I am often shocked by what an old fart I am. Saturdays tend to illustrate the depth of ancient flatulence in my heart. The day starts with making fun of all that the pleasantly scented future has to offer. As has been my Saturday ritual for eons, I watch music videos and coffee-away whatever I did on Friday night. There was one this morning in which Britney Spears kicks this guy in the crotch followed by a moldy oldey in which Ke$ha shoots a unicorn in the head. Having missed out on whatever the recording industry is trying to sell me at a discount, I went off to do what feels right: Play interesting music and make soup.
In Jr. High (oh, here comes a dusty story) we used to make fun of the d.j’s at dances for playing elderly music. One time the shop teacher tried to play Bob Seeger’s Old Time Rock and Roll and we tossed so many objects at him (shoes, table saws) that he retreated and never played another dance. I’d like to formally apologize to him now: Sorry, you old bastard. It’s become clear how you felt. We play the familiar songs, the one’s that mean something to us over the decades. Of course, I still hate Old Time Rock and Roll. Every time Pandora tries to sneak that piece of crap into my playlist, I look around for a Skil-Saw to chuck at someone. Maybe, just maybe, I still have enough command of my faculties to embrace the reinvented familiar. Today I’m playing Adele’s 21 on a loop and making clam chowder in a bright new way. All that’s familiar as my street on a snowy afternoon, with a little bit of new soul. If the soup works, I’ll put the recipe and playlist in the new glossary page this week.