Tangentially Nashville

...play it all night long/ it was all we knew and easy too/so we wouldn't get it wrong...

I could write about Mother, I could write about my summer of grief and pain- which I shall, eventually- but it is the final days of my birthday month- or it was when I started this post- and I'd rather write something cheerful. Nashville it is.

I enter Nashville on an airplane. I am here for foolish reasons, which should surprise exactly no-one. A friend meets me in her car, picks me up. It is Thursday.

The foolish reason I am here is NashYarns, a yarnfest. Yarn event. Gathering of yarn-adjacent goods and services, attended by yarn-interested parties. This is something I will need to explain to my brother-in-law two weeks from now. He will be astonished by the notion of a "yarn event." I will give an impromptu mini dinner table seminar about yarn and fiber arts in general. I do not yet know this, or I'd've actually prepared. 

The fact remains that I need no new yarn, nor any of my old yarn either, as I've practically quit knitting altogether, in favor of more active activities. I'm no longer trapped waiting for kids this-and-thatting, and so am on the go-go-go, little time to sit still with sticks and string. I ordinarily would not make a journey of any length, not to Lancaster, Wilmington or Frederick, certainly not Nashville, for YARN.

I learned about the festival called NashYarns, because Franklin Habit is coming.

Who? Franklin HABIT. He's a cartoonist, essayist, dancer, knitter, photographer, designer, collector, sewist, creative, dollhouse enthusiast, ex-Chicagoan, current French citizen, and he's coming to the US for NashYarns, which is put on by a company now called Modern Daily Knitting, the amazing babes formerly known as Mason Dixon Knitting. 

I check ticket prices. I can afford a ticket. I check my work schedule. My boss can manage without me. I make plans. I think I'm going by bus. I look at the bus schedule, the timing, the seating, the pricing. The price to purchase the next seat over so as not to be plagued for 17 hours by someone undesirable. I buy a plane ticket instead.

My ever-loving one relates a conversation he's had at work: "Why's she going to Nashville?" "There's a convention there, with an author coming to speak that she wants to see and he lives in Paris now, so this is probably her best chance." "Oh. What will you do if she runs away to Paris with him?"

And I will leave that just there.

A dear friend is in Nashville for the week doing family maintenance things. Readers of a certain age will know what I mean already, but for younger readers, 'family maintenance' is looking after elders who may be in care homes, their own homes, or someone else's home, in need of attention and support, and ALSO expressing appreciation and support to those local johnny-on-the-spot family and friends who are doing day-to-day support while we go about our lives in other cities, other states. When my aunt travels to the East Coast, she sometimes does a smitch of Family Maintenance, and it's a little bit nice. Being johnny-on-the-spot is exhausting, and having someone notice and share is like seeing a bright kite in a blue sky.

Our first stop from the airport is for a smoothie for our second stop, Momma's care home, which, in my estimation, is quite comfortable and even lovely. Momma is a dear and a delight, happy to get dressed and walk outside to sit on a shady bench, drink a shake and converse about this and that. I am at once pleased and devastated. The comparison to my own Mother's situation is stark. The grounds are pretty and well kept, and there are paths, wide ones, smooth for walkers and wheelchairs. When we leave, we settle Momma at a table with her friends in the bright dining room. I notice that the staff is almost entirely Black and the residents entirely White. In this ONE WAY, my Mother's care home in Baltimore is superior. 

Our next stop is the grocery, then to Stepmommie's lovely home, an hour outside of Nashville. Stepmommy is a locally honored botanist, the kind who preserves and promotes local flora. She's won prizes. She is an extremely thoughtful host and appreciates the chocolates I've brought. We eat salmon and are about to watch a movie in the TV room when the power goes out. This stops us briefly to find flashlights, and we go about out evening more darkly and less electrically.

There is a commuter train that runs into Nashville with a stop only 20 minutes from Stepmommie's place. It is the very end of the line. My friend says, "I will get you there for the 7 AM train, because I love you. 7 AM is an ungodly hour for anything." Acquiring a ticket online for the commuter train confounded us all afternoon, and now the power is out, so we plan to show up hopeful that we can buy one on the spot. 

We can, and I do, and the train is a double-decker. I ride on top, enjoying the scenery. The train drops me downtown, and a nice person directing traffic, whom I ask to help me find out how to get to the bus depot, speaks to a bus driver, who says "I'll take you," and waves me away when I reach for my wallet. Today is Friday.

We drive along a street full of carnival-colored signs, oil pastel coloring book beautiful, about half of the shops advertising boots for sale. I need boots about as much as I need yarn, so I'm glad I can look only at the outside of these shops. Hours later, I'm still thinking about those boot shops. Days later, I'm still thinking about those boot shops. Months later... dammit, I need to go back to Nashville.

The driver wishes me a blessed day when we reach the bus depot. I mentally gird myself for seedy characters, absent employees and the odor of urine. I find none of those. The station is a little run-down, but maintained. The bathroom is clean enough to use, and in working order. Everyone is nice. Everyone in line at the embedded DD where I choose a red-eye and breakfast sammie, the employees who urge me to take enough napkins, the bus terminal people advising me on bus lines and where it is permissible to walk, and the other folk waiting for their own buses. I keep my eyes open for yarnies, but spot none. Am I the only one journeying to this event by mass transit? I study the bus maps for ways to get 'home' from the yarn event today, and back again to the event on Saturday, when the commuter train doesn't run. I have a long wait. I explore the outdoor area a bit, climb some stairs toward what looks like a seat of government, sit awhile in the sun, and eventually return to the bus depot and descend to the lower level with my bus pass and day bag. 

The bus drops me Here, the convention center complex is There, so I enjoy my walk in the outdoor weather, which is quickly approaching Too Hot, for the last time of the day. I join a snaking line to enter, study the map I've been given, message the local friend whom I will meet for the first time today. I enter and try my hand at knitting a nametag for myself, but large concrete structures with faraway ceilings bounce sound all over, and there are PEOPLE. The people are wearing OUTFITS. Often the outfits have ACCESSORIES. A textile junkie like me is hard-pressed to sit down, read something, understand and execute it when faced with this level of sensory onslaught. My friend arrives. We seem, as we converse, to be kindred spirits. I purchase a canned cocktail and, when I tuck the empty beverage can into my bag, discover the empty gin bottle from the airplane. Yes, I purchase a juice when I am near my gate and empty my gin mini into it. I tuck the gin mini or two in with my cosmetics. I tell everyone I do this, and still no one knows. I hate flying sober, and avoid it with some little effort.

My friend and I shop and talk, but not as much talking due to the faraway ceilings and barrage of sound. I show her the booth of a man who makes wooden things, reasonably priced, nothing I need, but he knows the story of every piece of wood in every item he has for sale, the walnut a woman in PA was using for firewood, the birch that came down in a hurricane near a waterfall, the grapevine that was not the grapevine he gathered from a Confederate cemetery, but just regular grapevine. Over the weekend, I visit there four times. 

We agree that we are primarily interested in Franklin Habit's talk, which is tomorrow, and she says she needs to go home soon as her bum leg has fatigued her. At the time, I related in an abstract fashion, gained from an injury in 2017. Just now, I relate on a primal level, having just had a brief beach visit that was more arduous than necessary due to a recent frailty. A beach trip as I generally understand it involves walking that amounts to, in the words of Damon Runyon, 'more than some.' I tell her I'll be relying on an Uber for tomorrow, and she very nicely offers to transport me the next day. We agree on a time, I give her the address and she exits.

It is probably less than an hour later that I too am ready to leave. There is, for an additional fee, (and it's sold out now in any case) an evening Event called a Hootenanny, with three different musical acts lined up, but I didn't buy the hat, have no fringe whatsoever and my Doc Martens are absolutely the wrong sort of boot. 

I exit the complex of buildings the same way I came in, through a little meadow of native wildflowers, which my host identifies when we are reunited. That will not be for some hours, though, as I wait at a bus stop in weather that is officially Too Too Hot for the bus that will take me to the depot, (missing the first one, as I do not know to stand to hail it), where I will take a different bus to the train station and take the train all the way out to twenty-minutes-from-Stepmommie's-house. My friend is doing Family Things and is unavailable for fetching me until nearly 8 PM. While on the train, I hunt up places I could eat when the train lets me off, and choose, based off a name that resembles mine, and several good reviews, a restaurant that serves fried fish and additional items I'd call PubGrub. It is a small, nice walk from the train station with Googlemap as my guide. 

It is Friday night, and the locals are here to eat, drink and listen to a young woman whom my mind refers to as a Lounge Singer, because what else do I call her, here in the pub singing along to a kareoke machine? She has a nice voice and I like her selections. She asks the crowd for suggestions, and they are enthusiastic but unhelpful. Then she sings James Taylor. I nod approval from my Gunslinger seat and sing along under my breath, because no one wants to hear me sing, not even me. She goes along in the James Taylor vein awhile, which she executes better than somewhat, and I suggest "More Than Words," as it seems to fit her groove. It does. The waitress assures me I don't need to rush off once I've finished my meal, even though I do not, it turns out, want any dessert. I fiddle with figuring out Lyft, find I do not qualify as a New User and must scrounge up details of my account, dormant since 2021. I make additional suggestions to the singer, all of which she appreciates. I may be choosing songs that are suited to her range, something I've no training for, but I do have an ear. Having navigated the Lyft interface, I order a driver to save my friend a trip. When she calls, I am ensconced already in the vehicle, having departed the restaurant while Ms. Lounge Singer took a break. "I'mma need YOU to come back every week," are her parting words to me from the mic. 

The driver insists on regaling me with stories of other riders, in particular a pair of paraplegics who became friends in rehab, having both executed ill-advised dives into shallow waters, and a man with a blind wife who loves to gamble. I make noises of mild interest with no intent of becoming A Story. 

At Stepmommie's house, it is now dark and we must walk down the lane to fetch a dog from Brother's house, as Brother's family is later getting home than anticipated. Brother's house is three houses over, and it's half a mile. The house is lovely and huge, with a wonderful pool and bats casing the place. We stroll back to Stepmommy with the dog, and sort through an extensive CD collection, putting discs with cases whenever possible. Stepmommy has a memory of every CD and the circumstance under which each was acquired. I try to keep up with conversation, but it's been A Day, and I am shooed off to shower and bed after falling asleep in the middle of another sentence, this time my own.

In the morning, Saturday morning, for those keeping track, I load my gear into the Tesla van we'll travel home in later today before my new friend arrives to fetch me. Though it's early, Stepmommy is out among the botanical wonders of her front meadow. I have left a thank-you card and hope it is sufficient. My new friend, who pulls up approximately four minutes after we've closed the van doors, insists she has experienced no difficulties in finding me. Now, on the hour-ish drive we learn we certainly are kindred spirits, and by the time we park in the spitty half-hearted rain, it seems to me we've been friends always, only without having realized it before. 

We claim a comfortable spot in the Lecture Hall, which wasn't open yesterday, as it was the site of the Hootenannny, and I do more than a bit of popping in and out all day. "I'll be your legs," I promise my friend, "coz I'm wiggly anyway." There are speakers scheduled all day, introduced by the enthusiastic, charming host. The topics are fiber-related, entertaining and great fun. Once person speaks of Slow Fashion and their journey to achieve and spread it, one person sings along with a sewing machine- okay it's seriously fiber-nerdy, but after decades as a textile junkie, this is my jam. 

Franklin Habit is the closing act, because really, nobody ought to follow him. He says he's terrified, as he has never given this talk before, but I happen to know, having followed his media, that he has been preparing for it for six or seven years. He grows more comfortable as he speaks (and his audience responds with extreme warmth), gradually emerging fully from behind the podium, because he knows his topic and is passionate about it. He discusses historical date, scale, proportionality, and a commitment to period materials, none of which he intends to get, or put up with others being, terribly pedantic about because the bottom line is, this is a toy. A plaything. A non-serious matter. He is talking about his dollhouse. The fibery stuff is embedded: fiber arts in miniature, but he's talking about everything in miniature. He tells the story of the house, of not knowing what it was for, of acquiring the occupants of the house, of their stories revealing themselves gradually, of his priorities for the house, the representation he never saw in dollhouses as he grew up, the representation he wishes to be very intentional about now. He talks about various aspects incorporating fiber into dollhouses, including one of my favorite topics, drape. (Yeah, shut up. I KNOW.)  It is absolutely a delight, and leads to me sharing online dollhouse antics with my yarn-oriented boss on my return.

After the talk, we line up for autographs, do a tiny bit more shopping and my new dear friend drops me at a bookshop where it will be easy for my longtime friend to fetch me so we can begin our journey Eastward. I use the time to reset from Festival mode to Travel mode. I'm driving a Tesla for the first time. It is significantly less exciting than I anticipate. The first place we stop to recharge- and we recharge strategically, someplace to pee, stretch, eat- because this is not a new journey for my friend; me being along is the new part- is a place called Buc-ees. I have heard of Buc-ees. It has a reputation. Even so, this Buc-ees is more... everything than I anticipate. It's astonishing. It's as if a Wal-Mart, a Fingerhut Catalogue and a Wawa wandered into Chernobyl  to fornicate and produce one massive unholy offspring. I am horrified by neon farm animal art FOR SALE in the washroom, at prices in the multiple hundreds of dollars. There are miles of things to eat, and shopping that seems unending. My horror does not prevent me from spending something north of a hundred dollars, but includes several packs of cigarettes, which alone approach three figures when I purchase them in Maryland, something I never do anymore. My purchases also include a package of Beaver Nuggets. I ask the Gen Z behind the shaved meat counter whether these are Made Of, Made For, or Made By beavers. The aproned and hatted worker considers briefly, head tilted, and says "I'm gonna go with Made By," and obligingly makes a beaver face before grinning. "Sold," I say, which may have been a mistake, as they're unhealthily delicious. 

This would be the most exciting bit of the evening, except we stop at what turns out to be a nice clean rest stop for a bathroom break about 40 minutes from our scheduled hotel room. This is not the exciting part.

The exciting part happens when we arrive at the hotel and my friend wants to text her husband, on what is technically now Sunday. Her phone is missing. 

We call it, and her husband, from mine, try to contact the rest stop, and all the other things everyone does when a phone goes missing. We shower and settle to try and sleep. I contact my Vampire Child (who works night shifts, thus the name) asking about finding lost phones through technology. Turns out, my young offspring does the same thing I do, which is internet search for stuff. I though these kids had information like this downloaded directly to their brains every few months, but no, maybe that happens only with the youngest Named generation and it's Alpha now. Gen Z is heading toward Olds status. 

We spend a mostly sleepless night until I get a text from someone working at the rest stop, contacting the most recent number that called the phone to say he has the phone and we can fetch it anytime. I relate this to my friend, who never did achieve a breathing pattern I identify as "sleep" during the night, and all is more or less well. We try to nap until daylight, and the rest of our whole journey is pleasant and fun, including being met near her house by my family member to retrieve me and all my stuff from her vehicle. It is still Sunday, and will be, for several additional hours.

So of course this is NOT about Nashville in any significant way, and I apologize if you were hoping for that. It's overly long, but it's too late now for me to edit any further if I want this to represent July and create a different, darker piece for August.

1979, Frank Zappa; Joe's Garage

Bodies: 2009

...stuck in the middle (yeah, yeah)/ and the pain is thunder (yeah, yeah)/ it's too high to get over (yeah, yeah)/ too low to get under...

I reacquaint myself with MJ, having nearly forgotten how much I loved him when I was in high school. There's no such thing as a 'B" side on a CD, but only the 'A' side of 'Thriller' was any good.

Drivers up here in DC are not as friendly to me as the ones in the South, which is a shame because traffic is a bitch. I look forward to being home, to maybe eating something. I haven't been able to eat.

rewind: Monday morning

Silvery mists tumble over Carolina hills and across Carolina fields. I've lost track of where I am. I'll just stay on this road until I'm home.

rewind: Monday wee hours

I wake suddenly: my cousin is touching me. "I hated to wake you in case you wanted to sleep in." She did right; I'd set my phone alarm, but my technical skills are haphazard at best.

rewind: Sunday night

She said I could wander around naked up here if I liked, the teen being two floors down, and she and her husband on the first floor. I look at the open blinds and wonder if I should bother closing them at this late point. I try to settle, in hopes of an early start in the morning, but end up writing instead, trying to recreate two days ago's nearly-perfect words. I think I'm close.

rewind: Sunday afternoon

We've been so long at the pool, mostly unbothered by the intermittent showers, drinking sangria and snacking on cheese and fruit, talking and talking and talking, that her husband has called. Twice. He wonders if we're ever coming back to the house. He wants dinner. He'll make it, but... we take pity on a hungry chef, and head back to her beautiful home. It doesn't take much for her to talk me into staying the night instead of pressing on, since I'd be driving in the dark on a bellyful of sangria.


rewind: Sunday morning

I used to go to church with her and her family when we were young. It seems circular to attend church with her family now. "This is the only church she liked," he tells me. "The doors were nice and wide." How long, I wonder, had that been the factor- not just A factor, but THE factor- in family decisions? "Three years." And he tells me the story.

He gives me directions out of town. Because I've spent so much of my time here being where I did not intend to be, he is very specific. "You're gonna drive awhile, now. You'll know the downtown by the tall buildings. After that, you'll drive awhile again, and there's a big farmer's market before the turnoff." I thank him for his specificity, and promise to make it back down soon, soon, like next year.

rewind: Sunday early morning

I am awake at 6. The younger niece stirs, uncomfortable. The chair and ottoman have separated during the night. I point to the empty spot on the mattress I just vacated, beside her still-sleeping sister. With a wordless sigh of gratitude, she slides under the comforter.

His parents are sweet, and invite me to come stay with them on my way home, since I'm heading north after church. I tell them about my cousin and her invitation to lie by the pool drinking sangria. His father, upon discovering that I've made coffee, asks, "Will you marry me?" I remind him that he asked me that yesterday, when I brought beer, and I already said Yes. "Gotta try some of this Democrat coffee," he murmurs. "Hey now," I retort, "that is good Republican coffee that I got from your son's refrigerator. It's only slightly tainted by my Democratic hands." His mother flutters and fusses, debating attending church with us. "You wanted to go home. We're going home," her husband tells her. She flutters some more. I hug them very much as we part.

I take the son and the younger of the nieces in the convertible. We drive and drive. I am finally getting used to Georgia distances. We arrive at a huge facility. The daughter tells me, in a voice that doesn't need to be lowered, since the rock band is so loud, that sometimes they have a holo-preacher. When he appears, she says, "Oh! He's real today," and sounds slightly disappointed.

rewind: Saturday night

He will not hear of my finding a room for the night, and though I briefly consider staying with another friend who has fewer folk to bed down, I feel as though I still have work to do here. I don't know what it is. I watch the end of a fairly stupid movie with the daughter and the nieces, and then everyone settles down. I find a blanket, and tuck it around him as he lies dozing on the sofa, eventually abandoning my computer in favor of a pillow sometime past one in the morning.

rewind: Saturday evening

"Are you the token person of color?" I ask him. He looks what my friend Liz calls 'halfrican', and he admits to a father who is half black. Ah, so not even half. There are a couple of latinos in the room...well, one. I am actively uncomfortable in a group this white. "Are black people even allowed in this county?" "Only in the last twenty years," Dad says, "and there's many as would say that was a mistake." "I guess I'm the token Democrat in the room, then" I say, mostly joking. All conversation halts. I mean, ALL. "You're a Democrat?" asks Dad, horrified. "I just found out something I don't like about you, " Scarecrow says. I frown. How could my political preferences possibly make any difference? It seems to me as silly as disliking someone because they favor pistachio ice cream. "I guess now's a bad time to mention that I'm also Jewish?" I reply. There is a pause, a collective inhale, and conversation resumes.

rewind: Saturday afternoon

We chat and move in and around the house; I move from group to group, opening bottles, brewing coffee. Two of the girls agree to brush my hair, and make a large production of it. The men try to look/ not look. Someone says that we are out of beer. "Come on," I say to him. "I think you need to get away from your family for awhile." He agrees, and we ride topless to the liquor store. His mother wants wine spritzers, which means white wine and 7-Up. His sister also likes wine, but she prefers red. "And what's that beer you like? Ringling?" Sure, Beer Of Clowns. Yeungling. We fill a cart with alcohol, return shortly. "Will you marry me?" his father asks when I walk in carrying beverages. Others relieve me of chore of putting away, and I watch the creation of a wine spritzer. Here is the gang again, looking the same, seeming the same, but not the same. They haven't hung tight in the twenty years since I've seen them? What's going on? Can this occasion be one that reunites them? Why is an occasion necessary? When I left, I thought that I was a lightweight, that I was leaving the party early. That they would go back to partying while I slept it off on the train. Turns out, I WAS the party. I got on the train, and THEY slept it off. And have been talking about it, and me, for two decades.


rewind: Saturday morning

I do not realize I am going to speak until my feet are taking me to the platform, to the podium. I open my mouth and suddenly my improv and my open mike experiences converge and something close to perfectly what I meant falls from it. Strangers- and most of them are- tell me afterwards how moved they were by what I said. What did I say? I hardly know. We drive to a park that would be lovely, but that it's marred with stones and false flowers. More praying and tears, and a rose to put on the casket. I wonder what all of this has cost. It is not mine to calculate, of course. Her procession, which was all of four or five blocks, has had two fire engines and two convertibles. I wonder which would've made her smile more. After returning for 'food and fellowship' provided by the church members who have arrived to represent, we go to the home of the newly widowed man. I ask if we should stop first for alcohol. "We have stuff at the house," he says. I've seen his home. I've seen his fridge. Unless the beer fairies showed up between last night and now... well, I do not argue.

rewind: Saturday early


After alternating between whirlpool and pool, partaking of as much breakfast as seems edible- coffee and half a muffin, two pieces of pale and lifeless fruit- I shower and hurry to meet Scarecrow's family at a waffle place. His children are impressed by my car. He and one child ride with me. Mrs. Scarecrow carries the other children in the mini-van. I'm so happy to have not caved to mini-vanity. We hurry away- it's 'not far', but that means nearly fifty minutes. I try to remember that Maryland would fit into Georgia fifteen times, and that I need to adjust my thinking. We slip in just as things are beginning. I slide up the side and slither into a row second from the front. I hope it's not reserved for family only, because I don't qualify, not quite.

rewind: Friday night


I arrive, much much later than I'd hoped, having received bad directions no fewer than four times. Her sister recognizes me immediately, and rushes in for an embrace. The last of the guests have just left. The friend who finally talked me in over the phone left more than an hour ago. I will see him later. The family tells me it's better I'm late, as there were lines. People stood in line to pay respects. We sit and hand tissues to one another. "She was my best friend," her mother mourns. This worries me in a way I can't identify. The staff starts to hover, to flutter. It's past time for them to close. We exit. I kiss her parents, her sister, shake hands with the sister's husband, and tell the widower I need to find a liquor store. "Of course you do," he says. He guides me in, tells me he must get fast food for his son (who needs no fast food, but Not My Business) and he'll meet me at the house. I walk into the house with two fully loaded six-packs. "Here I am. I brought the party." "Are you kidding? You ARE the party!" he tells me. I drink a bit, visit with the couple I remember, glad to know they're still a couple. His father introduces himself, convinced we've never met. I'm convinced otherwise, but never mind. I must leave soon, carry beer to my other friend, Scarecrow, who lives 'nearby.' I do not trust this designation, so am prepared for the fourty minute drive. Scarecrow is pleased to see me, knew I'd know his house by the child's plastic pail on the mailbox (though the house number was evident), and begins by telling me, "I used to think I was in love with you, but I'm not." This is not news to me. I look at him sideways and ask, "Oh? Why not?" which makes him laugh, which is why he thought he was. It was never about me, only about the way I made him feel. Which I always knew. "My wife even doesn't hate you anymore," he says. "I never thought I'd given her a reason to hate me, " I say. "No, it was me, the way I lit up when anyone mentioned your name," he says, which makes strange and awful sense to me. For the record, I'm convinced that it wasn't how I made him feel, but how I made him feel... about himself. 

We drink beer and visit far longer than anyone would credit as innocent, and yet anyone would be wrong. He offers the sofa; I've left items at the hotel. I return, decide against a shower, as I chose the hotel for the pool and whirlpool and breakfast. The bed could've been made of granite; I wouldn't've noticed.

rewind: Friday afternoon

I've missed 85, and not realized it. I am too-too far South to consider backtracking, and have no map to attempt a cross-road. I must press on to 95. I've probably added an hour to my journey by taking the Richmond bypass. Ah, well, live and learn. I'll arrive when I arrive. I've been topless since 9 this morning. It can't be a bad day altogether. A storm blows up suddenly, violent and furious. I pull up my top, drive through as much of it as I have courage to do at speeds that seem reasonable, then slow to a crawl, envying motorcyclists stopped under bridges. What a good excuse they have. I'm in a bit of a hurry, here. When the sun returns I consider pulling over to remove my top again, and decide against.

I've hit Atlanta during rush hour. I am too conditioned to the standstill pace of a packed DC beltway to even attempt the beltway of Atlanta. I drive slowly through areas I remember from years past, wonder where the stream was that we floated down as a caravan, with coolers of beer and rum strung between our floats. My top comes off while I wait at a light. It takes much longer than I wish to find the spot where I'd determined an appropriate hotel was to be found. This location appears chock-full of Hispanic people, black people and drug dealers, which makes me feel right at home. I book a room.

rewind: Friday morning

I leave while it's still damp from night, wondering if I've overpacked yet again, wondering what sort of person has as a goal to someday underpack for a journey, hoping my mother, when she learns I've undertaken this alone, will not freak the hell out too hard, hoping the weather will hold, because a topless road trip beats a regular road trip hands, arms, shoulders, neck down. I am flying low when I get a call from an old friend I've not seen or spoken with since before I had children. Life takes with one hand, returns with another.

rewind: Thursday night

My mother helps me crash clean the guest room; it is currently not guest-ready. E. had told me to not worry about it, but I am anyway. Her offer to stay with the children while I make a sudden short journey was most generous and unexpected. I throw things in an overnight bag, remembering charger cords, camera, photo calendar....if I don't have enough underwear, I'm sure I can buy some in Georgia. Or go without. That would be in keeping with the character the Georgia folk remember.

I phone the woman who made the very generous offer of staying with the children overnight; we won't need her after all, since Hawk will make it home on Friday afternoon, and can stay until YoungEv arrives. I speak to A., who planned to make the drive with me, on the phone. It turns out she's been having headaches and mustn't travel. I don't intend to tell my mother.

rewind: Thursday

I try to teach, but am distraught. People notice. These people, who love me in long-term ways, do not accept words from my mouth that argue with emotions on my face, so I tell my news and my wishes. Keeping your mouth closed is only a good idea when you're a lone Democrat in a roomful of Republicans. My friends are sympathetic, helpful, and make offers I can't, and won't, refuse.

rewind: Wednesday

"Aunt Belle? My mother's dying. I thought- my dad thought- you'd want to know."

Michael Jackson, Wanna Be Starting Something

(original draft dated 6/28/09)

Crack, Vodka

...shall we have another beer/ and slobber through another year/ or rise up, children....

I'm in Elkton for a show. Precisely speaking, I'm in a restaurant in Elkton, trying to get dinner before a show. The restaurant is not crowded. I recognize the look of people I assume have tickets to the show as well. They have a look, Crack The Sky fans. I'm alone at my table, and female. I do not know if this is a factor in what follows. I've taken the Gunslinger's seat, furthest to the back of the room, facing the door. 

Once upon a time I joked, in the presence of a psychic friend, who was reading someone else, that I must have been stabbed in the back in a previous life. She looked up, said "No you weren't- you were shot," and went back to her reading. I heard no more about it and have continued to take the Gunslinger's seat when I can, especially in a restaurant that seems ill-equipped to handle the influx of folk coming to see a band not big enough for a big venue, but too big for a little one. Certainly their 50-year accumulated following is too big for this 2-person restaurant. The place fills with folk who look like they've seen Metallica, Elvis and maybe the Beatles. I hope I don't look as road-worn, though I saw the Ramones at Hammerjacks, twice, when I learned I don't belong in a mosh pit. It was fun and I'm glad I tried it, but it was the sort of bruising fun that I imagine football players have, and I wasn't a fan of the colorful aftermath.

But these people look OLD. Creased and white-haired, them what has hair, in scraggly ponytails, band T shirts, Ravens and Orioles gear, tight skinny jeans, saggy classic cut jeans, and eyeliner only on the women. I love this band but these are not my people. 

A nearly toothless waitress shows up with a menu and asks what I'd like to drink, so I tell her Gin Lemonade, rail is fine. She returns and it is generously poured.

Gin Lemonade on an empty stomach makes me feel groovy and relaxed, so I am not impatient for the food I order. Until it is ten minutes before the doors open at the venue half a block away, and I note that two tables of old-looking people who are probably my age have already had their food dropped, despite having come in after me. I catch the eye of the waitress, who now has ten tables. I ask for my check. She says, "Oh, Hon, your food should be ready now..." and wanders off. When she returns, she has a slip for my drink. Somehow my order was not submitted and never cooked. I pay for my cocktail and walk the half block to the venue.

Gin Lemonade on an empty stomach makes a second cocktail seem like a good idea. Because the uncocktailed part of me recognizes that MORE uncushioned alcohol is probably a bad idea, I ask for chips, the only option at the venue that resembles food. The bar gal lets me choose from a rack of tiny bags. Okay, popcorn it is. With a Strawberry Lemonade Vodka in a can. 

Because popcorn doesn't do a great job cushioning alcohol, within the hour, another cocktail joins the previous two. I have a great time at this concert, even though the set list is identical to the Crack The Sky show earlier this spring. The guys sound great, and crank through two full hours of music without pause, though many of their songs are constructed in such a way that everyone seems to get a break. John sits frequently. Alarmingly frequently, in fact. Joey sits the most, but he's the drummer. Rick may be a radical vegan or something, because though he looks old, he moves young. And he is moving. And MOVING. I'd like to move, too, but this is a seated show, in deference to the age of the audience, who remain mostly seated, surging like a wave to stand when songs finish and settling back to sitting as the next song starts. A few of us wiggle vigorously in our chairs. 

I visit the merch table. If I even still have a Crack The Sky shirt, it's a white baseball shirt with black sleeves that fit me in high school. Where is that now? In the wind, I guess, or maybe in the box of shirts I intend to turn into a quilt... someday. I buy a black T shirt. What I wanted, really, was the book. The merch stand offers CDs, T shirts and a poster, but no books. No books? "You can get it on the website," says the merch dude, handing me a paper bookmark with a QR code. 

Dude, seriously? Why are you tormenting old people with a QR code?

Nuclear Apathy; Crack The Sky

Conversation Snippets

...Pay no mind to what they say/It doesn't matter anyway....

"Are you here for a funeral? His name is, or I guess was, Jeremy."

I'm only dressed like I'm here for a funeral. Mostly anywhere I am, I'm dressed like I'm going to a funeral. It's not, I think, that I'm particularly funereal, I just always wear black. It is a real challenge, for example, to go two weeks not wearing black AND trying to incorporate red in my wardrobe, for Chinese New Year, which I don't normally pay much attention to, but this year is "mine" and therefore, special. Theoretically. According to someone I love and trust. So, two weeks, mostly not wearing black. It is entertaining, and I am relieved when it is over.

At any rate, no, I'm not here for Jeremy's funeral. I don't know where it is supposed to be, either, despite being dressed in black. 

~   ~   ~

"As your sex therapist, I need to know WHY you're..."

So I knew you were a sex therapist. I didn't know you'd designated yourself as MINE. (No money changed hands, but also I got no insight or advice. Still: I have a sex therapist!)

~   ~   ~

"Do you got a man?"

He rolls up on me in the parking lot of Family Dollar. 

I know, classy, right? 

He drifts his car next to my parked one as I get in and repeats the question. 

(Does that tactic EVER work for you, friend?)

What do I need with a man?

"To take you out on a beautiful day like this, maybe see a show, something like that."

 (Sweetie, I may be the same age as your Mom. Or possibly your Grandma. I'm flattered and you're cute, but hard pass.) 

I have three and a half jobs. I do not have time for a man, but thanks for asking.

~   ~   ~

"You drink more than anybody I know."

I find that hard to believe, and say so.

"Not drinking, but drinking things. Look at you."

She has a point. I have a glass of water with ice, a glass of water without ice into which I'm stirring Emergen-C, a beer, a cup of tea and a cup of coffee. 

Huh. I DO drink a lot. Is that, do you think, a problem?

~   ~   ~

"My client may cancel, if it turns out that she has cherry pudding."

Please say that again. It sounded as if you said your client may have cherry pudding, but I think that's probably not what you said.

She stares, then tosses her head back in laughter.

"Oh!" she says, "Oh! that's funny! Jury duty."

And we both laugh and laugh and LAUGH.

~   ~   ~

"My first husband was gay. Don't tell anybody."

Who would I tell? And why? Also, who would care? 

The Go-Gos, Our Lips Are Sealed

Scenery Change

...Well, I hear my mother calling/ But I don't need her as a friend....

This is not what I'd planned as my April post, but this is what I've got and I'm rapidly running out of April.

I'm in favor of outings for Mother, even though they're exhausting, just so she can see something different than four beige walls (We hang art and seasonal decorations, but still) although to take her on an outing anywhere is absolutely exhausting.

Before we even get into the transport.

I receive a phone call from Sequoia, which may be spelled differently, but that's what my ears heard, requesting that I be at the care home before 8 AM. I've arrived at the care home at 7:30. 

Mother isn't in her wheelchair. She's in bed. Dressed, but still in bed. Visit the nurse's station. Enter aides. Conversation with aides. Phone call from Sequoia, wherein I explain the current situation as a response to "The transport is here, waiting for Miss Jackie." Procurement of Hoyer lift. Hoyer sling 404 Not Found. Aides converse with each other, in Tagalog (pronounced Tah-GAH-loh, the final g being swallowed), hunt for sling. Additional Tagalog conversation. Against regulations, the two manually manoever Mother into her chair, attach the leg supports, comb her hair. With snacks and an outer garment for Mother, I accompany one aide to the front of the building. "I'll push her," says the aide. This is a Regulation thing, probably. Terrance The Driver (not his rap name- it's how he answers his phone) greets me and asks where my 'other sister' is. That phrasing has always puzzled me. He lowers the lift apparatus on the transport. I climb in and take a rear seat, to be close to her in her spot. Terrance straps her in and loads in a gentleman who has speech but no feet. We greet each other. 

The aide who is accompanying Mr. Williams to his destination lumbers aboard. She and Terrance have a conversation that indicates a long-time acquaintance. They discuss traffic and routes. I hear Northern Parkway. Soon, we pass the grounds of Pimlico Racetrack, which I had expected to be demolished by now, but I can still see, high in the air, observation towers. I wonder if they will have the Preakness balloon launch there, or from Laurel, (where Preakness will be held this year), which I am told is a fraction of the size.

Mother looks around at the interior of the transport, possibly seeing some scenery through the windows. I do not know what this disease has done to her visual perception.  I speak to her occasionally but she does not respond to me. It's loud inside the transport. She occasionally speaks, but not as a response to me.

We're driving to GBMC, a route I know fairly well, as both of my children were born there. This well-planted, well-heeled area of Baltimore is less subject to change than the more run-down bits. We drop Mr. Williams and his companion at an entrance- he's having 'a procedure,' so needed first drop-off. Our destination is Columbia. We will not be on time. I do not have the bandwidth to find out who to contact to inform them that we are delayed. I do not know for sure what time our appointment is, or the name of the dermatological facility. I'm holding together the scraps of my sanity, concerned now not that I won't make it to Job #4, which I unexpectedly acquired, (I absolutely won't) but that I won't make it to Job #1, which I'm counting on for my main paycheck.

I have snacks for Mother, but I don't offer them. If I am too overstimulated to unwrap them, I imagine she is too overstimulated to consume them. We arrive finally at the facility. To my dismay, it is not a single building, or even part of a one-level strip-shop complex. It is a large four-story brick medical arts building with all the personality of a cinder block. I pop out of the transport to scout where we will go. Elevator required. Terrance has moved Mother out of the transport. I move her into the building, into the elevator, out of the elevator, into the office. The receptionist finds us in her appointment database. We are half an hour late. I apologize, and explain about the transport. They will see us anyway. 

Now is the time to offer snacks to Mother. We share sandwich crackers, and she drinks a whole juice box. I feel a little badly about peanut butter inside a doctor's office, but I didn't think about it when I packed her snacks. Really, I am running on fumes pretty much all the time. 

I discuss the reason for Mother's visit with a nurse practitioner named Mercy. I eventually remember about the packet that came with us from the care home, and hand it over. It is apparantly less than helpful, not listing meds she used to be on, leaving out great swaths of information that would have given these people something to go on as far as health history. I am aware that we are speaking ABOUT Mother rather than TO her, which always made her very angry, and may still do, only she can't say so anymore. I try to include Mother in the conversation. Mercy explains what they will do to determine situation and remedy, how they will communicate, and plans for future action. I find all of it acceptable. I do not know what Mother thinks. 

While phoning Terrance The Driver, I manoever us back to outdoors. Outdoors is pleasant, and I'm pleased Mother has opportunity to sit in the sun. There is no bench anywhere. I park Mother's chair in a protected area of the car park and settle on the curb. Terrance has promised to be "right there" which turns out to be twenty minutes. I fall asleep in the sun more than once. I know, because the paperback in my hand falls to the ground, waking me. I should be interacting with Mother, engaging her. I cannot.

On the journey back, Terrance says that he will pick up "Miss Lady, who just wanna go shopping" after he drops us off. "She wanna go to Walgreens, and the liquor store." He does, however, need to fetch "my bougie lady. She too fancy to wait" before we all go back to the complex. The "bougie" lady who enters the transport doesn't seem all that bougie to me. As we approach the entrance for Mother (the ambulance door), she pulls out a bill for Terrance. I pull out a bill for Terrance. I don't know if this is what my 'other sister' usually does, but probably. 

Through a door, another door, down a hall, up an elevator, to the dining room. I remove Mother's cloak and carry it to the closet in her room. Her breakfast, now stone-cold, is waiting. I bring it out, with additional snacks. She drinks juice and eats bacon, but the eggs and toast she doesn't want at all. Lunch will arrive soon, but not soon enough. I must leave for work. I tell the staff, thank them for caring for her. 

I kiss her goodbye and tell her I'll see her next time. "Good," she says. I don't promise when I'll return. The jobs situation makes discretionary time an uncertain thing. In any case, it's been good to get her out of her boxy warren, which reeks of urine and despair. One of them I feel clinging to me as I exit.

The Police; Mother; Synchronicity, 1983

Baseball Names

...Lincoln, Lincoln, bo-bin-coln/ Bo-na-na fanna, fo-fin-coln/ Fee-fi-mo-min-coln/ Lincoln!...

I met a man yesterday and ordinarily, I wouldn't remember his name, but he was wearing a Baltimore Ravens cap and was called Aaron Jordan. I joked that he'd been named for two sports superstars, neither of whom ever played for the Ravens. He laughed and took his kids into the museum. He noodled on the piano a little bit while his family was there. It's an interesting museum, and not only because it has two pianos. It has almost everything but baseball. Today is not about the museum. Today is about baseball.

Baseball! Full of stories and wonderful names.

The first name I'll mention is Randy Arozarena, who, for unknown reasons, had a history of being especially effective against my home team, the Baltimore Orioles. I like his name as a member of a new team, because I was delighted when he was traded last year from the Tampa Bay Rays to the Seattle Mariners. The Orioles don't face the Mariners often during the season, not like they do the Rays, who are part of the American League East division. Now that every team faces every team for at least one series each season, the Orioles will deal with Arozarena the Mariner 6 times this year, (barring trade or injury), as opposed to 13 games they'll play against Tampa Bay.

It's not that I don't like the Mariners- in fact, in last night's game, one of the Seattle broadcasters demonstrated one of the reasons I love baseball so much- the stories. Here's the scenario: the broadcasters are talking about weather, as they often do and the elder of them- I've looked him up; I'm surmising it's Rick Rizzs- talks about an Opening Day game in Cleveland in 2007 where blizzard conditions made the ump call the game in the 5th inning, everyone went back to their hotels, where the blizzard continued, cancelling the other 3 games in the series as well. This played havoc with the schedule that season, as the Mariners had to make up all four of those games, tacking one game on to the front end of every East Coast road trip, running out of time at the end of the season, so that eventually, Cleveland played that last makeup game in Seattle, where the Mariners were the 'visiting' team in their own stadium. 

At any rate, the soon- to- retire Rizzs was talking about Opening Day not just as a phenomenon of weather, but of pitching. He was comparing last night's pitcher, who has a very basebally name- in my opinion, the second baseballest name in the contemporary game- to the Mariners' pitcher on that opening day in 2007. The relevant name is Emmerson Hancock. He threw six no-hit innings last night against the Cleveland Guardians, including a career-high nine strikeouts. Oh, baseball is wonderful- when Hancock got to five strikeouts, the broadcasters started talking about his career high of seven strikeouts in a game, which he'd done three times in previous seasons. Hancock got to six strikeouts in that game, the broadcasters were excited to think he might equal that seven-strikeout high. When he did, they were jubilant. Imagine, then, when he got to EIGHT strikeouts in that game, setting a new career high, how very enthused were the broadcasters in the booth. Hancock getting to nine was just icing. 

Another baseball name I love belongs to relief pitcher Jonathan Loáisiga, formerly of the New York Yankees. What's that? It's pronounced 'Lowizikah,' at least when Yankees radio broadcaster Suzyn Waldman  says it, and I really got a kick out of hearing her say that name. Something about the syllables combined with her New York accent just tickles my ears. Now that he's with the Diamondbacks, the odds of my hearing that combination again are considerably smaller. 

Detroit Tigers' Ace pitcher Tarik Skubal has a great name, Tigers' First Baseman Spencer Torkelson has another great baseball name, but that name could play hockey as well. Logan Gillaspie, who debuted in the Bigs as an Oriole pitcher, has a very baseball name, and though I couldn't find conformation, he may be related to the owner of the baseballest name I know, Conor Gillaspie.

Though there are multiple baseball players named Jordan and more named Aaron, as first names go, Jackie might be THE name. There have been at least six Major League Jackies, including Jackie Wilson, Jackie Moore, Jackie Bradley Junior and the great Jackie Robinson. I'm rather fond of the name Jackie,  for personal reasons. My mother, Jackie, is named for her mother, also Jackie, who was named for her father, Jake. Of them, only my mother has had even a passing interest in baseball. 

Shirley Ellis, 1964, "The Name Game"

• 
  

Mysterious Tour

...let me take you down coz I'm going to....

Monthly posts being the goal, I'm almost out of February. So I return to a question that has bothered me and BOTHERED me, for decades. I don't know if this question bothers other people the way it bothers me, but I am used to being irritated by things other folk ignore. For example, I spend more time angry about incorrect public punctuation than anyone of my acquaintance. But this isn't about that. This is about the Beatles' short film, Magical Mystery Tour. The obvious question is, does one need to be English for Magical Mystery Tour to make ANY sense? 

Apparently, even the English, watching this bewildering tour-de-force on Boxing Day in the UK, were bewildered. Of course, it was filmed in colour, because it's 1967 and We Have The Technology, brilliant colour, cinematography by none other than Sir Richard Starkey, whom you may know better as Ringo. It was broadcast in black & white, because that's how BBC1 rolled at the time. 

And why not? If you're confident that most of your audience doesn't yet have a colour telly in the parlor, you continue broadcasting in monochrome. This is not something that would have been likely to occur to Sir Ringo, or de facto director Paul McCartney, and if it had, what might, or could, they have done differently? My guess is nothing, as it seems to me that The Beatles spent a significant amount of their careers forging new ground and walking on without looking back, unconcerned who would catch on, catch up, or be left in the dust. 

The premise for Magical Mystery Tour was simple enough: to film about a Mystery Tour that was infused with not just figurative but actual magic, as provided by unseen wizards.

"John and I remembered Mystery Tours, and we always thought this was a fascinating idea: getting on a bus and not knowing where you were going. Rather romantic and slightly surreal! All these old dears with the blue rinses going off to mysterious places. Generally there's a crate of ale in the boot of the coach and you sing lots of songs. It's a charabanc trip. So we took that idea and used it as a basis for a song and the film."  

--Paul McCartney, source undetermined; possibly Many Years From Now by Barry Miles (I found it tucked into a video explaining MMT, with no reference, and in fact needed to pause the video to even READ, never mind capture, the quote.)

And but so the thing is, that is a VERY England-oriented quotation, one that needs unpacking if you're an American born a year before the creation of the cinema monsterpiece in question. Mystery tour. Tour bus. This is a thing tourists do in New York City, or in London. This is not a thing suburban American families do for a casual holiday, nor a day trip, neither. 

I expect most US citizens born before 1973 understand 'dears with blue rinses,' and sure, the elder set congregate at senior centers go places on tour buses, but these people are getting on a bus for some pre-designated show or shopping trip, with pre-determined food stops, and have likely ordered their lunch down to two Splendas with their iced tea months in advance and the only deviation or surprise will be if one of them is dead or hospitalized and unable to make the trip. So much NOT going off adventuring to "mysterious places." 

Now, 'a crate of ale in the boot of the coach' is 100% what I'm talking about when I say this is a very English quotation. A 'crate of ale' might be what I'd call a case or a flat of beer, and the 'boot of the coach' would be the trunk of the bus. I believe. I haven't been to England, and as for going in the '60s, that's a window I was always going to miss.  As for 'a charabanc trip,' the term, from the French char a bancs, "wagon with benches," evolved to mean a hired transport for several to many people at once. Folk of a certain age, in a particularly geography, have fine memories of such trips, but they are not of the US variety. We'd call it a bus trip, and the notion of a group bar-crawl transport is, to us, a more modern notion and called 'party bus' which may include pub crawl, but also substances of many sorts on the bus, and an expectation of rowdy collegiate behavior, not at all the thing we'd associate with 'blue rinse dears' or blue-collar 'beanfeasters' at all.

Of course, by the 1970s, even in England the day-trip coach holiday was becoming an artifact, what with folk having their own cars and whole week-ends or even weeks for leisure outings.

That could (and possibly should) be the end of it, but because it's a rabbit hole, I'm still at it with Magical Mystery Tour. Yet another odd factoid; it's regarding the more contemporary band Death Cab For Cutie.

Gibbard took the band name from the song "Death Cab for Cutie", which was written by Neil Innes and Vivian Stanshall and recorded by their group the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. The song is a track on the Bonzo's 1967 debut album, Gorilla, and was performed by them in the Beatles film Magical Mystery Tour. The title was originally that of a story in an old pulp fiction crime magazine that Innes came across in a street market. In a 2011 interview, Gibbard stated, "The name was never supposed to be something that someone was going to reference 15 years on. So yeah, I would absolutely go back and give it a more obvious name." --Wikipedia

Which reminds me of the Dave Grohl story. After the demise of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, Dave Grohl in 1995 released an album under the name of Foo Fighters, called Foo Fighters. The album gained enough traction that he had to actually acquire a band in order to tour. The band (now an actual band) released a song this autumn that my sister (a big FooFan) didn't believe could possibly be on my radar before it was on hers, but yes, by random chance of there not being any baseball on my radio, I did. The song, "Under You," made me question whether I'd been missing out not listening to Foo Fighters for all these... some amount of time. So I listened to a Foo playlist, and determined that the only other song by the Foo that I was familiar with was "Everlong," which I mistakenly had believed to be a Green Day hit. 

Well, if you're a FooFan, you know, of course, that it's not. But while I listened to this Foo playlist, I kept wishing I was listening instead to Green Day. So I think Foo Fighters is fine, and Dave Grohl is (mostly) fine, but I evidently prefer the sound of Green Day. 

And that's all right, to acknowledge one's preferences without confusing them with actual quality, because so much of life is about personal bias. "Is it good?" one might ask. If that one is asking ME, I can say without bias that the Honda CRV in fact IS a good vehicle because I've researched it, driven it, driven other vehicles and done comparisons. The Toyota Rav-4 is also objectively a good vehicle, by and large as a used vehicle significantly harder to find and somewhat pricier than a comparable CRV. I can objectively say that my family doesn't like the sightlines of the CRV, but the sightlines don't seem to bother me, possibly because I'm the shortest member of my family.  Is a Reuben better than a BLT is not a question I would answer directly. Which is to say that I'm not judging Green Day to be BETTER than Foo Fighters, only more to my personal liking. Neither band is the creator of what I consider a musically ideal (I'd say perfect, but ....) song, "Ice", by Crack the Sky, which runs 4 1/2 minutes on vinyl but in live performance can go as long as 12 minutes. 

The Beatles, despite having a skimpy seven-year run of music-making, have it all over all of those bands, musically, in my opinion. Aside from the songwriting, the idea of a concept album, new mixing techniques, the foundation of MTV music videos, even the popularization of classical and 'exotic' instruments in rock music can largely be credited to them. They will, however, never ever make anything new. 

Does that matter, though? They made Magical Mystery Tour - shot in about two weeks- AND Yellow Submarine (okay,  their participation in Yellow Submarine was under duress at first, but then they loved it and threw the entirety of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band at it) and while Submarine was very psychedelic and thus obviously popular, Mystery Tour was very Fellini-esque, and not everyone likes even the real Fellini. MMT is immediately hailed  as a 'flop,'  and even among more contemporary critics, it is regarded as not a good choice. It seems to me, though, that the Beatles did exactly what they planned to do when making it. I think they hit the mark of "rather romantic and slightly surreal" when you see it in color. In black and white, on a 16-inch screen, I imagine it's basically baffling.

Only it wasn't popular with their fans, which at that point, the Beatles weren't used to, and so Paul apologized to the public on the David Frost show. Now, David Frost is a big deal, and everyone sees this  notably for the 1977 interviews with the disgraced Richard Nixon, which led to the 2006 stage show and  2008 film starring Frank Langella (and in the film version, Kevin Bacon- whut?) which you might think could be my favorite film, but it's not. 

My favorite film, (this week, anyway) also Fellini-esque, according to my Dad, who did film stuff when he was in art school and later taught film stuff when he taught art school, is a rather obscure project from the '80s (surprise, surprise) called Bagdad Cafe. 

Maybe I should see some actual Fellini? While I'm at it, I certainly should see Freaks (Tod Browning, not Federico Fellini; 1932, not 2018). It's a mystery why I haven't seen it already.

The Beatles; Strawberry Fields Forever, 1967