I have never heard this while shopping there:

More’s the pity.

But I do hear a lot of songs I used to listen to in college, which tells me that I am the target audience for that store. Grocery store soundtracks are generally designed to do one of two things: 1) calm you down or b) hit you in the gut with nostalgia. I have a strong preference for the latter, and so does Trader Joe’s. I look around and everyone around me is about my age (or a child of someone about my age). And yes, there are a lot of beautiful moms in their yoga clothes. But there are also regular moms and plenty of people who, like me, have been known to dance in the aisles or at least walk in time to the music.

The day after I wrote my first post in this meme, I had to run to Trader Joe’s to pick up a few things. Almost as soon as I walked into the store, I heard one of the songs I mentioned, “Save it for Later” by The English Beat. In case you missed it last time, here it is again:

This song takes me straight back to the fall after I graduated from college. After spending the summer working as a violinist for a summer stock theater company a five minute walk from a Cape Cod beach — a perfect summer job for transitioning into the adult world –I moved into the top floor of a Boston three-story walk-up with two college friends and an acquaintance. I learned that I loved the feeling of living on my own without even the low-level of college dormitory supervision. I liked paying the rent and walking to the Star Market (pronounced Stah’MAH-ket, no lie — when I first moved in, I asked someone on the street where the nearest grocery was and she gave me directions to what I thought was the Stomaket, which sounded like a vaguely New Englandy name like Naragansett or Nantucket; I laughed out loud when I caught sight of the sign). Such responsibilities were challenging. I graduated feeling like I was on the top of the world. However, the world wasn’t interested in hiring me. I signed up with three temp agencies and found steady work at a different place every week until I landed a long-term assignment at Hah-vahd and, when that assignment wrapped up, a permanent job as a sales rep for a theater company. I celebrated my first day at Hah-vahd by buying myself a copy of Special Beat Service, The Beat’s last album, which I’d recently discovered, despite the fact that it was released eight years earlier.

It was the frenetic pace of the album that drew me in. It seemed to fit my world view at the time, of everything saved from flailing apart only by sheer will, of the sense of trying to jump onto a treadmill already moving at top speed. I also liked the titillating pause between “Just hold my hand where I come” and “to a decision on it,” which is just long enough for you to consider the less family-friendly interpretation for the lyrics. Pete Townshend gets rid of this pause in his version. It’s one of the reasons I don’t like it.

Last night, on my way home from work after moving box after box of enormous books to my new desk, I stopped at my favorite grocers, the Westside Market. Westside Market is one of the things I miss when I’m in Illinois. I love shopping here. It’s a maze of narrow aisles that’s sort of like an epicurean funhouse. You keep thinking you’ve found everything and then you make a turn and there’s an aisle that you swear you’ve never seen before even though you’ve been in the store dozens of times. They have great produce and lots of organic options, but they still carry regular food. They also play great music.

Even the cheese sings sometimes. Yesterday I headed in for parmesan, but ended up with a wedge of Raw Milk Gouda instead because, well, see for yourself:

And in case you’re unfamiliar with those lyrics:

But the song I heard when I was standing in line was a one-hit wonder by the Vapors (can the song be the one-hit wonder or is it only the band?), “Turning Japanese:

At 7:30, the checkout lines were packed with tired looking people on their way home from work. The lines were long. And because of the store’s space limitations — a problem for every Manhattan space — some of the checkout lines aren’t even wide enough for my shoulders to pass without touching the sides. Cramped and crabby we were when that song came on. I looked around on the first chords. No one budged. But by the time the chorus rolled around, I saw the man with the briefcase two lines away put down his phone and crack a smile. The checkout girls were dancing. The woman in the camel coat behind me, who looked to be about my age, started singing along under her breath. She caught my eye and grinned. I grinned back.

Grabbing my groceries and heading out onto 7th Avenue, I sang along in my head, each beat a step.

Turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so.

Of course, I was the one who had to survive The Health Talk last night. It was parent orientation for the unit on “human development,” that the fifth graders will be doing over the next couple of weeks. In case you were wondering, it is only marginally less embarrassing to watch those educational videos as an adult as it was as a kid. And I don’t remember there being such an emphasis on deodorant. This may explain some of the questions AJ has been leveling at us lately. “Why do you smell bad when you’re a teenager? Why do teenagers act so crazy? Why are they so weird?” Damned if I know, kid.

AJ is playing guitar in a rock band with his friends O (on drums), T (on bass), K (on keyboards) and N, ostensibly on guitar, but he doesn’t seem to actually know how to play, so he may just stand around and look cool. They’ve been practicing together for two whole weeks now and have finally settled on a name: Emerald Five (“It’s like Maroon Five, except green”). AJ drew their logo, which consists of a number 5 with shiny jewels in the bends. They’re hoping to be ready for their first gig at the school talent show in May. They’re playing Song 2 by Blur and an AC/DC tune that I can never remember the name of, but which you’ve all heard before. It has only three chords, which is good for them. And the bagpipe part is being taken by keyboards. They are missing one thing, though: a singer. They are planning on holding auditions and AJ is busy working on flyers to hand out and post. He’s a little worried about their prospects. “Well, I don’t think any girls will want to sing with all boys, but I don’t think the boys will be as good singers.” It’s a dilemma. Are they hoping for boys or girls? “It doesn’t matter,” says AJ. “We’ll take either, as long as they’re a good singer.” Keep those ideals, boys. I can’t wait to see how this goes.

My day was much less exciting, but it was nice to sit down and work on some of the projects I’ve had to put off while The Big Project was taking over. I also found out today that I’ll be moving to a new cubicle next week. It’s not far, but it’s a bigger space and it’s next to one of the huge windows overlooking Madison Avenue (I think — I have a very poor sense of direction in the cubicle maze and I’m not entirely sure I know which cube I’ll be in) and much closer to the coffee machine. I’m looking forward to seeing daylight, but I’m a little sad to leave my staff, which is staying put. It was nice to work as a team. But they are not far away and we will still be working together. I just won’t be able to lean over the cubicle wall to ask a question. This may actually be good for our work habits, but I’m going to miss it a little too. My assistant and I had the following email exchange:

Me: Are you moving too or am I going to have to resort to sending messages in carefully engineered paper airplanes?

She: No, I’m staying put I think. But tin cans and string might work. Where are you moving to?

Me: Not far– A’s old desk. I’m pretty sure tin cans and string will work from there. But we’ll need a ladder.

She: No problem. I know a guy.

Now do you see why I like working with these people?

But really, I’m struggling to come up with a song for day : favorite breakup song. I mean, come on. Does anyone really have a favorite breakup song? In my book, that’s an oxymoron. With breakups, I am a wallower. I like to pick at the scab of the relationship, so whatever songs were “our songs,” become the de facto breakup songs. I play them over and over again until I really can’t stand to listen to them for one more minute. And then I am over it. Catharsis, purging both the song and the boy.

There’s the guy I was dating when I went to college. We split amicably because we were moving to different states, me to become a journalist, he to become an architect (he’s now gay and a yoga teacher). I played the soundtrack of St. Elmo’s Fire to get over him (don’t judge me, it was the ’80s). I didn’t date much in college, at least not seriously. So I got to keep all my music from then, even some that was probably best thrown back on the dung heap (that Enya period? Yeah, it’s best not to speak of it). I lost Mahler to the first guy who really broke my heart. I’m not sure what I missed more, him or Mahler. (strangely, I just talked to him yesterday — if we’re becoming civil again, does that mean I get to reclaim Mahler?(.

Really the only breakup music I have that isn’t tied to a particular relationship is an entire album, not a song: Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville. It’s song after song worth belting out in anger with tears running down your face. It’s perfect for both wallowing in self-pity and wailing in righteous anger. It’s the ultimate breakup music. I wrote about one song in the last meme as the song I listen to when I’m angry. But really, the best thing in a breakup, when you’re done wallowing, is to pop Exile in Guyville into your car’s CD player and go for a nice long drive, singing as loud as you can. I highly recommend it.

Before writing this, I listened to the album for the first time in a long while. I didn’t lose it in a breakup, but I did have to put it away for a while. But it’s worn amazingly well. I know there are other formative albums in my life, but this is one I’m particularly fond of. Listening to it is like listening to myself 20 years ago. It’s a sound that matters to me. I just stuck the CD in my bag. It may not sound the same in my 21 year old mini-van, driving cautiously past AJ’s school to take him to band practice as it did in my weatherbeaten hand-me-down Volvo, driving through the cornfields of Indiana with all the window open and no particular place to be at no particular time, but it still sounds good, from beginning to end.

Here’s the album,in track order:

6’1″

Help me, Mary

Glory

Dance of the Seven Veils

Never Said

Soap Star Joe

Explain it to Me

Canary

Mesmerizing

Fuck and Run (lyrics not work safe, duh)

Girls, Girls, Girls

Divorce Song

Shatter

Flower (REALLY not work safe; possibly the dirtiest song I know)

Johnny Sunshine

Gunshy

Stratford-on-Guy (possibly my favorite for its minor key and mention of Galaxy 500)

Strange Loop

First, here’s the original version of “Somebody That I used to Know” by Gotye, which I first heard on WFUV a few days ago:

And here’s the remarkable cover by Canadian band Walk the Earth. This is a cover that’s all about the visual. Despite the dramatic change in instrumentation, it maintains the basic affect of the original and doesn’t reinterpret its sentiment. But the choreography of this arrangement is a thing of beauty.

Lest I think my karma’s been too good this year, my buzzer thumb currently doesn’t bend. I’m going to have to practice as a lefty.

I had dinner tonight with the old friend I wrote about yesterday. It was fantastic to see her -= it’s been at least 10 years, but it was nothing. We had a lot to catch up on, but we could have talked longer if we didn’t both have work to do in the morning.

In other good things, I got a very nice email from one of the people I worked very closely with on the project thanking me for my work and another one from my boss thanking me a little more tangibly by giving me a half a day off. In the general scheme of the extra hours I’ve put in, it’s nothing. But it is much appreciated nonetheless. And now, I think, it is time to pack my clothes and clean the apartment. There have been so many things going on that I almost forgot I’m headed home tomorrow. If the karma holds, that is. There’s a snowstorm between here and there that I have to get through. On the plus side, delays will mean more time to practice saying things in the form of a question.

1. I know three different places where I could, if desired, purchase a bong, and they are all within two blocks of my apartment.

2. Discarded Christmas trees are not a sad reminder of the end of the holiday season but a giant wall of death blocking the sidewalk and towering over you in a way that suggests your demise is imminent.

3. Hearing conversations on the street in which actors discuss upcoming auditions is a daily event. Today’s edition: two women were discussing the challenges of putting on a Yorkshire accent without sounding Irish. One of them was auditioning for a role in a production of Pride and Prejudice, but neither of them could remember the name of the elder sister, only that she was supposed to be “the pretty one.” They discussed how Lizzie was not supposed to be pretty but interesting, how one of them was sure to be cast as Mary, and the other said she wanted Lizzie but thought she’d probably get cast as Mrs. Bennet. “You’d kick ass as Mrs. Bennet!” said her friend. Ever since, that phrase has been going through my head like a mantra.

4. When you want to take your staff out for a beer after a job well done, it takes 45 minutes to decide which of the 90 gazillion bars within spitting distance to grace with our presence.

Things at the Toy Factory have been crazy, but the big project I’m in charge of is winding down. We had a big meeting today where I officially turned over the reins to another part of the Toy Factory. There’s still some cleanup to do, but the crazy hours I’ve been putting in for the last few weeks should be coming to an end and I can start turning my attention back to the other gazillion projects I’m supposed to be working on. I wish I could talk a little more about it, because it was a really interesting, although stressful, process with a real race-against-the-clock finish. After work, I took my staff out for beer (see number 4 above) and the best damn portobello mushroom sandwich I have ever had. Tomorrow I will go in late and leave on time. It’s going to feel good. And I have a three day weekend coming up and that’s going to feel even better, especially if I can get through what looks to be Chicago’s first real snow storm of the season.

Tomorrow after work, I’m meeting a friend of mine I’ve know for many years in a variety of circumstances whom I haven’t seen in at least a decade and quite possibly a lot longer — I’ve kind of lost track. We first met in elementary school in England, but were only passing acquaintances. Our familes moved in different directions — hers to Asia, mine back to the US –and I didn’t see her again until the summer after our freshman year in college when out of hundreds of summer interns at a large corporation in Indianapolis, we ended up as the only two interns in our small lab. We spent a lot of time together both in and outside work. We discovered we went not only went to the same small Massachusetts college, but lived in adjacent dorms (she was a year ahead of me). We stayed friends through college. After she graduated, she moved to Boston. I visited her there a couple of times and moved there myself a year later, by which point she was headed to Chicago for grad school. A year later, I was in Chicago too, at another school in the city. We kept in touch, but as busy as we were, saw each other irregularly. I went to her wedding A few years went by and she got a job in New York. “You’ll be there soon!” she joked, because that’s just always how it seems to go with us. Well, it took me fifteen years this time, but here I am.

And now, I think, I should knock off. Yesterday I was at the office from 8 am to nearly midnight. I came home and worked for a few hours more before crashing. I was back at the office at 8 this morning. Tonight it’s time for a good long sleep. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.

Sunday, I fly back to New York for the first time in three weeks. It’s been really nice to be home for three whole weeks in a row. But I’m also looking forward to getting back (although I’m not looking forward to the carton of milk I forgot to throw out of the refrigerator before I left the last time). It will be busy. In addition to the big deadline, I’m involved in a film being made about my corner of the Toy Factory. Fortunately, it looks like my role is going to be primarily behind the scenes.But filming begins a few hours after my big meeting for my big project. No rest for the wicked.

Complicating matters is the fact that I am now operating with only one opposable thumb. Why, I’m not sure, but the thumb on my right hand has been slowly deteriorating and now will not bend at all except with bone-shattering pain. Seriously, it’s worse than when I broke the other thumb. Much worse. I suspect a combination of hours of overtime spent clicking around spreadsheets the last few weeks on top of mandolin picking. “You should go with that last one,” one of my coworkers said when I had to explain my sudden cursing while we were talking on the phone. “Less nerdy.” “Who are we kidding?” I replied. “They’re both nerdy.”

So, I have a nerdy injury and have to lay off the mandolin playing for a while. I am also having trouble with twist ties, opening jars, and buttons. And I have to hold my pencil differently, so my writing is both excruciatingly slow and even less legible than usual. I feel like I’m back in kindergarten. Maybe I’d do better with crayon.

Mr. Spy was trying to read my grocery list. “dizzy water?”

“Fizzy.”

“I kind of like dizzy. Is that lentils?”

“lemons.”

“I think we have lemons.”

“Maybe, but I couldn’t open the drawer.”

I also have trouble with the crisper. Next week living solo should be interesting and may involve more takeout than usual.

“Why don’t you go to the urgent care center tomorrow?” asks Mr. Spy and I laugh at him before I realize he’s serious. He is of the crazy opinion that when you are sick or injure yourself, you go to the doctor, whereas I tend to work from the assumption that doctors are for the weak. I fully expect that if I ignore medical problems, they will go away. It’s mostly worked for me so far. And it doesn’t help that I blame my current problem on my last trip to the doctor. I mean, do I really need that thumb to bed? I’ve got another one. On the other hand, as a musician, I’m easily spooked by hand injuries. I can finger pick on guitar and mando, but I can’t hold a pick and I can’t strum mando at all (the strings are much tenser than on guitar, so strumming is more stressful to the hand). And I’m certain I can’t hold a violin bow. I haven’t even tried.

I did, however, manage to pay a visit to School of Rock yesterday and ran into one of my former students heading in to take a lesson with the guy who took over my students, who’s actually also one of my former students. It was nice to see him (the one heading in — the one who was teaching I see fairly regularly), but I had to sit on my hands while I listened to the lesson. It’s hard to listen to someone else teach your students. But I need to let it go.

What I also need to let go is my work, but I can’t. I carry it with me everywhere, day and night. I need to learn how, because last time I got this way, I was on the brink of burnout. Balance is not my natural state of equilibrium. But I did knock off tonight in time to watch Columbo with Mr. Spy (AJ is at a sleepover) and take down some Christmas decorations while listening to Christmas music. Tomorrow will bring, I hope TinTin and the untreeing, always a bit of a ceremony around her. And packing. Because it’s time for that to begin again too.

There are plenty of great movies with great songs, though. How about Harry Lime’s Theme from The Third Man?

And, as an added bonus, a performance of the same theme by the Beatles that I didn’t know existed until I looked up the theme on the Tube of You:

“As Time Goes By” from Casablanca is a classic:

So’s The Godfather

But one of my favorite movies — and one I haven’t seen in a very long time — made a huge impression on me. Artistically, it opened my eyes. Here’s the Promenade Sentimentale from that classic of French New Wave film, Diva:

The film is about a young man’s relationship with an opera singer (well, that’s sort of what it’s about — there’s a lot more to it than that), and the score includes opera too, notably the aria “Ebben? Ne andrò lontana” from La Wally

There’s also a fair amount of electronica. But the Promenade Sentimentale made the film for me. It’s a sort of parody of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies, especially the first one, lent et douloureux:

Satie is best known in music history as the man who invented the concept, “furniture music,” which was music that was supposed to be atmospheric, part of the experienced, not really listened to the way concert music is listened to. He was a huge influence on John Cage. The Gymnopédies are a little earlier, but their spareness and unorthodox (for the time) chord progressions hint at Satie’s later attempts to uncouple himself from concert music traditions.

In Diva, the Promenade functions much the same way — it appears in the film when the opera singer wrests herself away from the concert world to spend time with someone who is, in essence, a crazed fan. It’s about removing expectations and opening yourself to new things. When it plays, the characters are operating outside their ordinary spheres and are entering into something new. In many films such boundary crossings are met with aggression, but in this one it is more of an unfolding, an opening. It’s quiet and still.

Promenade Sentimentale takes its title from a poem by Paul Verlaine that evokes images of nature and loneliness:

Promenade sentimentale

Le couchant dardait ses rayons suprêmes
Et le vent berçait les nénuphars blêmes ;
Les grands nénuphars entre les roseaux
Tristement luisaient sur les calmes eaux.
Moi j’errais tout seul, promenant ma plaie
Au long de l’étang, parmi la saulaie
Où la brume vague évoquait un grand
Fantôme laiteux se désespérant
Et pleurant avec la voix des sarcelles
Qui se rappelaient en battant des ailes
Parmi la saulaie où j’errais tout seul
Promenant ma plaie ; et l’épais linceul
Des ténèbres vint noyer les suprêmes
Rayons du couchant dans ses ondes blêmes
Et les nénuphars, parmi les roseaux,
Les grands nénuphars sur les calmes eaux.

Paul Verlaine
Poèmes saturniens

(translation here)

I like the way Diva‘s Promenade sentimentale evokes a certain amount of French artistic history even as it tells the story of fictional French art while creating an artwork all its own. But really, what I love best about this scene in this film, is its depiction of the city of Paris. How could you not love it?

I first saw this film my sophomore year in high school when it was introduced to me by my English teacher, who also introduced me to John Cage and Philip Glass and John Cheever and in so doing was the single most influential person on my adult life and interests. The summer after I saw it, I went to France. Without my parents. I had the chance to do some walking around Paris on my own and this is the soundtrack that was running through my head. I heard it years later when crossing the Pont Neuf. And I fully expect to hear it when in the Jardins Luxembourg the next time I am there. Although I haven’t seen this film in at least 20 years, parts of it still run in my head. It got under my skin. And the music was a big part of that.

What film music rocks your world?

“What?” said Mr. Spy, half listening.

“I can’t think of any love songs. I’m supposed to write about my favorite love song today and I can’t think of a single love song.”

“How can you not know a love song?”

“I don’t know. Every time I think of one they’re always depressing, like where one person is in love and the other isn’t. I don’t think I like love songs.”

“What about ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers?”

Mr. Spy is forever trying to convince me that I like Neil Diamond. I am forever trying to convince him that I can’t stand Neil Diamond.

“I hate that song.”

“But it’s a love song.”

“True.”

“Well what about George Harrison, ‘Something’?”

“Okay. That’s a love song.”

But the thing about that song is that when I was in 4th or 5th grade, I had this elaborate nightmare about zombies. Except it wasn’t just a nightmare, it was a musical nightmare. And the centerpiece song was a parody of “Something.” It was sung by the head zombie, an older woman who wanted me to give her my brain.” Instead of “Don’t want to leave her now,” she sang, “I need your darling mind.” I know, not so scary right? But it was at the time. And the fact that I still remember this detail mumble-mumble years after the fact should make that clear. So no, my favorite love song is not “Something.”

I might pick “Cursed Sleep” by Bonnie Prince Billy, but I wrote about that the last time I did a music meme.

I also think “The Waters of March” is an amazing love song, but I’ve written about that before too.

Frankly, a lot of my trouble with identifying love songs is that I tend not to listen to lyrics very carefully. But the standard issue love song does little for me. It’s boring. I like the domestic — it’s what I love about “The Waters of March.” And when I thought about that aspect, I knew exactly which song was my favorite love song: “It Couldn’t Please Me More (The Pineapple Song)” from the musical Cabaret:

This is not my favorite recording of the song, although it’s a good one. My favorite version pairs the inimitable Lotte Lenya with Jack Gilford as Fräulein Schneider and Herr Schultz. In the show, Schneider and Schultz are usually played for laughs, although they are also representative of old Germany. Fräulein Schneider sings,

If you brought me diamonds,
If you brought me pearls,
If you brought me roses
Like some other gents
Might bring to other girls,
It couldn’t please me more
Than the gift I see;
A pineapple for me.

She doesn’t like the romantic trappings either. Herr Schultz brought her something she really wanted — something exotic, delicious and useful. Schneider is tough as nails through most the show. She cannot be moved. At the end of the song when she admits, “I am overwhelmed,” it is a huge leap in her character development. Fräulein Schneider does not get overwhelmed. She does not lose control. But Herr Schultz has won her over.

Herr Schultz won me over too. I’ve played in the orchestra for several productions of this show, which,if you’ve seen the show, you’ll know means that I was sitting around stage in my underwear night after night feeling like an idiot. And even in the show where I had a huge crush on the emcee (who looked nothing like Joel Grey), Herr Schultz’s romantic gift always made me sigh.

Do you have a favorite love song? Is it about roses or pineapples?