The Boy at the Cafe

I was reading Plainsong quietly at my own table, not really aware of or concerned by those around me. But there was something about their entrance that disrupted my thoughts. They were a small family - mother, father, and a son who couldn't have been more than thirteen - with a story about them that became more intriguing than the book.

They chose two tables, side by side, but, unlike most patrons, they didn't slide them together. They stood apart, about two feet, and the family was separated between them. The boy sat at the window, but he didn't face out to watch the passing cars or the construction on the other side of the street. Instead, he starred into the cafe at nothing with an expression so pained I couldn't stop watching his eyes. His brow was furrowed as if he had just lost something elemental, something imperative to his existence, his eyes unfocused and unseeing. His round cheeks puffed up beneath his eyes making them appear as if they were sliding back into his skull from pressure or lack of will.

His father, back to me, began to sit at the other table with pained movements. He lowered himself down onto the wooden seat by supporting his weight with his right arm crooked behind him on the chair back and his left pressed palm-down into the tile-topped table. Before he was halfway down his wife brusquely suggested that he should sit at the other table, with the boy, so that he wouldn't be in the way of foot traffic.

"This is fine." He uttered, barely audibly to me in the din of the lunch rush.

"It would be better over there." Her expression was severe.

"It doesn't matter to me." He continued his slow descent and sighed lowly, hunching his shoulders and resting his weight on his legs and off of his arms.

The boy's expression never changed. He was not watching his father. The woman sighed, apparently deciding that the battle had been lost. She turned her attention to her son, picking up the empty, waxed paper glass from in front of him. "Do you want something to drink?" He nodded. "Coke?" A slight tilt forward of the head. "With only a little ice?"

"No ice." He muttered.

She instantly slammed the glass on the table in front of him, her vehement expression returned. "I won't do it without ice."

His eyes never even glanced up at her face before he stood in a reverse rendition of his father's descent with less physical pain, picked up his glass and headed for the soda machine. The woman busied herself with gathering utensils, napkins, and the drinks for herself and her husband.

The boy returned to his table and lifted his focus, making eye contact with his father. "Is it always this busy in here?" He muttered and then his gaze drifted away to some point in space between the two tables.

Ode to My Bosses

To my first boss, I learned a lot in retail, so thanks for the experience.
To my second, I learned a lot about physics, women, sexism, and surviving sexism, and I am indebted to you forever.
To my third boss, you were crazy, lady, but I needed the work and I can fold a damn tight T-shirt.
To my fourth, sorry I lasted only two days, but working at Ritz wasn't really for me.
To my fifth, thank you for my job, thank you for the long evening talks, thank you for being a friend. I'm have some sadness about the way we parted, but I am glad to still call you friend, and I think we are both better off for my decision. Well, I know I am better off.
To my sixth, thank you for being fierce, for being driven, for being honest, hard as nails, and taking me under your wing in a moment of crisis. Thank you for teaching me how to pick my dragons and my battles. I would never have discovered Quality if it had not been for you, and I am grateful.
To my seventh and eighth, you guys were both insane. One of you I like as a person, the other drove me nuts. I am sorry that you couldn't decide between yourselves who would "guide" me, and sorry that you drove me from the company. But thank you for not being able to decide which of you would "guide" me and driving me from the company.

And to my ninth and final corporate boss, a simple thank you. From you I have learned how to stand my ground on my own two feet. I have learned how to breathe, how to parry a verbal attack, how to hold fast in a torrent, how to determine when to use my claws. Your confidence in me, belief in me, and support of me have been the greatest gift I could receive from my stint as a corporate girl. I honestly believe now that I was meant to get here, meant to meet you, and meant to find how to protect and defend my spirit without tipping my hand. I came to the corporate world to figure out who I was meant to be, and now that I know my path, I am ready to leave. Even if they replace your position before I leave, I will never have another boss.

I am now the boss of myself.

At Least My Ads Are Clean

I realized with a sudden horror that my last blog title could lead to...unintentional advertisements. It doesn't seem that my ad engine supports that type of advertising, though. Whew. I was worried for a second. But glad now.

If you hurry, you can still get the Cult Wine...

Dirty Girl

I have a big bandaide on my middle finger on my left hand, courtesy of Brooks "Devil Child" QF. Because of it I just signed in as "Moosed Tucker." Sounds dirty, but I have no idea what that would mean.

Blessed are the San Diegans, for They Shall Inherit the Music

Three years ago, San Diego was introduced to a fledgling radio station that proclaimed it was “About the Music.” It replaced an ‘80’s rock station that had become so predictable in it’s line-up that I could tell you with almost exact precision what song would be playing at anytime during the morning commute or the lunch hour. It was, however, one of three stations that I would listen to, the others being a long standing local alternative station, and San Diego’s K-Rock.

One day, the ‘80’s were replaced by this amazing menagerie of fabulous music, spanning almost every era since music was first recorded. The radio station had no fancy call-sign, no obtrusive billboards, no gimmick, blessedly no morning talk radio, merely the tag line “It’s about the music.”

And so it is.

This station plays good music. They do not stick to a single decade, don’t play only those that top the charts, and are not, in any uncertain terms, for sale to the music industry to play a little of this in exchange for something of that. In fact, they specifically stray away from anything that could in any way be construed as anything but good music. That is all they care about. The dj’s know their stuff and are responsible for introducing the listeners to new music. Monthly all of the station contributors (dj’s, station manger, interns…) get together and come up with three “recommended” albums for the month. Through these recommended’s I have been exposed to The Dresden Dolls, Spoon (though, to be fair, SPF was onto these guys even before), My Morning Jacket, Gang of Four, and countless others. If you read Wamez’ blog, his knew find of Teegan and Sara have been radio buddies of mine for months. (Excellent find, wamez.)

All of that lead in is to tell you this story.

My alarm clock gets one radio station. It is a rote, standard, boring, blahbity blah radio station with...dread!...morning talk radio. Now I know that there is a market for talk radio. Many of my good friends enjoy morning talk radio. SPF on occasion indulges. But it is not something that I cannot abide. I don’t care what celebrity said what outrageous thing. I don’t care who should or should not have been voted off of the most recent reality craze TV show. I don’t want to hear their sob stories. (Although I will admit that once they had Eddie Vedder’s mother on and she was fascinating. I could just hug her.)

This morning my disdain for all things talk radio was solidified. First, I was wakened by Alanis Moriset covering Seal. I like Seal. Not a fan of Alanis. Then the talking guy came back on and explained that, being such a generous and hip station, they play new music to “introduce” the listeners to bands and songs that they may have never heard before.

Their “introduction” today? Matisyahu.

Now, I recognize that this may be a new name for some of you, but for those of us who are loyal, or even partially loyal, 94.9 listeners, we have known Matisyahu since July 2005, when 94.9 “introduced” us via the monthly recommended album.

For those of you who don’t have 94.9, though, there is an entire spread on Matisyahu in this month’s Rolling Stone. He is remarkable and fascinating and his music is truly inspiring. But then again, so are a lot of the other recommended’s.

So, rather than try and comprehensively communicate the greatness that I have been exposed to, I have added a link to the FM 94.9 Recommended list. Check it out. You might be exposed to something new and wonderful. I know I have.

recommended

The Irishman

My standard lunch consists of a book, a table, and some food at one of the local fine dining establishments. Usually these lunches afford me some time to catch up on my reading and a moment to catch my breath before diving back into the daily grind at work.

Today was no different. I went to one of my favorite cafes and ordered the usual soup and half a sandwich combination. It was lovely, as always. But today I also had the fortune to be the table-neighbor of a group of business men discussing some grand new venture, and one of them was Irish.

I could have listened to him all day. He had a pure and unmolested accent. He was born just outside of Dublin and spent all of his formative years in Ireland, moving to the States much later in life to pursue his entrepreneurial vision. He was talking about the most mundane topics, but they seemed almost lyrical as he spoke.

At one point one of his companions made the statement, "Not that you have an accent, but where are you from?"

Not that you have an accent? What is that?!? I would have asked him in quite a different manner. More like... "You have the most magnificent accent! Vivacious! Full of history and spirit! What could this be, this music to my ears? From whence on the Great Island do you hail??" (I visualize myself prostrate on the table before him, hands clenched in eager and humble appeal, eyes damp with admiration.)

Then again, that might have been a little overboard. But what can I say? An honest Irish accent coupled with blue eyes is like kryptonite to me.

In fact, when I was in college I was approached one day on the way to class by this gorgeous creature who was ultimately trying to get me to be a part of a cult. His accent was Australian, thankfully. Who knows what would have happened if he had been Irish?

(See, Dad, it's not so bad that I have a tattoo. Things could be a lot worse.) :)