Domestic Doings, W songs, and a bit of eccentric serendipity

It all started because we were out of cat food, and also Kroger had a huge bakery surplus yesterday, heavily marked down. But I mean, I didn’t know we were out of cat food while at the store. I just got the bread, and some other things.

There was a sliced sourdough loaf and a package of brioche buns. And I got them out to ponder this morning, when the cat started meoling at me. I realized she had no food, so I pulled out leftover roast chicken from a few days ago, and managed to get some dark meat from it. The dark meat has taurine in it, which cats need. And so I decided to make stock from the remainder of the chicken, and put it in the stock pot, but as I was pulling out celery, carrots, and half an unpeeled onion from the refrigerator, it occurred to me I hadn’t cleaned in there since the beginning of the year! It was not a good situation, because that is wrong. You can’t treat a refrigerator like a clothes closet you throw things into when you’re feeling lazy or out of sorts instead of hanging them up. So I put the stock to boil and began emptying the refrigerator. Soupstock
And while I was doing all this, I put the iPod in my little kitchen stereo and started with Anya Marina’s “Waters of March,” which is the best version of that song, though they are all great, because it is the best song. I was really busy cleaning, so it just kept playing through W songs and I thought, well, that’s fine. I will have W song day. Screen Shot 2017-02-13 at 10.26.53 PM
I got to thinking about how, eighteen months ago, my grocery budget was more than I needed, and things are now dwindling fast, but condiments last so long, even if the pantry gets low, I will still have five different kinds of mustard in the refrigerator. Life is odd that way. Refrigerator
Because of a miscommunication, we have more eggs than anybody maybe ought to have, so I thought I’d use some in bread pudding with the brioche buns. Then I remembered I forgot to add a chicken neck to the pot, so I got one from the freezer. My freezer door has a bottle of gin and several chicken necks in it. Life is also like that, if you are me.

Speaking of which. My friend Karen recently ordered a whole bunch of old Playboys for me, from what I figure is their peak period, the mid 60s right before Penthouse started up and changed things. They have come so far in three packages, and today’s had several from 1963. I stopped to flip through one and saw there was a review for the movie Mondo Cane. I decided to set it aside and remember to read that later, because I had to take someone to work. Screen Shot 2017-02-13 at 10.43.10 PM
When I returned, I ate a sandwich while watching The Joey Bishop Show, as one does, and lo and behold, there was Andy Williams singing “More!”



That song is from Mondo Cane. A neat bit of serendipity. And I must say, though I like Darin’s version best, and not so much Sinatra's, Williams did it exactly like I imagine it was written. But then of course, he would, wouldn’t he? Here, if you're interested, from a concert.

The second episode of the show for today featured fun talent show-type performances from several members of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Here's some of that.


Now I have a clean organized refrigerator, and lots of soup stock, and not any bread pudding yet, but that’s all right. If you are working with a strict kitchen limit, it’s important to stay organized and keep track of your inventory. You have more scope for creativity that way, and also it’s depressing and overwhelming to deal with chaos on top of budgetary concerns. No one needs that. You might get home from taking a second someone to work and discover the dog got out without his collar on, and when you get home from finding him, the last thing you want is to have to weed through Ziploc bags and old sour cream containers in order to find your dinner ingredients. Something to bear in mind.

Screen Shot 2017-02-13 at 10.43.19 PM


Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song

“You’ve told that story before.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure he’d heard it.”

“Well, you bring it up and I think somehow it must still bother you.”

“To be sadly honest, it’s probably just me getting older and forgetting.”

“But there must be something lingering or you wouldn’t think about it.”

“I never do think about it. Something I see like this cartoon will trigger the memory, and since the cartoon is so similar to the joke he told which started the whole thing, it reminded me. That’s all. I’ll remember not to retell it aloud anymore.”


How to tell a person who is much younger and still inclined to heightened emotional perception that quite a lot of what you think about is just triggered by keywords or pictures, linking themselves to the past like a phrase someone says which reminds you of an old song? Because each link is a little different, you don’t always realize before speaking that it is merely the same non-fascinating story to someone else. And that is, I suppose, why some older people bore some younger ones so often. We still make new stories, new memories, but we relive many of the old ones as our brain works to keep everything fully accessible and operational by alerting us to parallel situations. It's strengthening pathways, keeping us on top of things. Cufflink
It’s unlikely I’ll repeat that tiny tale again, but it is a certainty I will repeat others.

I never had the luxury of learning to be patient with my parents as they aged. My mother did not age much past where I am now. And I moved far, far away from my father, so I didn’t see the developing process. I saw the conclusion of it, and regretted the loss of all that space between. The Dad-shaped hole in my life isn’t because of his death, but because of the fifteen previous years we were apart. Pocketwatch
I am not sure my kids will see the aging process in me as something enriching for their own lives. That worries me a little. But everyone forges their own path as they can. I am preparing now to understand impatience I might face, but I also expect to not be treated like a child, or a fool. My thoughts are already a little slower sometimes, but they are also a whole lot deeper. Not deeper like discussing Kant and Heidegger. Deeper like soup that simmered for a good long time and has developed layers of flavor, nuanced richness, satisfying comfort. I hope I get to simmer for many more years, because there’s still a lot to take in and to share. Pocket


Movies to love, movies for love: hearts united, broken and/or bloody, plus some good kissing

I love movies. I don't tend to categorize them into good and bad or by genre or period or country of origin. There are just the ones I really like, which is a lot of them, and the ones I don't, also a lot of them. I can tell the difference between quality and mediocre acting, direction, dialogue, production, etc. And I can discuss all that with you during my bruschetta and your risotto or whatever. But I am just as happy talking about the corner of a man's mouth or the way a couple's hands first meet and etcetera. 

I read some Valentine’s Day movie lists recently, and about the only thing we all agreed on was 10 Things I Hate About You. So I started writing some down, and wow, is that hard to do. I’m sure this list isn’t even personally comprehensive, but I wouldn’t know how to make it so without way more effort than I am willing to put into it. The name links are to places you can watch them for free (if they're underlined, they'll auto-play,) or at Netflix or for 3-4 dollars at Amazon, and the other links are to various articles about them. List

Looking it over, some obvious double features come to mind. I’d happily pair 10 Things with Drive Me Crazy. Make no mistake; the latter is not as good a movie as the former. Yet it’s easy to watch, endearing, and there’s plenty to both aw about and guffaw about. You can admit to enjoying it while making fun of it. Both these movies were released in 1999, which was kind of the apex in teenage transformation romantic comedies. And maybe Adrian Grenier was no Heath Ledger, but you would still want to ruffle his hair if you were standing near him, and he would be good to kiss (and something more, apparently, according to this sort of meta-trash article.)

I’d pair Moonstruck with Wild At Heart for an intense Nicolas Cage double feature, which is a sentence I could never have imagined writing before I just did. These movies are not alike. They just both have Nicolas Cage in them, and are from the same time period, and I think you could get down a sizeable volume of wine during your viewing of them. I’m not sure which I’d say to watch first; kind of depends on how you personally see life playing out. Best not to read too much about the latter before watching, just know it’s a little sexy, a little violent, a little gross, and also kinda sweet. You know, David Lynch. Not everyone would find Wild At Heart romantic, though, plus you have to buy it or watch carefully, so you could always watch Moonstruck with Big Night, which is a wonderful romance with food.

My favorite light romance of all just might be A Little Romance. (But it might not be; I don’t do favorites very well.) It’s both dreamy and cheesy, and if you have a soul, you won’t care about the cheesy parts. Or that you would be watching it for free since it's 38 years old and...worth it. Its most obvious double feature partner on this list is Moonrise Kingdom, but I know some people have a deeply inexplicable dislike for Wes Anderson films, so if that’s you, god help you, watch it with Roman Holiday, instead. 

For pure romance, I love Portrait of Jennie. For an intense double feature, follow it up with Love is a Many-Splendored Thing. I’m not a great fan of Jennifer Jones, but I appreciate her in these films, and a couple others. You could instead have a Jennifer Jones double feature which also features Joseph Cotten by pairing it with Love Letters, which is uneven, but ends satisfactorily. (Jones and Cotten were in four films together, and my favorite is actually Since You Went Away, only it is not a Valentine’s Day type of movie.) Or you could pair Portrait of Jennie with a Joseph Cotten/someone else film: September Affair if you lean bitter, I'll Be Seeing You if you lean hopeful. 

For a long evening of beautiful what ifs: In the Mood For Love (Korean) and The Remains of the Day. And Romantics Anonymous (French) and Monsoon Wedding (Indian) are probably best on their own, but would be fun together, or you could watch either one of them with Shakespeare in Love.  

Finally, for reasons I cannot begin to explain, I have watched What A Girl Wants so often I could recite its dialogue. It’s romantic mostly if you want it to be. It’s the B side of A Little Romance, I think, but it would be more fun with Sweet Home Alabama for a light-hearted look at 15 years ago, or with Say Anything for a more direct parallel and so that you can say you know what a good teen romantic comedy should look like. Or you could follow it up with A Single Man for a reminder of how good Colin Firth can be with great material, but there is no other common factor involved.

It took me awhile to decide whether all the title links should go to descriptions/reviews or places to watch, but I went with the latter because it felt most useful. After all, you can just go to IMDb and plug in all the names you want to see, like this


A Thing For Guys Called Jack

This morning after taking care of the usual morning items—a few dishes, tidying the living room, planning dinner, etc.—I happened upon a Jack Lemmon movie I’d never seen, called The War Between Men and Women. I suppose I could find it commercial-free online, but if I did that, I’d have to pay full attention to it instead of just having it on the TV for a little company while I do whatever else needs doing. And I’m not sure it’s worth anyone’s undivided focus. Screen Shot 2017-02-09 at 10.30.55 AM
I feel like this is the kind of movie my parents would have made an effort to see without me. As I’ve mentioned before, they seemed to have no qualms about letting me watch outlaws escaping to Bolivia, cynical cops chasing down French drug dealers, people attempting to avoid death on a capsized boat, or creepy TV shows about vengeful stepchildren, but no hint of sexiness was allowed, even the awkward Jack Lemmon kind. Dream
This is super funny to me for reasons that would be boring to go into. But parents were commonly like that back then, from what I understand. And I doubt they had any idea how wildly attractive I’d find late 40s rude schleppy swinging Jack Lemmon with greying, slightly overgrown wavy hair and glasses. Or maybe they did. Wedding
I’m not reviewing it, much. It’s watchable, but not great. Barbara Harris is terrific, and Lemmon is, as always, exactly what is required. Lisa Gerritsen, who played Phyllis’s daughter Bess on Mary Tyler Moore, has an important role as a girl with a stammer, and she performs that well. Jason Robards has a small key role as a character James Caan apparently decided to base his career on. The story itself is awkward and runs in more than one direction at the same time. I doubt James Thurber, on whom Lemmon’s character is loosely based, would have been impressed by it, but there are funny lines, touching moments and amusing animated sequences, and it’s a good fair look at 1972, which counts for a lot with me these days. This reviewer thought very well of it.
Warinjapan
PS: one very good element of this movie is the scene near the end with Jack Lemmon and Lisa Gerritsen walking though animated pages of James Thurber's The Last Flower. I didn't find video just of that, but you can see the book itself here; mute it if you don't like the music.

 


It made my evening, anyway

I turned on the TV this evening to keep me company while I made linguini and meatballs, then left it on for the dog, for some silly reason, when I went out to pick up my son from his job. AND THAT WAS AWESOME TO DO. Because if I'd turned it off before leaving, I probably wouldn't have bothered to turn it back on. But Dick Cavett was on the Decades channel, and I'd been meaning to check in with that, so I sat down to have a look. Eartha Kitt was the guest, and she was interesting and pretty and a little bitter, but that's fine, and then Dick started listing the movies his next guest starred in. I wasn't paying any attention at that moment, to be honest, but suddenly I realized they were all William Holden movies. I held my breath. Okay, probably not, but let's say I did.

And there he was, in a nicely fitted dark suit and perfect narrow 1969 tie, in one of his sober periods, I guess, talking about African conservation efforts and being serious and dreamy. I was swimming in a world of magic show. Dick asked pretty good questions, too. Bill told Eartha it was okay about her leopard furs, which I thought was nice. He said when she bought them, leopards weren't endangered, but don't buy anymore. 20170206_202606
As if that wasn't awesome enough
, Dick told us his next guest would be Rex Stout! I never before saw him in a TV interview, so I was super excited, and of course he was good. He was a brilliant man, erudite and charming. For this interview, Dick was kinda awkward, but it rolled along well, anyway. Mr. Stout told us he was working toward better copyright laws for authors and explained about that. I think they've gone too far at this point, but he made a good case for how he wanted it to be in 1969—when he was nearly 83, by the way.

I was so excited I wanted to tell everyone! But honestly, even in my family, there isn't a single person who could understand the thrilling sensation of seeing a talk show featuring both Bill Holden and Rex Stout, and purely by accident. Screenshot_20170206-212834Sometimes this sort of thing makes me feel a little lonely, but not for long. It is what it is, I'm just me, and that's just fine. Screen Shot 2017-02-06 at 10.38.15 PMNo one cares, you dweeb.

Interestingly, as I was picking up my other son from his job after the show ended, a local radio station played "Crazy Baldhead" from Bob Marley's Rastaman Vibration, which I was just talking about last week. A nice piece of serendipity to conclude the affair.


Who the Cap Fit

At the beginning of Chemistry class one day toward the end of my sophomore school year, I tripped over someone’s bag on the floor, and tipped my desk over. Mr. Bobbitt, that exemplification of sound mental health, had one hard and fast rule; tipping over your desk means going to the principal. I expect he turned on his pink elephant playing the drums toy as I left. So I trudged back to the other building, told the secretary what happened, and she didn’t quite believe me, but sent me into the vice-principal. He told me he knew all about that rule, and also that he knew I wasn’t a troublemaker, mumbling something about “retiring soon,” and sent me to the library.

No one was in the library, not even the librarian. So I sat down to look at a book and she came in a minute later all red-faced. She saw me and cried out (honest,) “Did you hear? Bob Marley’s dead!” And she sobbed a little. I said some vague too bad things, I suppose, and the dam was broken open. She told me what she knew about it, brain cancer, and also told me a lot of things about how bad it is to shoot syringes into your temples? As I recall. (Actually, he died of a rare type of melanoma which spread to his brain.) And about how the world couldn’t be the same without him. So I was shocked along with her, and we talked about a lot of things, possibly the assassination attempt on the president a few weeks earlier, which is linked to this in my head, and about Mr. Bobbitt. And then I went to my next class and went home, and heard no one else talking about Bob Marley, except for a brief mention on the news.

Looking back, I quite like knowing there was a school librarian in Lee’s Summit in 1981 who revered and mourned Bob Marley.

And the moral of this tale is that you simply never know, about people. It’s a good idea not to assume you do.


curating myself

Yesterday was the 14th anniversary of my blog(s.) There are 1460 posts here, but about 300 are archived, no longer live, and there are a couple hundred or so more at the other page, linked at the top here. I’ve been going through them and creating an Archive of Me, and while you will Not find all of it interesting, you Will find some of it interesting. The rest is just for me to easily access.

Over on the right, unless you’re on a mobile device in which case I think at the bottom? I’ll have a look later and be more precise, are the latest in that series of posts from over the years, minus a 6 month period which got corrupted a few years ago. And a couple of the links go to an entire month of posts, because I did that when I was adding 2005 here.

I’ve changed a lot over the past 14 years. I had a 4 year-old when I started this blog. And other fairly young offspring, of course. Now they’re all grown up. We moved 4 times since then, and there are 4 in the house instead of 8. I will be a grandmother soon. So I look back over all this and laugh or wonder at myself, but on the whole, I do see myself in all of it. Life is an ongoing process of growth and decay. :-)

Anyway. The complete-ish 161 post reminiscence set is here, starting in March, 2003. Only I guess you'd have to read it all in reverse to see it chronologically. Well, whatever.  Some of it is embarrassing, I don’t care; we all keep maturing, hopefully. I just wanted a condensed view I could look back at now and then, and maybe add to in the future. The only problem with having combined them all into this one blog is that the likes and plusses are gone from the old ones, and it was helpful to know which were actually popular, though it wasn’t a staggering number.


analogy wrapped in analogy, the I in me, maybe in you, too

I started writing this for a Google Plus collection and it grew too long and too personal, and I dunno. I excised some of the personal bits and left others and decided to add it here. I'm agitated this season, and also reminiscent. I'd rather get back to the superficial and trivial, and probably will soon. Snake

People thought I was an arrogant kid at times, and maybe I was. It wasn't intentional. People sometimes think that now, but they're just mistaking confidence and self-possession for something outer-directed. I am meek at times, but I can't fake it when I don't feel it. And how I feel about me says nothing about what I think about you.

When I was a little girl, I used to confuse the names of two songs, and found it confusing to hear one when I thought I would be hearing the other. They are “Louie, Louie,” by The Kingsmen, and “Brother Louie” by Stories. It’s possible you know of it primarily as a Hot Chocolate song, but I knew only the US version, which, honestly, has way better vocals. (but the lyrics are slightly changed in this performance, so here they are for the recording.)


My biggest brother had the “Brother Louie” record, with Adam and Eve at the top of the label, and I remember him explaining it to me. This was at the beginning of my interest in what was going on in the world, what with Watergate and all. But I’d already spent my earliest years being conditioned by songs that taught me we’re all the same and should learn to live together and love together, so I was suitably horrified at parents who would reject their children if they loved someone of another color, or as I learned a little later, if they had matching parts. I lived in such a bubble.  Reed
Outside my bubble people were unnecessarily competitive and tediously combative, and they agitated me. But I suppose I also never wanted to believe people were as terrible as they sometimes seemed. Why should they be? It just causes problems.

I used to cry, as they say, at the drop of a hat. This annoyed people. But if they’d looked into things carefully, and they didn’t, bless all their sharp minds, the parents and brothers at my house would have realized that as I was rarely particularly greedy or attention-seeking, I was mainly just upset when things seemed to make no goddam sense, and no one was straightening them out. I have never been able to tolerate, by way of analogy, TV show episodes in which people spoke at cross-purposes and seemed to willfully misunderstand each other, leading to horribly stressful “hijinks” and possibly wrongful accusations. The characters would laugh over the confusion in the end, and I’d feel like punching the wall, and everyone else acted like it was just a piece of silly fiction, which it was, but it also happened in real life, and I knew that. And in real life, the problems didn’t go away after 25-26 minutes. (Currently, TV misunderstandings are resolved in 20-21 minutes.)

I hurt for everyone I knew of, real and occasional fictional, who seemed victimized by the illogical and sometimes ignorant notions of others, to a disproportionate degree if you asked the people around me. I still have those sensibilities, though I don’t cry over it very often anymore. I do what I can for the world, but am better at driving off house sparrows than curing bigotry.

I think it’s okay to be both driven by logic and tender in spirit. Sometimes it’s a little rough on your offspring, but hopefully they look back and understand. Screen Shot 2017-01-18 at 10.45.41 AM
Because I tend to seek logic in everything, I appear even now fairly naive and insular to more "worldly" types. I am mostly confused by people who’d rather hate than love, which honestly, sucks up so much energy, doesn’t it? I’m confused by people who think how things are in one place at one time should dictate how things ought to be in another place and another time, with a whole different set of other conditions, as well. I’m confused a whole lot lately in particular by people who assign concrete characteristics to huge groups of people based on a few of the more irritating or senseless types who get attention because they’re loud and obnoxious. Like all the kids who annoyed everyone in their individual 5th grade classes grew up and got louder and suddenly we’re accused of being a party to their incivilities, because we still can’t shut them up. But maybe I’m digressing too far. I've lost sight of my thesis.

The better angel of my nature reminds me that people are all worth more than the sum of their individual parts, and this includes people who don’t think so of others. Ray Stevens says it here, also as part of my inimitably sappy 70s childhood.

 


Five minutes of your time, plus 5:42 more

I want about six minutes of your time to listen to a song, really listen, but first I’m going to witter on about this and that for five minutes because it’s what I do. Pretend I'm telling you all about our vet visit before finally posting the cake recipe you Googled.

I’ve been unwell again this week. The flu we all caught at Christmas passed along, but left me susceptible to every other living thing managing to hang on through the insane temperature shifts, and I haven’t been able to shake them all off very well.

So I’ve spent more than a tasteful amount of time lolling around reading books and watching movies on Hallmark Movies & Mysteries wondering if Kavan Smith, a chief resident of the Hallmark stud barn, can even tell any of his leading ladies apart anymore, or if they’re all just a vague blur of pert light brown-haired self-sufficiency with a sensitive backstory.  As well, I developed an odd pash for The Joey Bishop Show, which is on Antenna TV every weekday at 1 pm just now. More on that, or not, some other time.

This past weekend I was feeling pretty well, so I took a break from all that, and on Saturday, the man and I planned duel enjoyment of the Cincinnati Art Museum and the Cincinnati Symphony, to which I have subscribed for four years.

The museum was packed, because it was the final weekend of their special Van Gogh exhibit, so we inched along the drive toward the parking lot for quite awhile, taking our ease, when off to my right striding swiftly along the sidewalk, I saw a pair of really stellar ochre corduroy trousers. I mean, they were being worn by an entire person doing the striding, but that was secondary at first, until the man, who was driving, said, “Isn’t that Louis Langrée?”

And indeed it was. We thought that was a neat bit of serendipity, since we’d see him later that night conducting the symphony. And I enjoyed his pants very much. But then, you see, I always do. I enjoy tilting my head at his charming aspect as he enthusiastically conducts the music, though I don’t have quite the same level of passion for him as my neighbor across the road, who is about 15 years older than me, definitely the nicest person I know here, and definitely very into Louis. She will gush, if asked. C’est compréhensible. He has true presence, that one, n’est çe pas? Et il porte bien son pantalon.

He left, we parked and went in to enjoy the museum for a couple hours; Novemberlight
Seating
they have a really neat exhibit right now featuring art works by employees, so if you live around here, go check it out. Employed
And then we went to Anchor-OTR for soup and little things, though to be completely honest I would rather have been at Zula across the street, but reasons and such intervened, and the Anchor is nice anyway, and then to the symphony, which is at Taft Theatre this year, and I regret each time we go having chosen floor seats instead of the balcony. We are seated near the back under the overhang of the balcony, so the sound isn’t as nice as it might be, and we have aisle seats, which are very tightly squeezed together. We always have to rise and move into the aisle for latecomers to take their seats farther in. The tech guy near us crackles wrappers the entire time, and on Saturday, a patron nearby enjoyed a bag of mini pretzels and a bottle of Coke. These noises are not absorbed well, and they irritate even when a pre-concert martini has been thoroughly applied. Though that helps. Next year at the newly remodeled Music Hall should be much nicer. I will have a commanding view, better sound, and will not covet so much one of the private boxes along the side of the theatre.

That night, a small ensemble of the orchestra and members of the May Festival chorus performed the Bach Cantata No. 150, and Langrée, now in his customary black tunic and trousers, called joyfully for an encore of the final segment of it. He spoke with enthusiasm about the Van Gogh exhibit. Then we heard Anton Webern's Passacaglia and after the intermission, Brahms’ Symphony No. 4, which is such a lovely piece of math. He conducted it at a clip, and we discussed afterwards the French tendency toward this, but I liked it fine. We ended the evening with a glass of wine at 1215 Wine Bar, and it all made for a lovely reprieve from the Endless Eight of sickness, and uncertainty about the financial outlook of 2017. Screen Shot 2017-01-11 at 8.05.36 PM
gloria knee socks bass a lot of bass, tongue tied young holt flicker mix midi keyboards mantra boy


Okay, that line is my notes for the second half, but I’m not in the mood to type all that so here. Imagine it’s raining hard, but the rain feels distant inside your comfortable space with the practically new chair from Salvation Army sitting under a window with an overgrown plant next to it. You don’t have to be in a dark room to enjoy the Cure, but it helps to set a physical mood sometimes. It should be silent, the kind of silence you command with thoughts that reside just beneath the surface of your skin. Be still. Curl up and listen to this song as it tiptoes in and builds and gathers and swells and then fades away. Go on. Play it, and if you’ve heard this song before, but not the Mixed Up version, I think you’ll appreciate what they did with it.


These days we crowd our heads with music and it’s in all our backgrounds so much of the time, and we take it for granted. Sometimes it’s good to stop and let it be special for a few minutes, instead. I hate the idea that we need to occasionally reteach ourselves how to just listen, but what I witness every three-four weeks at the symphony tells me it is so. When I think of the time and effort and sweat and earnest hopes and desires that go into the composition, production, and performance of a piece of music and then I hear it over the phone, scratchily keeping me on hold while I wait around for someone to tell me to “turn it off and then back on again,” I figure the least I can do is pay some respect to all that artistic drive and effort by sharing a good piece of music now and then, channeling my dad briefly; “Shhh, listen, here’s the solo.”

You can do this with the Cure or with Brubeck or Brahms. Or somebody newer than all that, as you like.

Wine