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Friday, June 29, 2012

Jack Thinks Your Music Is Terrible

LOVE IS BLURRY.
Part 1
The posting around here has been sporadic.  I'm not sure if there's a real reason, or if I care.  Or if you care.  Or if you care that I don't care.  Or something.

But the quality has been poor, and I apologize for that.  In the way of an explanation, I feebly offer... well, this:

I have, as I think I always have, about 2,356 different directions that my mind wants to go.  At once.  This is not unique; everybody feels this.  But I happen to have more interests than I have neurons, and that gets complicated.  Drives (and has always driven) Majesty plum crazy.  No, the other crazy.  The bad one.

And it's not that I can't write, it's that I can't decide what to write.  Which is much, much worse.  When you have The Block you go and do something else.  You read a lot.  You go get a coffee.  Take a walk.  A vacation.  Whatever.

But when you most certainly can write, but need 35 clones of yourself to tackle the 35 topics jostling and elbowing each other in your head, that's a big problem.

Part 2
Caroline and Jack are fine these days.  Just slogging through the oppressive rice paddy heat and dipping in the pool when we can.  We have to go out and put 8 Sacajawea dollars in the A/C unit outside every 15 minutes.  It's annoying.  But as I frequently tell people, if Houstonistan had perfect weather, we'd be bigger than Mexico City.  Seriously, there'd be 25 million people here.  LA would be deserted.

No, the appalling climate keeps out the riff raff.  It's like invisible concertina wire.  (Incidentally, our punji sticks and tripwires are mosquitoes and incredibly large cockroaches, respectively.)

One quick story and I've gotta run.  Majesty told me this a while back, and I've forgotten to share.  It needs a little bit of setup.

As we've documented here on CJMP many times before, Jack is a musical kind of dude.  He adores music, and can identify a lot of what he hears on the radio.  If he can't, and he likes the song, he'll shout up to the driver's seat, "MOMMY/DADDY, WHO IS... WHO IS SINGING?"

He can usually tell you if it's Zeppelin or the Counting Crows or Rolling Stones or Robert Earl Keen.  It's quite amazing.  And his questions really test my memory banks (Uh, I think this is Deep Purple).  If he's into a song, he'll ask who's singing specifically, and who's on lead guitar.  Really.  I can get most lead vocalists, and I do okay on the guitarists, but with the bass/rhythm/drum guys, I'm out, mostly.

So Majesty goes on her roadtrip to Alabama with the sprogs a few weeks back.  They eventually have to stop at some gritty truckstop or other that time forgot.  They burn through a lot of CDs and DVDs on the way, and the radio is all out of whack because you're in the middle of the swaaawmp or bayou or slew or who knows what.

Majestad cranks up the truck, and she's not paying attention to what's playing.  After a bit, Jack asks, "MOMMY, WHO'S SINGING?"

She has no clue, so she looks down at the clunky old radio text display thing to find out.

"It says it's Miley Cyrus."

Jack digests that over the next few moments.

"MOMMY?  IT'S BAD."

I have never been so proud.  This reminds me of Kung Fu:
"Quickly as you can, snatch the pebble from my hand." The young Caine tries and fails. "When you can take the pebble from my hand, it will be time for you to leave."

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