, so quickly, it's practically subliminal. 

For example, there's a section in which Foreman lists transit maps from around the world that owe their appearance to Harry Beck's original design. One of those cities is Toronto, which you are not going to register without pausing the video. Trust me. 

Also included is a quick written critique of each city's transit map. I paused the video (after repeated scans) and quickly transcribed what Foreman wrote about the TTC: 

Toronto. At first I thought the uneven distances, wonky angles in the suburbs, and "north" compass point were redundant, but I just had a look on Google Maps, and it turns out Toronto's pretty griddy, and this is pretty much to scale. 

Foreman is not wrong; I lived there, and as a home support worker in my misspent youth, went to almost every TTC station to reach clients. 

Anyway, if you like London, and especially if you love transit systems, you'll enjoy this. You'll probably enjoy it, even if this is not the case. There's a very funny ad at the end, but it's a wee bit disgusting.   I'll be showing this to the Resident Fan Boy next. (But not on my blog; I'm not that crazy.)

The abyss of Christmas

Look, I love Christmas.

I really do.

This year's is shaping up to be somewhat of a challenge.  One of my American cousins is coming up from California to pay her respects to Demeter.  She's coming five days before Christmas, and will depart on the morning of Boxing Day. This is because she's American, and, as far as she's concerned, Christmas began on the American Thanksgiving and will end abruptly on Christmas Day.

This means my deadline for getting Christmas ready has moved up sharply.  It also means a Christmas of fire signs, because, naturally, Double Leo Sister and Jolly Not-So-Green Giant Brother-in-Law (an Aries, like my American cousin), plus, possibly, my younger nephew (another Leo).  All wonderful people.  All exhausting people.  All people who dwell in a different world than mine. And I will be picking through an emotional minefield of expectations and extra effort - with my injured right arm.

It'll be lovely to see them.  My daughters will be thrilled.  

And I'll be looking forward to Boxing Day, which is, after all, the second day of Christmas.  Americans don't observe either.

I've been avoiding the preparations I should be making, and doing genealogy and watching YouTube videos.  I've shared this one before.  It's about British Christmases.  They understand something about darkness and depth, even in a festival of light.

Watered in fears

A little over a week after my fall, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I sent off the Christmas cards early, as hastily written as they were. One in particular was scribbled and tossed into the mailbox, to prevent myself overthinking, because I did way too much thinking in February, while someone else did way too little thinking.

I'm not going into much detail about the so-called "Freedom Convoy" which occupied Ottawa between January 30th and February 20th of this year.  There's a pretty good timeline and break-down at Wikepedia.  Suffice it to say that I was once again relieved to no longer be living in Hades, because the situation there was hellish for my former neighbours, to say nothing of elder daughters' friends and colleagues, most of whom live in Centretown.

I followed events from a distance, getting social media updates from people I knew.

When the whole trucker mess started, there were reports of people blocking long-term contacts on social media, as they learned that relatives and friends supported the truckers.

I thought that was an unlikely thing to happen to me - me with my intelligent reasonable friends.  Of course, within a distressingly short time, I found myself spending days, weeks, trying to pull together a compassionate, polite, calm response to my best friend from high school.  This kind and gentle lady had posted a link to a blog-post, which, among other things, declared that the truckers were honking out of love for Canada, to save it. 

This blow came in the midst of reports from people I actually knew: reports of sleeplessness, of watching helplessly from their windows as people defecated against their buildings, of being unable to get their children to daycare or school, because truckers and police had blocked off access. Two of elder daughter's friends watched from their living room as two men put starter logs in the lobby of the apartment building facing theirs, lit them, then tied the entrance doors shut. (Elder daughter's friends, who are of many colours and sexual orientations, lived in terror, because they were visible targets. Most of them eventually fled to friends and family living outside of the downtown core.)

After a couple of weeks of despairing and steaming, I felt I was in a better place.  I quoted William Blake to myself:

I was angry with my friend/I told my wrath; my wrath did end.

I should tell her.  Then I could stop being so damn angry.

To better illustrate my diplomatic and calm arguments, I re-checked the blog post she had shared, in order to ascertain who was writing.  (I was pretty damned sure she wouldn't know.)  It was some guy named only "Dave", who described himself as a "leading data scientist".  In the post just before the one declaring that the truckers were honking night and day in downtown Ottawa to save Canada, he compared the "unvaccinated" with - so help me - Jews in Europe over the centuries.  A "culture of cruelty", he called it.

Nope, I wasn't going there.  (I'm pretty sure she hadn't read this post; I'm pretty sure she hadn't read the blog entry she did post very closely.)

I felt the exasperation and rage well up all over again.  I envisioned my friend, in her house on a suburban hill in the Okanagan, picturing her reaction if she were surrounded by people using her driveway for a toilet while honking for days until, in a blur of sleeplessness, she stumbled out to walk her pedigree bull-dog.  Not likely.  Which is the point, isn't it?  Too angry to contact her; I distanced myself.

Her birthday is in early November, and I had the pile of Christmas cards out.  I scrawled out a quick greeting, then hurried to the mailbox, before I could change my mind.  She's my friend, after all.

Just not my Facebook friend.

I think I see a pattern forming.

Do I?

I spent most of the day not getting stuff done -- well, not getting the right things done, anyway. 

This song, according to Spotify, is in my top five for 2022. Naturally, it's from 2008, but I never heard it until this year. I like the driving tempo, with the surprisingly wispy vocals (which I like as well). I was a little disappointed when I looked up the lyrics, but I can ignore those. Feel free to ignore them too.  

 On a whim

We climbed in a car 

That was headed down South

You were older

And I was hard-pressed for action

Could you tell?

You said, "Here, my dear!"

At the vanity fair

"Let's make hay while the sun shines!"

But was it fair?

Old playthings are all laid to waste

Thrown out to make better space

So I got a job

Cleaning toilets

In a nightclub in Baltimore

And I guess that's that

Almost shorter than a dream

And definitely less noise.

(Do I? Do I? Do I? Do I?)
 

Music for dinosaurs

I'm not exactly hip, am I?

On the edge of December, Spotify once again released Spotify Wrapped, an algorithmic imagination of what I liked in music during the past eleven months.

In 2020, I was bemused and baffled. Last year, I don't remember paying it that much attention.  This year, though, it's pretty accurate.  I assume it's because I've got better at nudging the algorithm.  Or something.

I was also wooed by a little - I dunno, what would you call it? - reel on my phone, telling me, among other things, that my morning mood was "Poetic Empowering Confident", my evening bent was "Easygoing Tender Sentimental" (must be that "Sleep" playlist I compiled for my sleep-bar), and that I "seized the day with Lit Fancy Relaxing".  (Personally, I think Spotify should invest in some commas.)

Elder daughter and I compared profiles during our weekly Skype call.  We're both "Adventurers", according to Spotify, and we suspect that everyone gets that.

"What on earth is 'Stomp and Holler'?" I asked her. (It's supposedly one of my favourite "genres".)  She said it was American folk and country.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who has asked this question, and there's a sort of answer in this not-entirely-reassuring article. 

Still, this year's playlist is a good fit for me, which means, I suppose that next year, I'll be categorized as what?

"Complacent"?  

"Jurassic"?