Hour One: YY-Zed and Other Surprises

Friday after work I went to the liquor store, and three hours later I was toast. Today was even better. I had a productive morning after a fabulous night’s sleep (thanks to rum), took an unruly dog for a walk in the warm sun, and watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High because no one was home to complain about the movie choice. I then got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood with no destination in mind, and called a far-away friend whose birthday I missed yesterday. Turned out she was thirty minutes away visiting her parents, so my aimless drive turned into a fun day at the park and a cheeseburger with my friend. Something I said reminded her of a song by Kiss, which she played for me in the car. I have never been a fan of Kiss and have no intention of making an effort to find value in their music. All I heard when she played the song was a middle-school guitarist in a garage with his friend playing tap-ka-tap on the drums. I felt an immediate need to replace the noise with Neil Peart, which I did, promptly. And the rest of the day was spent talking about random thoughts that all ended with discussions about music. She knows infinitely more than I do about musical artists, and she taught me some interesting tidbits. David Byrne, for instance, had a girlfriend who frequently joked about weirdos being psycho killers, and she was later killed by one. I have to look that factoid up, because I don’t really believe it. She also added Geddy Lee’s self-narrated autobiography to my Spotify playlist to further my knowledge. We listened to Pigs by Pink Floyd, which reminded me of the time I got a record player for mother’s day. A few albums came with the gift: The Dark Side of the Moon from my husband and Joe Cocker from my oldest daughter because I used to sing to her “You Are So Beautiful” when she was a kid. I cried when I saw the album, and then she cried. And no one knew why. My youngest got me Kenny Rogers because she thought that would be funny. I think Kenny Rogers is pretty great, so the joke was on her. I told my friend the story of the mother’s day gift, which led to a short discussion about country music—short because neither of us are avid fans of the genre aside from the bluesy stuff (and Kenny). We agreed that Chris Stapleton’s version of The National Anthem is the greatest of all the versions. We agreed on a lot of things, in fact, which is probably why we have been friends for most of our lives.

I am too tired to continue writing or to end this post with any level of wit, so I’ll let Rush take over the rest.

Night.