People Watcher

Personality types are fascinating. It's one of the things I love most about my work. The surprising, and at times shocking, details that people share with me is something that has become an intrinsic part of my job. Maybe because when left to choice, I am an introvert, I am very much intrigued by watching those around me. It comes from being in the back of the class, my nose in a book. No one knew I was watching.  

It's funny how telling body language can be - it speaks much more fluently than any vocabulary.  You can tell how close friends are by how they mirror one another when they speak, or how their heads tilt when they are listening. You can tell when a woman is flirting with a man by how her hands draw attention to her more becoming features - her hair, her eyes, her breasts.  You can see when a couple has been arguing by the defensive thrust of a man's shoulders, or the crossed arms and set jaw of his lover.  You can spot a liar by their inability to make eye contact - or even more disturbing, their unwavering stare.  It's all there, and is seldom able to be hidden.  

You may be a flamboyant extrovert, and revel in being the center of attention.  There are those who remain silent, until there is something important to be said, like Silent Bob, who drops that morsel of truth at just the right moment. There are those who do better one-on-one. There is the chronic interrupter.  There are the academics, who may tire others and seem arrogant.  There is a whole world full of people, all saying something, even when they do not open their mouths.  It's all interesting. 

I am pretty inarticulate vocally - I am the person who thinks of the witty saying two hours after it should have been said.  Instead, I watch.  I observe, and I learn. I store it away.  People can be creative fodder for characters in a novel,  or help me learn more about the world around me. Some people teach us how to be a better person, or make us feel not-so-bad after all. There are positive things, and negative things - and then there is our perception of such.  

Now that I've gone all Hannibal Lecter, and succeeded in weirding-out my friends, I just want to say that this isn't a malicious thing.  I enjoy the company of kindred spirits, and I'm really not a crazy stalker - well, maybe.  I just think one of the best things about being human is listening - not only with our ears, but our eyes.  

On Motherhood

                                                 Mother and Child, Klimt
                                                   
I am not cavalier about motherhood. It has not always been easy for me. As my daughter reaches the twilight of her early childhood, and comes closer to adolescence, I am both amazed at how much she has learned, and frightened by how quickly the years have flown.  She'll be eight in just a few weeks.  It seems like just a few months ago that I could hold her small, infant head in the palm of my hand.

With Mother's Day approaching, I was inspired to write a blog about what being a mother means to me, as well as what it has taught me about life. I know that I have touched on this subject in other blogs, but this is the tug that pulls me out of my bed as the early morning hours tick by.  I should be sleeping, but my muse is a tireless wench who seems to subsist on caffeine and gin. So, here we go.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Any mother will tell you how fragile her life, and the life of her child seems at any given moment.  Fevers and bee-stings are compounded to epic proportions, and I still go into my daughter's room at night to check  to see if she is breathing. I have heard mothers of teenagers say they do the same. Just read the book, "I'll Love You Forever" if you doubt the bedroom creeper phenomenon. I HOPE I won't ever resort to dragging a ladder to my grown kid's window, but hey, you never know. People without children think this is insane. Mothers, on the other hand, will have a handy jar of Vick's Vap-o-Rub and a thermometer in their pocket, and nod in complete agreement. I guarantee if I called my mom right now, at 2:18 AM, and told her I was sick and needed her, she would pull her braless self out of her comfy bed, and drive to my house to take care of my 37-year old ass.  That's the power of procreation, people. Shudder in horror if you must.

That leads me to skydiving. I have always wanted to jump out of an airplane. My husband has done it, several friends have done it. I will, too. But not until after my child is grown, with a job, and not without double-checking the status of my life insurance policies. (That's right, it's plural. I have three). Because, it is my duty to live long enough to see this child up. Nothing is allowed to happen to me. I had the cancer scare a few years ago. I was a single mom, and it was terrifying. Even though it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, I felt the weight of my own mortality. I came through it, just fine.  I guarantee it was mostly because I refused to let something like a disease take me away from my spawn.  I was all she had, you see.  Your love for your child is an insanely humbling experience. It will make you feel vulnerable, and complete. It will bring you to your knees.  It should.

And about my own mother - I saw her through new eyes the moment Avery was born. Wow. She really loves me.  Like, she would claw through a jungle for me, with mosquitoes the size of elephants for me. She's made some grand mistakes - we all do.  But when I felt my heart open like a lotus the moment they laid my bloody, screaming baby on my abdomen, I knew that I hadn't loved. Not like this. There are no words. That's not to say that some days, I dislike the way she behaves. I  wonder who replaced my sweet, innocent baby with this mouthy little girl with cornflower blue eyes that mock me. I have my Betty Draper moments when I want to render my liquor-cabinet barren. But, just like my mom, I endure it; because of that love.

Avery and I on my wedding day

Life opens up in other ways when you become a parent. Birthday parties, trips to Disneyworld, Christmas morning - you get to be a kid again. Sure, it's kind of vicarious, but there is not much better than seeing your kid dig a chocolate orange out of her stocking, and break off a piece of it to share with you.  Or seeing her dress up in some horrible excuse for a costume, and perform the most adorable, off-key singing routine ever in her school assembly.  It's the little things that make each day special. It's the way she snuggles next to me on the sofa, her legs getting longer each year. Soon, there won't be room for that. And I have to take a sip of  my gin and tonic to quell this sudden lump in my throat.
                                                     
 One of the best things about my daughter growing up is the increasing depth and maturity of our conversations. An only child becomes an old soul at a young age. The company of adults leads to amazing philosophies and sophisticated logic at a young age. I need to hear her voice; I always will. Listen to your kids. Listen to them talk about frogs, and bugs, and that boy who takes their seat on the bus. There will be time to vacuum and keep house when they are older. Make a mess, together. I forget this sometimes. Especially, as a working mom who also loves her career, it can be a juggling act.  Sundays are sacred at our house. We unplug, we stop, we breathe and we reconnect.  Avery and I recently had the deepest conversation about the work week and the weekend. She told me that she loves Sundays, because we can be lazy, and there isn't an agenda. Do this for your family. It means the world to them.

 See the world through your child's eyes. Remember what it feels like to be bored, now and again. Blow the spores from a dandelion. Make a mud-pie.  Chase your kids through the house and let them jump on the furniture, for God's sake - well some of it.  You'll have your House Beautiful centerfold someday. Now is not the time - you won't get this time back. You can't inventory these moments, but you can make some great memories that your child will cherish.  They'll probably forget the expensive gadgets you bought them for their birthday, but they will not forget the times you kissed their battle wounds and made them a milkshake to take the tears away. What do you remember?

Call your mom. If you haven't seen her for months, drop by with some flowers, or better yet, a drawing you did of her in kindergarten. Let her do nice things for you - she still needs to feel needed. It breaks my heart when I hear stories of estranged children and mothers.  I realize that not all children are lucky enough to have good mothers, or their mothers have already passed on. It's not always easy, being a son or daughter.   I know she can annoy the hell out of you, and she may go through your mail when she house-sits for you while you are in Cozumel. But whether that woman gave birth to you, or signed some papers that made you hers for all eternity, she loves you.

Why I Run

                 


When I was six, I was fast. This is one of the best memories of my childhood. I remember running a race in kindergarten, falling and twisting my ankle, getting up and continuing to run like it was nothing, and still coming in first. There was a lot of congratulatory back-slapping and high five-ing from my gym teacher and my classmates. Pretty much after that, all athleticism disappeared from my life.

Fast-forward to age thirteen and every fat kid's nightmare: the ever-loving Presidential Fitness Test. This was a whole bundle of fail for me, every single time. From hanging like a blob of overcooked pasta from the chin-up bar for the requisite three seconds, to eke-ing out a few sit-ups and trying not to fart in the face of my partner, I dreaded this. But nothing could compare to the dreaded 1-mile run that capped off this gauntlet of pain.  Inevitably, the Mile would take place on the hottest day of the year.  About a quarter mile in, my side would start aching and I would hyperventilate. I would pray for it to be over as I rounded the final stretch.  Finally, I would cross the finish line with all of the other chubby kids, and we would groan in a Greek chorus of shame as we tried to keep ourselves from covering our Velcro shoes with emesis. These are my memories of running.

So, why do I do it now?

It really makes no sense; I'm not a natural runner, I am not a natural athlete.  But here I am, training for a half-marathon.  I've ran countless miles between those embarrassing school days, and I can tell you this: I LOVE running.  Everything about it is infinitely appealing to me now - from choosing my next pair of shoes to researching the best training programs for my next race, I look forward to my tri-weekly run just like I used to look forward to a Big Mac.

The shift happened a few years ago. I was going through a divorce, and was incredibly unhappy with how I felt and how I had allowed myself to become so unhealthy. I cleaned up my diet and began exercising. Within a year, I had dropped over 35 pounds. I still wasn't running, but I was feeling pretty good. And then my world collapsed in on itself.

My ex-husband, who had struggled with depression for many years, took his own life, leaving our daughter fatherless at age 3.  We had remained friends, despite our divorce, and I still cared for him as the father of my child.  Suddenly, I had no partner and I was the only person that my daughter had. I vacillated from feelings of extreme helplessness and fear to an intense anger that made me physically shake.  I had a choice - I could be strong and care for my child and find a way to carry on, or I could crumble.  I'm not a crumbler.  I started lifting weights, and I started to run.

The first quarter mile hurt, like it always had. But this time, the hurt was a sentient "thing" that I could battle. I made the pain a monster that I had to destroy. That made it easier.  That monster got driven farther, and farther back as I advanced.  I saw it again at the 1-mile mark, then the 2-mile, and then again at 5 miles. Most runners call this the Wall.  The Wall is real, and you have to run through it, or you quit.  At a time in my life when I felt helpless, running made me feel like a warrior.  I battled shin splints, plantar fasciitis, and aching joints. My counselor said I was handling my grief better than any patient she had ever had. Running was my drug, and the cocktail of endorphins it served me helped me more than any anti-depressant.

When I was training for my first half-marathon, I torqued my knee so badly while running on a local woodland trail, that I was out of commission for over a month. I had to ice, wear a wrap, and miss my race. It was devastating. I had been running for over two years at this point, and was up to a 7 mile long run.  I went to the elliptical, and stayed there. But it wasn't the same - not even close.

A few months ago, I started running again. I was slow, and memories of that chubby adolescent girl haunted me as I huffed and puffed my way through the Couch to 5K program. (This is an excellent program for beginning runners, by the way.)  It was humiliating that I had to start all over.  But, I'm glad that I did. I'm training for the same half-marathon I didn't complete two years ago.  My life is happy and full now, and I no longer need the Pain Monster to push me. I am excited as I feel my body beginning to change and grow strong again.   Even though running makes my calves so big that my boots don't fit, and makes me turn twenty shades of red(not a pretty runner, folks), it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like it.

13.1, here I come.

 Image courtesy of yaletownkeg.com

Feminism or Fishnets? Must We Choose?

                                                           

What does a feminist look like? When someone says the word, what is the image that your mind conjures?  A Birkenstock wearing, bra-less, boho chick with a book by Gloria Steinem under her arm? There's nothing wrong with that - of course not. There's also nothing wrong with the feminist who wears lipstick and patent leather stilettos.  They exist!  I may be one of them.

The truth is, part of being a woman is the conundrum of balancing our femininity with our desire to be treated equally in society.  Sexism still exists - it may not be as pronounced as it was in the 1950s, but it is more subversive.  Women are still objectified in advertisements, pornography, and Hollywood. It's difficult to be taken seriously nowadays if you like dresses and ruffles.  Men still think it's OK to whistle and catcall to women that they do not know.  What's even worse, is that women sometimes encourage the behavior and are flattered by it.  My friends and I were at a bar recently, and a young man walked past us, and felt it was his privilege to touch us on our buttocks as he went by.   He was stunned when I called him out in public.  Perhaps he had gotten away with it many times before.

That's not to say I dislike men; I love men.  I am married to a phenomenal man who treats me with respect, and understands that I am independent and opinionated.  He doesn't feel threatened by that.  I worked with a man once who told me that "an independent woman is unattractive."  Really?  I certainly can appreciate the gentlemanly desire to care for and lovingly protect a woman, and I am not necessarily turned off by that.   I AM turned off by men who assume that I NEED that protection.   A man that can give me the space that I need to pursue my ambitions and support them is very masculine, because he is secure.  My husband realizes that my desire to be successful is not emasculating to him.  I also am secure enough to let him open doors for me.

It really bothers me that young women are beginning to turn to a culture of superficiality.  I have heard about pre-teen girls posting videos on YouTube asking viewers whether they are "pretty" or not.  Having a daughter myself, I worry about this.  Not only because of the potential for predatory behavior (YouTube needs filters and controls, who's with me here?), but what this says about our culture. In her book, "Quiet",  Susan Cain explains how society has moved away from a culture of character, into a culture of personality and superficiality. Our opinions of ourselves are dictated by how others perceive us. How damaging this is! It is ironic that we, as women, have made so many strides toward equality in the workplace over the past 30 years, yet we care more about if others like us.  I've been guilty of that, in my younger years. Thankfully, that matters much less as I age.

But, back to my main point. Since when did I have to quit being "girly" to be a feminist? I am an unabashed admirer of fashion and beauty, in its many forms. I work in the beauty industry. I love helping women, and men, feel great about themselves.  I also enjoy being an Oriental (Belly) dancer. One of the most rewarding things in my life has been teaching women how to control their muscles, fat, and limbs to become one with the music.  I also love a great burlesque show.  See, to me there's a difference in a woman who knows that she is being comical, confident, and sexy in an intentional way rather than a woman who has been beaten into thinking that her body is the only thing she has of value to offer.  I know when I get on stage, and I am putting on my glitter, I am not thinking about stealing anyone's husband, or the attention I am getting from men. I am thinking about how I go into a "zen bubble" when I dance, and how free I feel.  I do it for me, and for the ladies - for that teenage girl who is self-conscious about the little bit of belly she has, and who feels she's clumsy and awkward.  For the mom who has stretch-marks and roomy hips, and for the grandmother with her wrinkles.  It's OK to feel pretty.

I DO have a real problem with objectification. I have a problem with women being brain-washed into thinking they have to be a 00.  Women turning into Fiats, bottles of beer, I could go on and on...Jean Kilbourne's excellent "Killing Us Softly" series is a fine example of how the media influences us.  I was an unwitting victim of this when I found myself in the check-out line with a box of Magnums (ice-cream bars, not condoms). Those racy ads featuring Rachel Bilson had sunk in more than I realized. Although the ice cream is good, the pseudo-sexual image of a beautiful young woman salivating over a phallic shaped ice cream novelty is just another example of targeted advertising.  Sure, it's successful, but at what cost?  I am not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination.  But, the mystery of sex is gone.  Where do we go from here?  Sex sells; always has, always will.  But, I would rather innuendo than soft-core porn in my ads.  "Save some for later, Augustus!"

I worry about our young women, especially if they are confused about their sexuality and their place in this world.   We owe it to the giants of our history - the Elizabeth Stantons, the Eleanor Roosevelts, and the Marie Curies, to do better. We have to...otherwise we will regress into self-imposed misogyny.  Think of fat-shaming, slut-shaming and thin-shaming; these are things that we women do to one another.  And this time, we won't be able to blame it all on the patriarchs, because we will have become willing participants in our own downfall.   It doesn't matter if you wear overalls, a frilly dress, or a bikini.  Be yourself - be a woman.  Whether lesbian, straight, transgender or bi, let's try to not hate on our sex.  We've worked really hard to get here.  Don't take it for granted.

Photo: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Girls on Film

A good heroine can make a movie feel like a snapshot from a moment in your own life.  Think of the time when you almost got the guy, when you gave that rousing speech, or how you felt when you misspelled the word "exercise" at your local spelling bee during the final round of competition. (That was me, 3rd grade.) Movie heroines can inspire us, make us laugh, and help us recover from any number of wounds that life may dole out.  Here are a few of my favorites.

Photo Courtesy of http://cogerson.hubpages.com

Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine "The Lion in Winter."
"It's 1183 and we're barbarians."
Oh, Kate. I could watch her for hours. Even when her voice started to shake and she was a caricature of herself, I loved her.  This movie, in my opinion, is her penultimate achievement; the only other movie close to surpassing it during her career was "The Philadelphia Story."  She delivers her famous monologue with a fervor and passion that makes me want to smack a table or something. Hard. As the estranged and imprisoned Queen, she shows us a dignified and conflicted figure that has been broken, rejected, yet still remains regal.  That's what we all want to be after a breakup, ladies.

                                       Photo Courtesy of http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/

Elizabeth Taylor as "Cleopatra"
This movie is ridiculous. From the hoards of warring Romans and the decadent excess and pageantry of ancient Egypt, this movie is a cinematic Titanic that almost sank 20th Century Fox. This is the most expensive movie ever made.  And then there is Liz. The chemistry between she and Richard Burton makes Brad and Angelina look like kindergarten sweethearts. The sight of her creamy skin, black hair, and flashing eyes as she lounges about in pure seduction-mode would bring the strongest man to his knees. Well...actually it did, if you check your history books,(as well as the tabloids, in Liz's case). Ladies, you are lying to yourselves if you don't want to be that for your man.  Remarkably accurate, this is one of the best, and longest, films I have ever seen.

                                                Photo courtesy of http://www.listal.com/


Thora Birch as Enid, "Ghost World."
"I just hate all these extroverted, obnoxious,  pseudo-bohemian losers."
In complete contrast to la Liz, we have fragile and socially awkward Enid. She can be thorny -  her attitude is her protection in a world where she feels like an outsider. This was me; so much so that when I first saw this movie, I wanted to do a little sprint through my living room and high-five myself.  Finally, someone got me, us; all of us sarcastic, creative, shy and quirky girls. From her love of vintage clothing (before it was cool), blues records, old movies, and self-deprecation, Enid is a jaded Gen-X girl to her core. Sensitively and ironically, she is allowed to develop and explore within her movie world.  I wanted to find Steve Buscemi a date and jump on a bus to anywhere, too.  If you were a homecoming queen, you'll probably think Enid's a raging bitch.

Anne Bancroft, Mrs. Robinson, "The Graduate."
"May I ask you a question? What do you think of me?" Ah, Mrs. Robinson: the original cougar. Anne Bancroft is luminous, as well as hilarious in this movie. Plus her hair, her clothes, her throaty laugh...perfection. She explores the dichotomy between confidence and the vulnerability of being an aging beauty. Oh, and  Dustin Hoffman is adorably awkward.  Every woman still wants to know they've got it; even if they have a lifetime membership to Betty Ford.

                                     Photo Courtesy of http://larkabout.wordpress.com/

Audrey Hepburn, Princess Ann, "Roman Holiday."
While most of her fans love "Breakfast at Tiffany's", this is my favorite Audrey film. It is the sterotypical girly movie, with sweet clothes, romantic strolls, and scooters. Scooters and Italy go hand in hand, no? I love the scene when she takes her shoes off during the ball.  Gregory Peck is a perfect gentleman in this movie, and sweeps Ann off her feet. This is an all-around feel good chick flick for those days when you're PMS-ing and want to be transported by chocolate, carbs,  and frothy cappuccinos.

                             Photo courtesy of  http://themoviemistress.blogspot.com

Cate Blanchett, Queen Elizabeth, "Elizabeth", and "Elizabeth:The Golden Age."
 Wow. These movies are epic. True, there are some liberties taken, but both movies are tastefully done, and I believe they honor the greatest Queen in world history. Elizabeth's story was always my favorite; the daughter of a misogynist King and his unfortunate paramour, she rose from a civil war, near-execution, and assassination attempts to become England's most respected ruler. This woman was feminism incarnate - way back in the 16th century, when most women couldn't even read. Ms. Blanchett is spectacular. The scene in the second movie where she rallies her troops in full armor is breathtaking.  You'll want a sword and a steed. This movie is a must-see for every woman, and as a redhead, Elizabeth is our unequivocal mascot.

A Place Called C-Street

It's 8:45 in the morning. Frank is sweeping again, whisking his corn-broom across the sidewalk in front of our business, removing the gingko leaves that have gathered there. With the smile never leaving his aged, creased face, he places them in the trash-bag looped at his side. Frank, to many people, looks homeless. He's not, actually. Sure, he may live at our area shelter, which houses mostly women and children, but he does so of his own free will. Frank has a calling. This street is his home, and he takes his job very seriously, even though it pays nothing, and most people don't even know his name or the fact that he got a fancy medal from the President of the United States. He's OK with that. He isn't looking for praise. He just does what he does.

That's something that we have in common here on C-street. There's just something about this place that has drawn all of us here. It's the smell of warm coffee wafting from Big Momma's, where Joe is waiting to greet you with a friendly smirk and a careless flop of graying hair. It's Christine, with her funky wardrobe, and her colorful sculpture garden.  It's Connie, walking her tiny poodle, Lily-Belle on a crisp morning, never too busy to give you a hug and a smile.  It's Stacey, with a gleam in her eye, and her raspy voice, spinning dough at Pizza House while she makes small-talk with her customers. Cash only, please.

It's Tom and Gary, purveyors of catfish and crystal, who may be known to dress as pharaohs on occasion, and who we lovingly call "The Boys." It's Anne tending bar at Ruthie's, slinging drinks and tucking her wheat-blonde hair behind her ear. She's also an artist.  It's Donnie, showing up every week for the merchant meeting, answering endless questions, and hardly ever getting the recognition he deserves. And we can't forget Dock and Eric, doing a perfect pour of Guinness at Lindberg's while a rockabilly band clamors on the stage behind them. This street is rough and ready,  yet elegant at the same time. It is an avenue of railroad barons, hopes, and dreams; some of them lofty, some of them no more ambitious than creating a perfect coiffure on an overworked mother, who FINALLY has a date night with her husband.  It's important work, all of it.

The buildings sing their songs of a golden age, before urban blight and a surly reputation started to plague them. Sure, we've had our rough days.  Days when you were afraid to say you lived on Commercial Street, and your parents gave you a certain look when you mentioned going there. Those days are gone, now. A generation of upstart entrepreneurs have decided to take matters into their own hands. On any given day, cranes lower their towering heads, depositing building materials on top of structures which at some point in history have been speakeasies, elegant department stores, and movie theaters. Now, they are becoming boutiques, restaurants, and art galleries. The facades spring to life with vibrant, historic colors. Some have glass tiles that Frank Lloyd Wright designed. There are layers of history within each wall.

Our dedicated police officer is our Andy Griffith - everyone knows him by name, and he's never too busy to answer an email or phone call. He knows that people sometimes see only the empty buildings (which are quickly becoming obsolete, and now full with tenants) and the rare drunk.  Never mind the fact that other parts of Springfield have many more problems - something he reiterates to anyone who will ask.  During the biggest street party of the year,  six officers were assigned to work the event. Five of them went to other areas of town within the first two hours. Why? There were no issues for them to correct.

There are the students and church groups who pick up trash, and the volunteers who run the C-Street Market. There is fresh produce and fresh music every Saturday in the spring and summer. For every negative perception, there are a thousand positive things happening at any given moment. Each day, we prove the naysayers wrong. Our business has done nothing but grow since we came here - the same can be said of many of the other establishments that line the street. 

It's so incredibly exciting to be a part of it all. Almost two years ago, when my  partner and I went into business, we looked at several locations. C-Street was the first. Like a bride choosing her wedding dress, we just "knew", but we kept looking anyway. All were below par compared to 320. It was us - the energy, the flaking plaster, the honeycomb tile. We set upon shopping for antiques and Victorian mish-mash to decorate our space. It was exhilarating. And we hadn't even met the community yet.

We were the new kids on the block. They were patient with us - listening to our ideas about ways to promote and get people excited about the district. We had no idea what we were getting into, not really. We made mistakes and we learned. We bit off more than we could chew at times, and they were there to help us muddle through. I have NEVER met a group of more supportive and kind people. When we were running dead sprints down C-Street during our first Mardi Gras, my mermaid costume in tatters, and my partner wobbling on top of a rickety scaffolding, throwing beads at the crowd, I realized something. This was it; this was what we had always needed. This was belonging and acceptance, and we were no longer just a pair of goofy hairstylists. We were part of an amazing collective of people who may not look alike on the outside, but inside we're pretty much the same.

Most of us have been underdogs. Most of us came from challenging backgrounds that we have overcome. Many of us are survivors of various things, and all of us have this sometimes irrational moxie that pushes us to keep going. We've faced media onslaughts and erroneous journalism. We've shown people that there is more than one "side" of Springfield. We've scraped, spackled, and painted over a thousand misconceptions - but we still have work to do.  We rally and we fight when we have to, but we're not so scary. We're friendly and we draw people to us,  if they'll just give us a chance. They seldom regret it.

Frank finishes sweeping, and taps the broom on the sidewalk with a satisfied look. The leaves are safely in their place, and he continues down the block, tidying up the place that he loves. He may be an arthritic steward, but he has majesty in his swinging gait. All of us are Franks, in our way. And when we are gone, others will take our place. C-Street will remain. It is as indomitable as the human spirit.

(All photos courtesy of www.itsalldowntown.com)

My Apocalyptic Playlist

You know how people always ask you what your favorite band is? That's a tough one for me; I have many. Music is extremely important to me. Sometimes, I catch myself driving down the road without the stereo on. I feel like I just got caught naked in a rainstorm when that happens, with nothing but ugly galoshes on. That's how much music is entwined with my being. I'm a musician...I come from a family of musicians.  Music is my church - it makes me feel things I don't feel otherwise.

So, here is my Apocalyptic Playlist. If the zombies are coming for me, these are the albums you'll find on my iPod when the end comes. It's diverse, kind of schizophrenic, and maybe surprising. This isn't an exhaustive list, but with my ADD, these are the ones that come to mind during this little paddle down my stream-of-consciousness.

1.  Johnny Cash - "The Essential Johnny Cash."
If you don't like Johnny Cash, you are probably not human, and you definitely don't have ears. Here is musical nirvana.  This simple Southern sharecropper paved the way for every punk band who walked through the doors of the CBGB, who created a musical alchemy so intrinsically American that even the most jaded rock star gives him homage. This is the sound of a train cutting across the prairie, of a gospel choir of women with skin the color of molasses breaking their backs in a cotton field. This is taking all of your hopes, your angst, your passions and sending them into the belly of a flat-top box called a Martin guitar.  There is only one Cash.

2. Coldplay - "A Rush of Blood to the Head."
I don't care what Pitchfork says. I don't care if the hipsters roll their eyes when I say I love Coldplay.
This music is epic, it is grandiose, and it is a complete architecture of sound.  "Politik" could have been written by Mozart, but I really think even he could not have done as good of a job as Chris Martin and crew. That bridge takes my breath away.  The counterpoint and structure is pristine, the range of emotion is complex and achingly human in this album. "The Scientist" is a requiem for lost love unlike any other I have heard.  If you don't agree, that's fine.

3. Jimi Hendrix - "Blues"
It's too bad that Jimi never lived to see this album released. This is roots music. This is the Delta; this is a sexy, hot mess on the banks of the Mississippi river.  Sometimes people forget that Jimi was intrinsically a blues man. He wanted to get back to that - it's what he loved. People made fun of that in the 60s sometimes. They wanted the blur, the distortion, the pedals. Jimi gave that to them, but in his free time, he stripped it down to the I, IV, V. That's where it started, you see. Rock and Roll began with little old men with names like Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley, with voices like dried out husks of corn, and no other beat than the stomp of their feet on a wide-planked porch.

4. J.S. Bach - "Complete Organ Works. Ton Koopman."
Here is majesty, here is fire, here is anger and fear. With mathematical precision, Bach composed the penultimate opus to the pipe organ. No one did high-church music like Bach did. As kapellmeister for the duke of Saxe-Weimar, Bach composed this soaring legacy during his 9 year residency. When I walked into Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York, his fugue in D-minor blasted my sister and I as soon as we cleared the threshold. I felt it rumble through every bone and muscle in my body.  I almost hit my knees, and tears sprang to my eyes. That is power, folks.

5. Amy Winehouse - "Back to Black."
Too many of our great musical talents die young.  Miss Winehouse was one of those that I felt in my marrow - here was an old soul. Tortured? Naturally. Her music sounded as if Etta James and Rosemary Clooney had somehow simultaneously birthed a skinny, scrappy white girl with pipes the size of an ocean liner. The beehive and liner just added to her appeal. The title track...yeah, I've been there.  This is the gritty underpinnings of mad love, dangerous love, in a classy package that you can play for your friends over cocktails.

6. Frederic Chopin - "The Nocturnes(Claudio Arrau)"
As a pianist, Chopin is a watermark. The ability to play the Romantic composers well within the repertoire is considered the true test of technical AND interpretive ability. There is a trap in the Romantic era, you see. Composers played fast and loose with time signatures, dynamics, and molto, molto rubato. That's music geek-speak for play it with emotion and grand passion, take some liberties, but don't you dare forget your roots. There is a comfort in the structure of the Classical and Baroque - you know what to expect. Chopin's era was the period when pianists were true performers - working their audiences into a frenzy with show-stopping displays of prowess and drama. They played impromptu interludes and codas - some say it was the beginnings of jazz, way back in 1840. Chopin's nocturnes are fever-dreams; beautiful nightmares for a pianist. They look ever so simple on the page, but they are anything but. Arrau does them justice, as he does with Rachmaninoff and Liszt. He was my idol as a fledgling pianist - I could never dream of coming close.

7. The Rolling Stones:"Hot Rocks 1964-1971."
The Stones are my guilty pleasure. I love them. They are the perfect antidote to fluffy Beatles optimism (not that I don't like the Beatles, but they don't cut it when you're pissed,  such as when you're trying to survive an apocalypse). "Sympathy For the Devil" and "Paint it Black" are on my all-time favorites list for well, all-time.  I like to think that "Get Off of My Cloud" will be playing when I pick off zombies with my shotgun from my roof.  Fitting, no?

8. Flogging Molly: "Alive Behind the Green Door."
This is where it started for Davy King and crew - at Molly Malone's in LA, making little to nothing, playing for a crowd that included pierced punk kids and middle-class linemen. This is pub music, with a hefty dose of Johnny Cash, and a whole lot of spitfire, Irish moxie. You can hear the crowd roar when "Black Friday Rule" begins - a love song from an immigrant who came to the USA from a torn Ireland, to face earthquakes and skyscrapers, and build a new life. I have seen them live, and they are amazing. This is the music of my ancestors, with a shot of whiskey-soaked adrenaline.

I'm tired, otherwise, I'd make it to 10. I could go on for much, much longer. There's Mozart's "Die Zauberflote," Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Professor Longhair, and Beethoven. There's Cake, and Dolly, Led Zeppelin, Loretta Lynn and Jack White. There are too many to name. But if I had to narrow it down, these are the albums I want to hear before the Mayan calendar grinds to a halt.  Happy Apocalypse. May you have many of YOUR favorites on your final playlist. You have a few months left - get busy.