Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 26

The Thunder Beneath Us Mixtape

Author Nicole Blades is another member of my Mom2.0 mafia, a graceful and focused friend whose dedication to her writing is an inspiration to me. I am so pleased to share her author mixtape on the cusp of the release of her new novel, THE THUNDER BENEATH US (drops October 25!)

The Thunder Beneath Us Mixtape

by Nicole Blades

There are times that I’m writing when I need true quiet. I need to be able to hear that other voice in my brain as it walks me around certain tricky corners of the story that I’m trying to build. Even the slightest extra sound—birds in the tree just beyond my office window, a car’s last-legs muffler hacking its way down the street, the stern rattle of the wind against the side of the house—feels like a deliberate distraction. As if someone set out to throw off my whole focus. It’s not unlike when you’re a new parent and the baby is finally napping and that’s when the neighbor’s dog randomly decides to freak out or the FedEx guy figures it’s probably best to press your annoyingly loud buzzer seventeen times.

“They better not wake this baby,” is the threat/mantra you hiss while perched on the edge of everything, ready to pity the fool who messed with that child’s sleep—and your sanity.

During the silent stretches, I like to act out dialogue. Or sometimes it’s as simple as saying a word that doesn’t quite feel right over and agin, like its own weird melody, until I either find a way to make it sing or replace it altogether.

But then there are the other times, when the hush is almost too much, the words alone play too loudly in my head and I need music to smooth it all out.

In the last seven or eight years, I’ve developed a steady habit of setting up a soundtrack for whatever novel I’m working on. Often I’ll start with three or four songs—some new, some old and gold—and build from there.

With THE THUNDER BENEATH US, one of the first tracks that I added to my playlist was a song I had heard while watching—of all things—An SNL Digital Short.

Despite the foolishness going down in the video, the song itself , “Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap, was haunting and I knew it would help set the mood for this story. (That horrible Jason Derulo sampled from it for his song “Whatcha Say.” Not a fan of that guy.)

The next song I just had to add also came from a television show, this time the great Friday Night Lights (say it with me, y’all: “clear eyes, full hearts…”). It’s an instrumental that runs over eight minutes and it’s called “Your Hand In Mine” by this post-rock band from Austin, Texas, named Explosions in the Sky.

The song instantly adds a layer of somber to my skin and makes me feel wistful, but also like I (or more my characters) need to work through it and reach out to something brighter and better just right there.

Another song that’s in that same lane is called “Soon or Never” by the Punch Brothers. First of all, the title. I mean, come on. It kind of tells you everything you need to know about the tune you’re going to hear, right? Plus, there’s a mandolin, for crying out loud!

I was actually somewhat surprised by how much I liked this bluegrass-y, progressive country-ish band, for and their album, Who’s Feeling Young Now?  I’m not the biggest country fan. But here we are. Life comes at you fast, friends.

Not everything on my THUNDER playlist is “strumming on my sad guitar.” There’s also this great song called “Twice” by the Swedish electronic music group called Little Dragon.

The opening, with its slowly building piano chords, drops you straight into the searing first two lines of song:

Twice I turn my back on you


I fell flat on my face but didn’t lose

Whuuut?! It’s an immediate, “whoa…and then what happens?” You want to find out where this song’s story is going. I also like how lead singer Yukimi Nagano’s voice dips low at certain points; it sounds almost guttural. The lyrics and the tone of the song really matched up with the vibe of my book’s protagonist, Best Lightburn. There are clear bristly edges to her and I could totally see Best telling someone those very lyrics without so much as a blink or a pause.

Also on the THUNDER playlist I have some Rihanna (“Stay”) and Sade (“It’s Only Love That Gets You Through”) as well as the fantastic British singer-songwriter Laura Mvula (“Father, Father”)

Each song seem to arch up and lean toward the next, setting the frame for this picture I was trying to create; one that was emotional and sad at times, but definitely full of heart.

Then, while I was working on the final copyedits and last-looks on the book, I somehow latched onto a classic by Prince. “The Beautiful Ones.”

I added it to my personal playlist as well as the one for THUNDER. It just fit there and I was low-key kicking myself that I had not thought to add it years before, when I first started using this soundtrack with the book. And just two weeks later, our Prince was gone. The song took on a completely different weight and it makes me tear up for very different reasons now. I kept it on the playlist, despite the tears it brings, because, a) it’s Prince and b) it’s Prince.

Paint a perfect picture


Bring to life a vision in one’s mind


The beautiful ones


Always smash the picture


Always every time

***

Want to read the book that inspired the list? Nicole is giving away a copy of  THE THUNDER BENEATH US to a lucky Midlife Mixtape reader! To enter for your chance to win, leave a comment below…we’ll use Random.org to select a winner on Friday, October 21 at 5 pm PST!

Nicole Blades is a novelist and journalist. Her features and essays have appeared in Cosmopolitan, NYTimes.com, WashingtonPost.com, Health, MarieClaire.com, SELF, BuzzFeed, and BlogHer. Born and raised in Montreal, Nicole now lives in Connecticut with her husband and their son. Follow her on Twitter @NicoleBlades. And visit her online at NicoleBlades.com.

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The Head and the Heart, As Reviewed By a Millennial

I feel like I’ve been picking on the Millennials lately, so I thought for a change I’d put myself in their shoes and write a concert review from their point of view.

The Recent Head and the Heart Show, Viewed Through Two Old Ladies

When my friends and I saw that The Head and the Heart was playing at the Greek Theater in Berkeley in October, we Snapped each other and decided, why not? I know that one song of theirs, and there were probably going to be hella cute girls there wearing peasant blouses and jean shorts. So Emily got the tickets and I Venmo’d her the skrilla and we Ubered over. I’d even shaved and worn matching socks. I am *KILLING* at adulting.

The girls had gotten there first and found us seats. The Greek is this old outdoor theater from like the Pleistocene era and the seats are stone and hard as hell, which I yelled out a bunch of times in case people wondered if I was comfortable which I wasn’t. And there’s not much legroom, especially since these two old ladies in front of us had these Grandma-style padded seat cushions with backs. Like, just stay home if you have to bring that much equipment with you, you know? By halfway through the night, Emily had her legs crossed and just kept kicking old lady in orange in the back. The lady kept scooching forward with her Grandma chair, Emily kept kicking her anyway. We died laughing.

The opening band was some guy who pranced around a lot. I liked his skinny jeans, but otherwise I can’t say much about the performance because my tech bro Marc and I were talking about this project at our startup. One of the old chair back ladies kept swiveling her head around to stare at me. Ma’am, stop eavesdropping, are you building a competitive app or something? Then freaking out of NOWHERE she turns and says, “CAN YOU PLEASE BE QUIETER THIS IS THE TALLEST MAN ON EARTH AND WE REALLY WANT TO HEAR HIM!!!” Chill, lady! It’s not like this is the symphony. We’re OUTSIDE. And he could definitely play louder.

To the chair lady, I was all, “Oh, SOOOOORRRY,” you know, dripping in sarcasm. I listened to whoever that was on the stage for about half a song but I didn’t think he was that great. So Marc n’ me went back to talking about our app. The old ladies leaned forward and cupped their hands behind their ears. Maybe they should have packed an earhorn, too.

Bread and the Darts was pretty good, I guess. I didn’t know that many of their songs besides that one they play on the radio, I don’t listen to full albums ever. But it was super funny because I kept yelling “I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG” in the quiet moments of the slower songs they played. My friends LOL’d every time. We took a ton of selfies. The smaller of the two old ladies threatened me at one point, though. She was like, “You guys are so loud!” although she was so mad she was mostly just stuttering, so she may have been saying something else. Whatevs. All I cared about is that when I yelled “Someone farted!” my squad cracked up. Those old ladies need to try having a sense of humor.  #Squadgoals

When Ned and Sharts played that one song, Emily and the other girls stood up and danced, and so did the two old ladies. Not Marc and me, though. From what I could hear of the band between conversations, they weren’t that good. And I didn’t know any of their songs besides that one song.

That one song

At the end of the show I overheard the smaller of the old ladies say, “Though I am filled with rage,” (for some reason that’s when she looked at me,) “that was still one of the best shows I ever saw,” and her other friend hugged her, though maybe they were just trying to help each other walk, what with the being old and having chairs to carry.

I don’t know, not my problem. I’m just looking forward to the next show at this big old outdoor theater, because I can try out my strawberry-vanilla vape!

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Losing My Edge

The other day there were some frozen carrots defrosting on our kitchen countertop. The problem is, these were not of the freezer-section-bag-of-carrots variety. They were fresh carrots, normally stored in the ‘fridge, that someone had absentmindedly stuck in the freezer instead. Do you know what happens when fresh carrots are frozen and then thawed? They gain a rubbery consistency. You could staple the unfrozen carrot end to the carrot top and make a cute DIY artisanal vegan bracelet to complement your hemp jumpsuit and Jersusalem cruisers.

As the carrots lay there in a puddle of their own fluids, my family engaged in what my friend Ted says is the critical first step in any crisis: assigning blame. My husband pointed at my daughter, she pointed back at him, and I stood in the corner with my head down thinking, “Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me.”

Because, my friends, I have completely lost my edge this fall.

There are plenty of things to which I could assign the blame. Dad’s death, my daughter heading to college, the current presidential election, planetary alignment, my advancing decrepitude. It doesn’t really matter, though. The outcome is that in arenas where I was once razor-sharp, like complicated travel planning and household management and interpersonal communications, I am now as sharp a butter knife that’s spent too many nights in the sandbox as a kids’ digging toy.

My college daughter texted me to ask what I thought she should do with her spare day in Philadelphia en route back to her school after Thanksgiving break. “What do you mean?” I asked, mystified. “I booked you on the red eye the Saturday night after Thanksgiving, so you get into Philly Sunday morning in time for the shuttle bus back to campus.” Except that I didn’t. I interpreted 12:20 am Saturday as “in the middle of Saturday night” not “in the middle of Friday night.” So I am basically stranding my darling daughter in Philly for 24 hours, because I can no longer understand clocks. Thank the Baby Cheeses for my college roommate who lives in Philly and has offered to host my child for a day.

Then there’s my initiative to freshen up the home décor this fall, in compensation for what appears to be our permanent dogless state going forward. If I can’t have a dog, at least I can have a house I wouldn’t want a dog to wreck, anyway.

So I marched off with all the tired and outdated cushions on our kitchen window seat to an upholsterer whose store is, quite literally, underneath Highway 880 in Oakland (nickname: “The Great Western Molar Shaker.”) There was construction on all sides. so that I had to pull a European Vacation-style circuit past the shop without actually getting there, only instead of “There’s Big Ben!” it was “There’s the FoodMax!” When I did finally park, I found a sign on the front door of the shop that says, “Robbers, bring ID. So we can notify the next of kin,” underneath a stencil of a gun aiming at me. It’s not a neighborhood where I hang out much. After choosing new fabric with the (surprisingly considering their signage) warm and friendly couple who run the place, I went out to bring in all the bench cushions and pillows.

Oh wait, no. Not ALL the cushions. I left two at home! Why? So I’d have a reason to drive underneath the highway and do laps past the FoodMax again, I guess, at some other future inconvenient time.

If this were the Rapture, these are the sinner pillows.

And so it goes. I was en route to the Squeeze concert last week when my friend texted to ask if I was picking up our CSA box delivery in Oakland, an errand that she and I have alternated every week since forever. “Um, no, because I am an idiot, and furthermore I’m an idiot in San Francisco,” I texted back. I saw a sweet young mom on my street from afar on Tuesday, walking toward me. “Hi there!” I yelled. “When’s the baby due, again?”

“She was born last Tuesday,” she answered.

via GIPHY

 The only comfort I have is seeing my friends, approximately the same age and stage of life, in the same fog – some might call it Schadenfreude, but I call it Beruhigungfreude (that’s Reassurance-Joy.) A friend in Toronto took her two teenagers on a road trip to visit colleges on both sides of the border at the end of August, only to realize partway through the trip that one of her kids was going to miss her first day of school. Her husband had to drive down from Canada to grab his daughter and hustle her back north.

I ran into another friend in the grocery store on Sunday as she stood staring at the display of plums. I called her name and she looked up, startled. “I forgot round challah,” she said by way of greeting. “It’s almost Rosh Hashanah and I just…forgot it.” Hello to you too!

Both these women are among the most smart, organized, and clever people I know. If they’re misreading school calendars and zoning out by the stone fruit, then it’s definitely not my fault that I left my fancy mobile phone charger in a hotel room last weekend.

Just in case anyone is looking to assign blame.

I probably don’t need much help with this, btw.

                   
CommentsRight there with you…wait…did I unplug the glue gun? by JTI was really expecting this as the musical accompaniment ... by EllenRelated StoriesToothquakeDorm Room DecorLitquake 2016 

Litquake 2016

[image error]Next week is the High Holy Holidays for writers in the Bay Area: San Francisco’s big annual literary festival Litquake, which culminates in the highbrow-bar-crawl-through-low-places known as Lit Crawl.

It’s a groaning board of literary programming which gets progressively easier to compare each year thanks to technology upgrades, if not one iota easier to choose. Check out the schedule and see if there’s anything to float your boat between the opening party on Friday, October 7 and the closing party after Lit Crawl on Saturday, October 15.

I’m especially pumped for “I Thought It Sucked: One Star Reviews of Best Loved Books” on October 8, in which an all-star cast of Bay Area writers, readers, and performers present dramatic readings of one-star reviews that trash the world’s most treasured literary masterpieces. There’s also Thomas Dolby reading from his new memoir The Speed of Sound on October 14.

But Wednesday, October 12 is when I really need the Hermione Granger Time Turner.

via GIPHY

There’s “Who’s Laughing Now: A Night of Funny Females,” a (non-Litquake event but still) reading by Luvvie Ajayi at the Commonwealth Club for her new book I’m Judging You, oh, and a mandatory yes MANDATORY meeting for a board I’m on. All starting at the same time, in three different parts of the Bay. I’m currently negotiating with the board president on what the definition of “mandatory” is.

And then comes the big night on Saturday – Lit Crawl, through the Mission. During each of three Phases, starting at 6:00, you pick a reading to go to – in a bakery, a record store, a bar – and listen to an hour of glorious original literature. Then you have 15 minutes to sprint to the next spot for Phase 2, and you do it again at Phase 3. There are 36 choices for Phase 1 alone. That I have narrowed it down to five places I need to be for each Phase is, I think, a testament to my decision-making capabilities.

Of course there is one single Lit Crawl event that has no competition – and it’s the one where I’ll be reading: the BART to Bar Lit Crawl Caravan. Once again, we’re taking over the first car of a Richmond/Daly City BART train headed from Downtown Berkeley to 24th Street in the Mission and staging an impromptu reading all the way, emerging just in time for Phase 1. (Here’s a recap of last year’s journey.) If you’re up for a guerilla literary experience, this is definitely it. I’m still deciding on what to read and will take any suggestions you have – including “write something new, Nancy” – but I do hope to see some familiar faces as we sound our barbaric yawps into the ears of unsuspecting commuters. More details here.

Have fun and get lit!

Where I’m gonna search for that Time Turner. (Really just a weak excuse to include the video for this song I can’t stop playing, from Band of Horses and Dinosaur Jr.’s J Mascis.)

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Concert Review: Squeeze

The Band: Squeeze, Sept 28 2016. There is no one who was alive in the ‘80s who doesn’t know the lyrics to “Tempted” and “Black Coffee in Bed” by the British rock band led lo these many years by Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook. While the surrounding players have changed a few times, the distinctive vocal twinset that is Difford (low and urgent) and Tilbrook (warm and melodic) creates a sound that remains intact and recognizable four decades after Cool for Cats propelled them into everyone’s radio waves for the first time.

The Venue: Great American Music Hall. Built a year after the 1906 earthquake, designed by a French architect with a penchant for ornamentation, and home for many years to entertainers skilled in the art of the fan dance, the bubble dance, and good old fashioned prostitution, GAMH is a small venue with a whole lotta history inside its red walls and filigreed galleries. This was a seated show which I initially poo-pooed, right up until someone offered me a chair and I grabbed it like it was the last life ring on the Titanic. I mean, if EVERYONE is sitting, it’s not defeat, right?

The Company: My friend Esther who warned me in advance that she’s a Squeeze superfan. I love when superfans invite you along to see their favorite band. With every song switch, they are engaged in a fierce game of Name That Tune that they couldn’t subdue if they tried. Half the time I knew before Difford and Tillbrook did what song they were playing. Thanks, Esther.

The Crowd: I’ve seen you guys before. Remember how we all went to see Crowded House together that one time? Or was it Echo and the Bunnymen? Either way – how are the kids liking high school? Have you scheduled your colonoscopy yet? Remember when Squeeze tickets were $13.50?

[image error]

December 13 1985, Spectrum Philly, for the Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti tour

Opening Band: Look Park, a brand new band by Chris Collingwood, lead singer of Fountains of Wayne (You know, “Stacy’s Mom.”) I really dug these guys, who played with a simple straight-ahead style and some beautiful harmony. I wish I had a better description of Collingwood’s voice other than that it sounds like he’s going to tell you a good story. I plunked down $20 for some vinyl so I can research and come up with a pithier explanation.

Worth Hiring the Sitter? Annie, Get Your Babysitter

First, Squeeze seems happy and genuinely jazzed to be touring in support of a brand new album, From the Cradle to the Grave. “Happy Days” appears to be an honest reflection of where they are in their lives.

Second, I have a new aspirational role model, and her name is Lucy Shaw, and she is Squeeze’s bass player. She looks like Charlie’s fifth Angel and kills on the bass, an instrument I’ve always wanted to know how to play, if not put in the effort and time to learn how to play. I will probably go as Lucy Shaw on Halloween this year. I just need a blonde wig, a bass, and a reversal of time.

Third, Squeeze didn’t leave longtime fans in the lurch, dipping liberally into the song catalog of beloved hits that rendered those chairs unnecessary, at least for Esther and me: “Cool for Cats,” “Pulling Mussels (From the Shell,)” “Slap and Tickle,” and “Tempted.” For my money “Goodbye Girl” was the highlight, though “Annie Get Your Gun” was pretty boss (you can see my video of that over on the Midlife Mixtape FB page.)

You know what they didn’t play? “Black Coffee in Bed.” Bold maneuver, ignoring the large bearded man behind me who bellowed that request throughout the second half of their set. I think he lost it for us, frankly.

Squeeze is out on the road for a bit longer so check out their schedule and see if you can get to a show. I promise you’ll know the songs. And even if this t-shirt on their merch table makes us laugh, I bet it’s not true for you either.

[image error]

Not me

Next show on the calendar: The Head and the Heart and Tallest Man on Earth, October 8

 

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We Have To Do Better

I have a friend here in Oakland whom I know from blogging around the way. Brandi of Mama Knows It All is smart, hard-working, accomplished, a relentlessly positive person. She has a seven-year-old daughter, and she’s now pregnant with #2. Poor thing – she has that wicked bad Kate-Middleton-level morning sickness that is less morning sickness, more all-day debilitating wretchedness. She’s even had to spend time in the hospital to deal with it. I can’t even imagine how she’s working full time and caring for her daughter and coping with this condition.

She’s also black.

Which I bring up, because the other day I logged into Facebook to see the sign that my friend had, out of fear and foresight, created to put in her car window on a day she absolutely had to drive somewhere. She knew there was a risk, with her pregnancy-related condition, that she might have to pull over suddenly and barf.

[image error]Here’s where we are, America. A pregnant, smart, hard-working, accomplished, relentlessly positive American mom is so scared that she is going to be misunderstood by police and, due to her skin color, not given a chance to explain, that she has to drive around with this sign in her car.

Sit with that for a moment. I know you, readers. You are good people. The best. I know this is not the world you want for yourself, for your children, for Brandi’s children.

If you are white like me, ask yourself – as I have been asking myself since I saw that Facebook post – what you can do to change the situation. To be an effective ally for your friends who have brown skin. How you can amplify the real-life, actual everyday worries of people who you know who have been reduced to posting a proactive request to be shown grace.

A good place to start: read I’m Judging You: The Do-Better Manual by my friend Luvvie Ajayi. I had planned to recommend this book of essays to you all because it’s funny and because within a week of its release it landed on the NYTimes bestseller list. But just like the author, this book contains multitudes. And there’s a whole section on race in America and what we can do now to help improve what has become a dire, difficult situation. It’s an important read. (PS Luvvie is coming to the Commonwealth Club on October 12th if you want to join me in seeing her read in person.)

[image error]Luvvie also wrote this extremely useful post for her blog:

9 Things White People Can Do to Fight Racism Now

Read it, absorb it, do it.

And if you see Brandi and her nausea and her car sign weaving around Oakland, do me a favor and keep a protective eye on her.

Of course, we shouldn’t have to think that way. And neither should she.

***

I find myself thinking of this Frank Turner song a lot, because it applies in so many situations:

“Come on, let’s fix this mess. We can get better, because we’re not dead yet.”

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She’s Gone (To Diablo Valley, with Hall & Oates)

Anyone can have a relaxing vacation by flying off to Hawaii or the Caribbean. But I just took one that unfolded 22 minutes’ drive from my home (depending on traffic) in Diablo Valley, California.

The plan was to attend the Hall & Oates show at Concord Pavilion, with openers Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, and Trombone Shorty. But it morphed from simply being a concert outing to being an 18-hour vacation with the choice to stay overnight at the Hilton Concord, and to bring along my friend Glynis. She too has just dropped off kids at college, but in her case it was twins, and she and her husband became empty nesters overnight. I knew she’d be down for distraction.

Let me tell you about Glynis. I call her my Top 5 Friend, as in, even Top 10 music is a little too edgy for her. When we go dancing together to Cat Club ‘80s nights, Glynis is in the front room begging the DJ for more Madonna, Katrina and the Waves, and Michael Jackson, while I keep dragging her to the back room for the Cure, Siouxsie, and Bronski Beat. I once made the mistake of pushing her in there just as an Einstürzende Neubauten song came on and she’s never recovered. So I knew she’d love Hall & Oates. In fact, when I emailed to ask her, she responded in the affirmative so fast I had to double check to see if I’d texted her the question.

As much as Glynis loves H&O, as exemplified in follow up emails she sent consisting of just their song titles, that’s how hard I resisted the pull of Hall & Oates during the ‘70s and ‘80s. A girl listening to Einstürzende Neubauten and the Replacements did not want to cop to knowing all the lyrics of “She’s Gone” even if she secretly did, and any dancing done to “You Make My Dreams Come True” happened strictly behind closed doors during those decades. Hall & Oates was the music of my step aerobics classes, the MTV videos that sent me into the kitchen to pour another Tab, the cheesiest of ‘80s cheese.

But hey, an 18-hour vacation is an 18-hour vacation, and a concert is a concert, and a Top 5 Friend is a Top 5 Friend. Besides, ever since my college girl with the great music taste told me she loves Hall & Oates, I’ve been thawing toward them. I kissed the family goodbye and left my house at 1:50 pm on Sunday afternoon, and after chit-chatting with all the nice H&O fans milling about in the expansive and calm lobby of the Hilton, had my feet up on the bed in my lovely room and the Pandora station set to Hall & Oates, by 2:26 pm. Of course I knew every single song that came on, by H&O but also Ambrosia and Dan Hartman and Michael McDonald.  You cannot outrun the music of your youth. It will always catch up. You may want to be prone on a bed in a nice hotel when it does.

via Hilton Concord

Glynis showed up and while we could have hit nearby Sunvalley Shopping Center to while away the afternoon at the Nordstrom Rack or Uniqlo, we ran out of time yakking on the comfy beds in our room about our three college girls and whose cafeteria food sounded more over the top and was it reasonable of them to ask us to send them all their shoes via UPS. (NO. YOU SHOULD HAVE PACKED BETTER. ALSO WE WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE AGAIN.)

After a quick and tasty dinner at the Hilton lobby bar (the restaurant, Plate & Vine, looked good but was temporarily closed,) we headed over to the show on a night that put the devilishly hot in Diablo – I think it was 97 degrees when we got to our seats. But the beers were cold, and the chance to be out at night in something other than fleece is highly valued by Oaklanders, so we didn’t complain. The venue is set in such a pretty spot, surrounded by golden hills upon which cows were frolicking like extras from a Heidi movie.

The musical highlights:

Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings: I admire her so, so much. She released her first album at 40, and was nominated for her first Grammy at age 58.  Her life is begging to be made into a biopic, with Sharon Jones starring as herself. She has been fighting cancer since 2013 but she performs like a whirlwind, bald headed and gorgeous and full of energy. She makes you want to be a better person who donates more money to fight cancer alongside her. And definitely a person who wears more fringe. I’m sure that was the basis of her friendship with Prince, as captured in this video.

Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue: Another one on my bucket list of performers to see live, checked off. I have a real weakness for music from New Orleans and this guy is a phenom. His lung capacity is off the charts and his band is ridiculous. Between bouts of rigorous getting down, I started checking flights for next spring’s NOLA Jazz Fest.

And finally: Hall and Oates

The thing that I loved about this show was that we may have been watching Hall & Oates in 2016, but everyone in that crowd was feeling 1983. You could track the individual “This is my JAM!” moments across the crowd as people popped up for “Rich Girl” and “Maneater” and “Bring Back that Lovin’ Feeling;” I think the middle aged couple in front of us are now expecting an oops baby, after dancing to “Sara Smile.” It’s really lovely to see a devoted fan base that has stuck around, from rock through New Wave through Live From Daryl’s House, and a band that is clearly energized by their dedication.

The best part? We didn’t have to fight traffic or stop our ongoing conversation when the show ended. Just popped back over to the Hilton, got in our jammies, yakked a while longer and still got a good night’s sleep. By 7:26 am the next day, I was back home again, refreshed and ready to tackle the workweek.

This is where I and many of my peers are in life: we’d like to get away more, but have neither time (because we’re working hard to pay for our kids’ college tuitions) nor money (because we’re sending it all to bursars’ offices.) So a little getaway that requires only two gallons of gas and has me home in time to drive the high school carpool is the kind of thing that makes my dreams come true.

Lodging, meal, and concert tix provided by Diablo Valley, CA. Opinions and descriptions of Glynis’ reaction to German industrial punk music are my own.

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My Didn’t Do List

The last couple of months or so have been spectacularly unproductive for me, for a couple of very valid reasons. I’m not beating myself up: I know it’s temporary, and that my get-up-and-go will come-back-and-stay at some point. But the number of things I haven’t gotten to since the Summer That Wasn’t is starting to be ridiculous.

What I meant to do: organize all the 2,000 “Sent” emails in my work account, deleting the garbage and putting the rest into easy-to-access folders. I was determined to tackle this overdue admin work once and for all.

What I did instead: Watched two episodes of Poldark. My friend Maria’s been recommending this Masterpiece Theater series for ages and about eighteen seconds into Ep 1, as dashing Ross Poldark is dashing around on his dashing horse in Cornwall circa 1780, flirting/not flirting with his saucy red-headed serving wench, I was all in. Ross Poldark likes to sometime do his accounting shirtless, while in bed, so there was admin work involved after all.

via GIPHY

What I meant to do: Resurrect the roses. We have a small rose garden that takes a ton of attention in the summer, deadheading blooms, spraying off aphids, pulling off leaves that show any sign of mildew. I ignored all of it, all summer, and by September 1 it showed. Our rose garden looked like a backdrop for Zombie Prom, blackened blooms, decrepit leaves, and all. A gardener friend told me the only hope was to pull off every single dead flower and diseased leaf, spray everything with rose oil, and keep doing that on a weekly basis.

What I did instead: Plucked half the dead leaves. Bought the rose oil as well as a spray bottle to disperse it with. Didn’t realize spray bottle had only one setting, Turbo Jet. Sprayed rose oil all over the wall behind the rose garden in big, dripping mess. Inexplicably continued spraying even as I saw that it was not hitting the roses and was in fact creating a big oily mess on an exterior wall of the house. We probably need to have the house repainted now. Grunted. Watched another episode of Poldark. OMG, you guys, will the miners find copper or NOT?

What I meant to do: clean off the ping pong table that hasn’t seen a game of ping pong played since 2012, buried as it is under bike clothing, ballet accessories, and a wireless keyboard that I would donate somewhere if I can ever find the dongle that will connect it to a computer.

What I did instead: made sure that at least the bags of Trader Joe’s chocolate covered pretzels are cleaned up, by which I mean in my belly. Wondered where I might get my hands on a nice Cornish pasty such as Demelza is always serving up for Master Ross.

What I meant to do: pitch a travel story I’ve had floating around for two years, a perfect hidden-getaway piece that is rich with spiritual and natural beauty. I have the contacts and the basic info already, just need to shape it into a timely and compelling pitch.

What I did instead: scrolled through Instagram looking for evidence of our college age daughter in anyone else’s pictures because she is so stingy with the posting. Then I looked at our old dog walker’s Instagram feed to see Achilles’ old friends. Then I looked at Celeste Barber’s feed. Then I looked up #Poldark.

What I meant to do: sketch out an editorial calendar. Start a podcast. Outline a new book project.

What I did instead: wrote a post about everything I can’t quite seem to do.

Then left to finish watching Season 1 of Poldark.

I swear. I’m gonna get back down to business at some point.

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GenXers at Midlife – on Tue/Night

I love writing, and I love music, and I’m a middle aged Gen X’er. There was a period during which I thought could dump all those ingredients into one big pot and cook up a memoir. I envisioned it as a funny, uplifting, reassuring read that would capture all the lessons I was learning as I sought out “midlife appropriate” concerts, beyond the alternative music scene that I’d followed for so long.

I saw lots of shows. I did a lot of research. I wrote lots of drafts. I thought so, so hard about what it meant for the generation raised on a diet of latchkeys and MTV and Pop Rocks to hit middle age. Then I did it again, and again, and finally had a memoir that I thought was ready for its editorial debut.

The publishing industry did not agree. So just like a musician rehearsing her song, I started again at the top, with the shows and the research and the rewrites. Same outcome from publishers. Their refrain was, “Not enough at stake. Where’s the crisis?”

The day finally dawned when I realized that maybe they were right. Compared to other memoirs that were coming to market, of addiction and illness and jail-worthy poor choices, my worry about where I fit into the music scene after 40 was, in fact, a hill of beans, and not one that might ever morph into printed form.

And it occurred to me that what I had was the opposite of a problem. That I am really lucky. “Not enough crisis” is kind of a validation of how I’ve lived my life, you know? That’s not to say I’ve entirely made peace with not publishing (and yes, I considered the self-publishing route but it’s not the answer for me, not right now.)  I tell myself that maybe all this material will come back in a different form, or at a different time. Or that I’m supposed to be working on something else right now.

But something still bothered me: after all that thinking and writing and research, I really did feel optimistic about what it meant to be a Gen Xer at middle age. I felt I had something worthwhile on the topic to share. And if it wasn’t going to be in my own memoir, I needed to find another channel.

So today I present to you that message, in an essay I wrote for Tue/Night called How Do I Feel About A Midlife Crisis? Whatever. This is the core of my memoir, boiled down to 1100 words. This is the message I’ve focused on for the past four years. If you are around my age, I hope you will read it and feel excited about what midlife means for us. I hope you will raise your GenX membership card high. (As if membership cards were ever something we slackers would carry.)

And if you like it, may I ask you to share and forward? I may never get a book deal. But I sure would be gratified if this message found a way to the readers who need it.

Thank you!

Man, do I love how Arrested Development lets everyone know they are still creating and speaking the truth (and earning) at midlife in this song…

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Turn Down the Music and Read: Die Young With Me

I’m not going to lie. When my neighborhood book pusher Kathleen from A Great Good Place for Books slipped me an advance copy of Die Young With Me: A Memoir by musician Rob Rufus, about his battle with cancer as a teenager, right around the time my dad got diagnosed with the same disease, I stuck it on a bottom shelf. Not the reading I needed at the time. (Turns out, Agatha Christie, Prince, and Bowie were the perfect distraction, for weeks.)

But I finally had the wherewithal to pull it out this week, in advance of its September 20th release, and am so glad I did. It’s not an easy read, and I imagine anyone who has undergone chemo or has had a child go through it may find the vivid descriptions particularly difficult. But that was exactly why I liked it: Rufus does a tremendous service in inviting the reader into a medical experience about which most of us have only the vaguest idea. Having read this, I feel like I’d be a better friend and support to anyone going through cancer treatment.

The musical hook: Rufus and his twin brother Nat grew up in the ‘90s in a small town in West Virginia. Like so many disaffected outsiders in similar settings, they turn to music for solace. In this case it’s punk, from Pennywise to the Ramones to Bad Religion to The Misfits. They teach themselves to play, form a band called Defiance of Authority with a couple of friends, and are on the verge of grabbing hold of the bottom rung of the ladder of musical success when Rob gets a cough he can’t shake.

As a parent, particularly as one whose child underwent surgery for a tumor that turned out to be benign, the scenes of Rob and his mom going back and forth for weeks to doctors who just kept prescribing more cough syrup were absolute agony. Remind me never to get sick in West Virginia. Every memoirist writes from his own vantage point, and no 17-year-old boy is going to be much clued in to his parent’s feelings anyway. But their devotion to Rob is written between every line, and I felt as dug in for his parents in this book as I did for their son.

Once the diagnosis is made, the whole book switches into high gear. Rob does not stint in sharing details of treatments, side effects, his emotional state as he tries desperately to hang on to the punk kid he was. Having a twin drives home the message of how a childhood illness can change a person: in Nat, Rob sees an everyday reminder of what he would look and act like if he were healthy. But between Nat, the other bandmates, his high school girlfriend, and his parents, there is a team to keep Rob tethered and fighting to surmount his illness. His love of punk music plays its part, giving Rob focus and goals, even if he has to tape the drumsticks to his hands when he is finally well enough to pick them up again.

Spoiler alert: Rufus didn’t die young (would have been harder to write the memoir if he had.) He and his brother now live in Nashville and tour as Blacklist Royals. After reading this book, and understanding what it took for him to take his seat behind the drumkit again, I’d be a fan even if I’d never heard a song.

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