I was keeping a music blog, but, I found that I’d spend hours listening to music, searching for posts.  Not that listening to music for hours is a bad thing, it’s just that I was listing to music, rather than doing the things I really should have been doing.  So, I stopped the music blog.

But, I haven’t stopped listening to music entirely.  Music has always played a big role in my life; reading, writing, and music are the things that bring the most comfort to my soul (cheese and ice cream would be right up there as well).

I’ve always believed that music should not just be listened to, not just felt, but, it also needs to be shared.  This is my way of sharing music I like with you.

Be forewarned: I like a wide variety of music, everything from Rock, to Pop, to Opera, to Folk, to Bluegrass, to Soul, and even a bit of country.  I adore jazz, and The Blues move me like no other music can.

Here, then, is the first of what I hope to be a pretty regular feature: Noon’s Tune Du Jour (Noon is a derivative of my last name — as well as a derivative of a nickname I had long ago, and was rather fond of: Noonski). 

I heard this song a few months back, and, while it was a catchy song from Fun., a group who’s previous album I liked, and while it also featured Janelle Monáe, who I adore, I was rather meh about this song.  Then, this evening, I ran across this acoustic version, and I am  definitely not meh about this version. (The album version can be heard/seen here.)

A Babushka, from Siberia, not my neighborhood Babushka

You have to get up early to see her, our little neighborhood Babushka.

At least, for awhile, I thought she was a Babushka, as I’ve only ever seen her from across the street.

When I first saw her, it was a cold, winter morning.  I was getting ready for work and went into the kitchen to eat and make some tea.  I looked out of the window over my kitchen sink and noticed her making her way down the street.  She was bundled in a big winter parka, the furry-rimmed hood pulled up over her head, and pulled tightly around her face.  She wore an ankle length denim skirt, and black, leather-looking sneakers, not laced up, and no socks. I remember wondering if her feet were cold, and if she always wore her shoes that way.  As I looked at her, I noticed the deep lines in her face, lines so deep that it seemed as if all the tears she’d ever shed left deep canyons of grief upon her face. She was carrying a big, black trash bag, that seemed to be rather full — her belongings?  I wasn’t sure.  I watched her walk up the street, and, I remember wondering if she had a home to go to, or if she was homeless and just making her way through our

I’m afraid of spiders.

I’m afraid of heights.

I’m afraid of crowds. Not so much the being among so many people, but more of the unpredictability of the collective. How many times have you seen a fight between two people erupt into a chaotic frenzy of the entire crowd.

I’m afraid of being too gay in public. Who knows when someone is going to follow me to the parking lot, catch me alone, in the darkest part, and beat the shit out of me.  Or kill me.

I’m afraid of the dark — the Monster Under The Bed, rather than the endless silence of the darkness.

I’m afraid of being hated.  I don’t mind being disliked.  We all dislike various people for a variety of reasons: race, creed, color, gender, orientation.  We dislike people because they talk too much; because they share too much information about themselves the first time we meet them.  We dislike people because they smell funny, have bad breath, have a strange sense of humor, laugh too loud, or laugh too oddly which draws unwanted attention toward us.  We dislike people because they are overweight, or because they’re too disgustingly thin.  We dislike people because of their accents, or because they say dumb things all the time.  We dislike people because they make more money than us, because they have more than us; we dislike them when they make less and have less too.  We dislike people because of where they are from, because they are from that part of town.  We dislike people because they believe in ghosts; because they believe in god; because they don’t believe in god; because they believe in aliens; because they believe in psychics and Tarot cards.  We dislike people who gossip, who brown-nose, who snitch. We dislike people because it makes us feel like we are better than they are.  We all dislike people, for a variety of reasons.  But only a few of us hate people for particular reasons.  It’s the people who hate that I am afraid of.

I’m afraid of lobsters.  David Foster Wallace asks us to Consider The Lobster, and, quite frankly, Wallace fan that I am, I’d rather not consider them.  A few months after my father died, a family friend came to visit.  Marge arrived from Boston, her snowy white hair as tightly curled as always, her round figure even rounder, her laugh as infectious as ever.  With her arrived a box, with holes punched out of the top, marked Live Lobsters.  I will admit that, at that point, I was rather excited.  My mother is from Rhode Island, and, growing up, I had spent enough time on the East Coast to have eaten a lobster or two, though I had never seen them alive, outside of a tank, prior to eating them. Lobsters in boxes