music

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Francis Nowalk’s here in Pittsburgh is closing its doors after more than 75 years. Frank, as he was called, worked in the store he built until Covid brought him literally to his knees in 2023. After he passed away last year, his children and grandchildren began the process of closing up the famous business, finally reaching the stage of selling off the lighting solutions and the brick-and-mortar multi-story showroom and warehouse. https://pittsburghquarterly.com/articles/a-pittsburgh-treasure/  

Since we’ve been looking for period-appropriate sconces to replace the modern lighting in our very Victorian house, we raced to their sale and what a delight it was. We were even lucky enough to get one of his handmade pieces (not even realizing he’d made it until one of the sons told us its provenance). I can’t begin to tell you how dirty we got, digging through boxes of bips and bops. I haven’t had so much fun spending money in a long time. 

There was something very bittersweet about having his children, all around my age, reminiscing about various pieces as they were sold. “Wasn’t this in the house at one point?” one sister would ask and another would agree, while one of the brothers answered, “No” in a very confident voice. Occasionally, while we were there, we’d see one of them grab something from the showroom. They’d call out, “I’m taking this to the car.” A brother or sister would sigh and call out, “Okay.” The siblings all laughed about it, though, and told us that everyone in the family has pieces from their dad’s business. “He lives in all our houses,” one of the daughters said, which is a lovely legacy. I think most of us would like to know that we’re remembered with such sweetness.

I went to a screening of A Princess Bride that included a Cary Elwes Q&A. As a single ticket, I was able to swoop in at the last minute to get a cheap seat in the third row, perfect placement for a good view of the movie and the Q&A after. There was an interesting prohibition; absolutely no pictures of Cary were permitted. We were warned that violators would be politely escorted out. 

The screening was a delight. It seemed like everyone there knew the movie. Some attendees were dressed up as Buttercup, Wesley, or the dread pirate Roberts. I even saw a six-fingered man (without his sword, of course). With the first use of “As You Wish,” there were ooohs and aaahs. When Andre the Giant appeared, the room erupted in cheers. It was wonderful. 

I’m slightly less enthusiastic about the Q&A. Cary Elwes was very funny, very polished, very emotionally removed from the event. I felt like he’d memorized his responses and enunciated them with a minimum of engagement. I may be alone in that impression, as there was a lot of laughter during his stories. They were good stories, for sure. I just felt like he’d told the same ones a thousand times. Because he has. You know?

In 2012, I think it was, my husband got us tickets to see William Shatner’s one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live In It. It was my birthday present, as I am a huuuuuuuge OG Star Trek fan and might, if needed, be called upon to recite dialog from most of the 80+ episodes. So far, surprisingly, I haven’t needed to do that. But I’m ready. You know. Just in case. 

Anyway, it’s likely no surprise that I’m comparing Cary Elwes’ Q&A with Shatner’s one-man show. The difference for me is stark. Every word of Shatner’s show felt like a conversation, like he was sitting in an easy chair across the room, reminiscing about his life, even though that show ran for, maybe, three weeks on Broadway before he took it on a national tour for another eight months. It was magical, slightly deranged, and riveting to watch. 

Speaking of Shatner, if you haven’t listened to his album Has Been, you have missed something spectacular and should rectify that as soon as possible. Unlike his earlier work, this masterpiece produced by Ben Folds is often wrenching and intimate. He reflects on his life, his many mistakes, his public image. One of the interesting things about it is that listening will not make you like Shatner the man anymore than he deserves but somehow it allows you to empathize with him. I like to listen to it on longer drives, when I can really focus on the lyrics. In my humble opinion, it is not the album that you play in the background while doing dishes. 

In other music news, if you’re in the area and you’re not going to see The English Beat, are you even actually in the area? I’ve been following them for a looooong time but this will be my first time seeing them live. The venue is table seating near the stage and then some sort of balcony seating in the back. My seats are at a table. In fact, I purchased the entire table and then invited some people to join me. I just can’t bring myself to sit at a 4-top with three strangers. It is too awkward. Well…okay…the truth is that I’m too awkward. 

Winter has arrived earlier than expected. The trees, overnight, made a yellow carpet of leaves on Negley Avenue, covering the sidewalks and road. Truly, Dorothy could have found her way easily on that not-brick road, despite the blustery wind. Although the temperature rises slightly during the day, the cold Canadian air continues to rustle empty branches, whip hair into eyes, and wrestle unbuttoned coats wide. 

An elderly woman enters the coffee shop, wool coat buttoned to her neck. She has on a fanny pack, the strap at her waist around the back, the pack in front snuggled lower, below her curves. She waits patiently for her drink, which the barista announces loudly, a large peppermint hot cocoa with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. As she walks by me, her gold dangle earrings glint in the afternoon light. She inhales the warm peppermint scent wafting from her cup and takes a delicate lick of whipped cream before stepping into winter’s windy embrace, her gray hair tousled by the breeze. 

Another woman enters the coffee shop; a few errant leaves join her, swirling in a circle around the brick floor. Her silver hair hangs to her chin in a bob that curls under, something I could never reliably achieve. She’s wearing a puffy coat the color of lilac. How is it that some people look effortlessly stylish and some people (me. I mean me) look effortfully like we close our eyes before we pick out our outfits?

Online guidance suggested creating playlists of music familiar to my cognitively declining acquaintance. Reluctantly, because I have to listen to it too–haha, I’ve done it: Leon Russell, The Beatles, Peter, Paul & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel, and a few early 70s bands, like Moody Blues, Doobie Brothers, etc. I passionately dislike The Beatles–I know, I know–but in early childhood, I was listening to my parents’ 40s and early 50s music. I literally had two albums of my own: a Jackson Five and the Carpenters. The Beatles, in particular, were NOT on the record player. Later, when my dad was an Outlaw Country fan, we were listening to 8-tracks of Willie and Friends. My mom’s favorite music was silence. She abhorred Outlaw Country, lol. I like Willie, in particular, but I prefer his folk and indie music, such as Last Man Standing. He’s renowned for his lyricism and I find his later stuff particularly smart and quite funny. I also admire his frank disdain for people who have forgotten or perhaps deliberately misunderstood what he represents.

This morning, I entered the coffee shop early and saw an acquaintance absolutely immersed in his computer screen. I waved but he didn’t notice so I bent to his eye level and waved until he looked up and saw me. It made me, him, and the barista laugh. Day’s goals met. 

I haven’t talked much about my health but had a reminder this morning from a friend that silence can be distressing to others. So, quick update and then we won’t talk about it again unless it’s necessary: September scans picked up a new spot too small to biopsy. It’s in the gallbladder fundus, which, so that you don’t have to google, is at the top of the gallbladder under the right lobe of the liver. (I no longer have a left lobe. lol) 

It might be something. It might be nothing. My healthcare team calls it “concerning,” though not to me, which I find rather funny. They like to be very optimistic and cheerful. I’m an optimist, too, and continue to buy green bananas. (Why do I know they call it concerning? Because a resident at my PCP’s office read the medical record to me. I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. haha) My next scans and bloodwork are December 1st. I’ll see my healthcare team again in mid-December, at which point we’ll know what’s next, whether it’s more scans, surgery, treatment, or a combination thereof. 

Sure, I am occasionally awash with, to paraphrase Aragorn, “…The fear that would take the heart of me.” Cholangiocarcinoma kills 80-90% of patients. I wish this weren’t my path. “”So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’” (Tolkien sure knew how to turn a phrase.)

I’ve had all the very difficult conversations. I’ve updated the will. I’ve made all the lists–finances, bills, passwords, etc. There’s even a spreadsheet with all the home repairs I’ve done over the years since Ken died. I’m probably more paper-work prepared for death than most of you who ALSO have no idea when you’ll die. (So, maybe, get on that. It will benefit your family.) Anyway, I’m as determined today as yesterday, and the day before, to keep living until I die. Some days the worry wins but most days I win. And now we’re done with that topic. If there’s more to say, I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Much love.

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Just watched a couple purchase coffee and pastries, get into their car out front of the coffee shop, and light up their…er, weed stick. They passed it back and forth, back windows cracked, until they’d finished it. They got out of the car and walked to the Sephora, I think, though they pretty quickly returned to get her coffee out of the car. They walked on, out of sight, for a bit before he walked back toward the construction site down the block from me and she drove off.

The this-is-your-brain-on-drugs-propaganda version of me wants desperately to be all “you’re both impaired” blah blah blah. The version of me that watched a likely sober elderly driver nearly kill a pedestrian (by nearly I mean the pedestrian leaped backwards to avoid the car) in a crosswalk yesterday thinks the propaganda version of me should sit this one out because we have WAY bigger problems with driving than a young person toking in their car. This is not an attack on elderly drivers either. I nearly got killed recently, also in a crosswalk, by a young man in a mustang who just didn’t want to stop. Last week, I stepped off the crosswalk and stopped because there was a car approaching the intersection that was absolutely not going to stop for the red light. He didn’t stop so it’s a good thing I did. If I’d kept walking would he have stopped in time? City life is not car versus pedestrian but some days it feels like it.

There is significant non-automotive vehicular traffic in Shadyside: bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, unicycle ebikes, hoverboards. Just now, I watched someone ride a bicycle one-handed with a tray of hot drinks in his other hand. This seems somewhat of an over-reach in terms of balance, braking, steering, but I’ll never know the whole story. He passed the window in slightly more than one second and is long out of view. 

I listened, today, to the Oklou Tiny Desk Concert. Their debut album is not acoustic but this tiny concert is and, my friends, it is a delight to hear. I am left wondering if there are any instruments lead singer Marylou Mayniel can’t play, as she demonstrated fluency on the acoustic guitar, recorder, piano, and marimba over the four-song set. The songs, in this form, are gentle, melancholic, and tender. Give it a listen when you would otherwise spend 20 minutes doomscrolling. 

The shout-motivating runner is back. I haven’t seen him for a bit, kind of thought he’d changed running neighborhoods but he just gave a hearty “Woooo” as he ran by the coffee shop. Gave me a bit of a jump scare, if I’m being honest. Haha

It’s the end of the school day. A grandmother is walking with her 10 or 11ish grandson. They’re the same height, looking each other in the eye as they walk. I wonder if she thinks about how it will feel some day to have him reach down to hug her. 

What is going on today? A man on a bike–a large storage container attached to the back–just rode by holding another, empty bike, in tandem. How does he steer the second bike? This, too, seems like an over-reach. He has also passed by in a second and the story goes on without us.

I know. I know. It seems, again, as though I’m just staring out the coffee shop window, documenting what happens. Not true, though. In fact, I’m doing some research for a project at the moment and occasionally look “off into space,” and by that I mean out the window, as I consider the approach I’m taking with this new and rather epically different story.

I looked up just as a woman walked across the street and dropped a long metal chain very deliberately. It fell to the ground as though it was heavy, though I can’t tell you why I think that. In my head, I heard the sound of it dropping but I’m across the street so obv I didn’t hear anything.

A teenager just walked into the coffee shop with her friends and said (too loudly), “Oh, this is aesthetic.” After that, she was thoroughly shushed. Lol Also, she definitely picked that up somewhere–I’m guessing tiktok–because…what does she mean exactly? It’s rather like she walked in and said “this has a floor.” Yes, yes, it does. Only she said this IS aesthetic. Pause for research…. My friends, I asked the interwebs for help. The yoots and AI seem to think “aesthetic” means pretty. It does not, in fact, mean that. I believe that it is entirely possible we’re raising generation after generation of people who have not learned any critical thinking skills. 

I get that English is a fluid language but there’s a difference between “windshield” changing from “a shield from the wind” to “a window in your car” and just flat out misunderstanding what a word means. Now, get off my lawn. 

A woman is standing at the coffee bar talking on speaker phone to someone who clearly does not know she’s on speaker phone. The volume is all the way up. We are IN this woman’s business. I’m listening, of course, because 1) I’m nebby; 2) she’s standing beside me; and 3) it’s so loud I can hear the discussion over my music. I’m also a little concerned, at this point, that this is a spam call. We can check in with Angela (the woman on the other end of the call) tomorrow, though, if we haven’t received the very suspicious bill that she has just sent via the email address that she didn’t have until the woman beside me gave it to her after not receiving the paper bill because they totally had the wrong address for her. 

Not my circus. Not my monkeys. I have enough on my plate with the spam-vulnerable person (genderless and nameless for privacy yo) who, at one point, tried to text their license plate number to someone who texted them that they were at risk of losing their Alabama license that they definitely don’t even have because they live in Pittsburgh. 

I hope all scammers have not just the day but the whole-ass life they deserve.

Battery ran out of juice and the only open charging space is being “saved” by someone. I could probably have been all “first come….” Instead, I’ve switched to the Starbucks. It’s very painful, as I strongly disagree with their labor practices. In an unsurprising karmic event, I immediately burned my tongue on my hot cocoa. Deserved. Also, I hate the music that they’re playing very loudly. The song right now is “You’re Dead.” Have I already said that I hate it? I really do. I can’t play music in my headphones loud enough to drown out their music without deafening myself. I definitely deserve this.

Much love.

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

Disco Dancing at the Diner

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

An elderly beagle left a little dirt on my pant leg and a saliva-sticky mark on my chin this morning. I met him on my walk. There is nothing more pleasing than to have a dog reciprocate a greeting. He eagerly did, meeting me at the halfway mark with a nose boop and a happy tongue. 

Further on, a young woman walked toward me, up the hill. She was clearly on her way to class, striding along, backpack on her shoulders, her head slightly down as she leaned into the hill. As we were about to pass, I said, “Your hair is beautiful.” She stopped to look at me, then smiled. I smiled back and walked on down the hill in the early morning sun. 

Somewhere in my community, as I was walking and not paying attention to the cross streets, I saw a sign on a glass door. The sign said, “Actual Size.” Nothing else. There was no other marking on the door. It’s mildly funny, made me smile. What, for me, was far funnier, is that someone thought that was worth putting on the door. Maybe they even created the sign on the computer and printed it, found tape and stuck the sign to the door, and then laughed about it. Someone went to all that effort for a laugh, for no purpose OTHER than the gag. Just a giggle or a smile for anyone who takes a moment to notice it.

The server at the diner where I got a late breakfast was dancing to the 70s music that was playing. She stopped suddenly and complained to me about how hot it was in the room. “I’m so hot,” she said. “Hot and spicy.” I replied, “That’s what Joe says.” (Joe is her partner.) And we both had a good laugh. “He wishes,” she said, with a wink.

A disco song started playing. Another server danced along the aisle, singing. I asked if she knew how to do the hustle and then realized that she’s TOO YOUNG. And now, I will diminish, and go into the West and remain Galadriel. I mean Deb. 

I just looked up from my editing, thinking about how I wanted to word something, and watched a gray-haired man hop up from a bench across the way to take a picture of an older woman, presumably his partner, who was eating a cup of gelato from the pizza place. He sat back down and smiled as he showed it to her. They’re sitting so close that their arms brush as they scoop the gelato into their mouths.

A very attractive young man with black curls hanging down his back is walking in a circle outside, a large circle. He’s waiting for someone. Is he a little nervous? There are two standard waiting postures: the shift from one foot to the other while looking at a phone and the walk aimlessly. I’ve done significant (undocumented) research on this. You can trust me that he’s waiting. He’s wearing a blue and white small-check shirt and one of those zigzag hair bands to keep the curls out of his face. 

Ah, good news, readers. It’s probably 10 minutes later than when I last looked. He has met up with someone and they’re now walking, with intent, across the street. Both have smiles, friends happy to be together. Over the weekend, I watched a group of men like that meet up, long-term friends, gray beards, some bent and arthritic, faces lined. They called out when each one arrived and hugged–true hugs, not those weird backslap hugs–all around, each time. There was so much joy in the room because they were together. 

I’m working on a project and doing some research around protest music. If you use Spotify (yeah, I know what Daniel Ek is doing–he sucks), there are some real bangers on these two playlists: 

  • Rolling Stone 100 Best Protest Songs of All Time
  • 100 Best Protest Songs According to ongoinghistoryofprotestsongs.com

A warning though: there’s a lot in these songs to make you sad. Some days it seems like we’ve literally been fighting for 125 years for things that should never have been divisive.  

“You kill people and break things for a living,” says our current Secretary of Defense. Look at those words, those deeply offensive words from a want-to-be tough guy who has no experience leading anyone. I suspect it is only discipline that kept those generals and admirals in their seats while Petey and Donny postured in front of them. I felt a strong urge to verbally flip both of those men off as I watched clips of the meandering speeches that clearly highlighted how little they understand their roles or our military or our Constitution. 

A young natural-blond man (fun aside here–I wasn’t sure whether to add an e on the end of that word and turned to Merriam-Webster for assistance. It seems that ‘blonde’ is a gendered spelling. M-W recommends eschewing that and going with blond, which would be correct in this context anyway)…back to that young blond man. He is frequently at the coffee shop working on a computer, very occasionally on a call. I have no idea what job he does but I have to remark (or is it that I want to remark?) that his biceps are so large his tshirt sleeves don’t fit over them. I imagine that men are particularly jealous, though I don’t know very many women who care about the size of a man’s biceps. Awkwardly, our reflections in the garage door glass just made direct eye contact and now I shall stare deeply at my screen for at least the next three years.  

Jeff Daniels will be in town next Friday, performing at City Winery. I LONG to go but the only tickets available are singles at 4-tops. There is as much chance of me joining a table of strangers as there is of me standing on stage to sing to them. He’s a genuinely lovely performer. I am very sad.

Oh no. The person at the table between me and blond man just left. We are facing each other now and just made direct eye contact again. It’s soooo awkward. This seat is right by the window so I’m not leaving but I am absolutely not making eye contact again. Guess I’ll be typing with my eyes closed. This experience is somehow worse than that time I was sitting beside the man whose pants were below his butt cheeks.

I’m working on a new project during editing breaks. I’m not going to share details but I’m really having fun with it. It’s not what I was planning to work on next but I can hear this new protagonist’s voice so I’m making lots of notes. Many of those notes are currently more questions than anything else, such as, is protagonist a reliable narrator? Also, does protagonist have a ride-or-die?

A couple with a toddler is now sitting at the table between me and blond man. Mom and the toddler are waiting in line and an absolute giant of a man–6’7” I’m guessing–is in line behind them. That toddler is NOT having it. He’s trying to make friends, even bending all the way over to be at eye level but she noped right out of there. The man is wearing a great striped flannel that is way too short for him but really lovely. It’s deep brown, gold, and red, perfect fall colors. He has given up on chatting with the child and is talking to the mom while the dad sits at the table scrolling on a phone. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not…

Um. There’s a cat in here. It’s mewing. Everyone is looking around. Some people are laughing. The guilty party is not fessing up. I hope I get to see it. So does the toddler who is in “find the cat” mode.

This is crazy. Something just hit me right in the face. It stung but no damage done. It hit me in a downward arc so it was definitely thrown by someone who probably did not intend to hit anyone. That would be unacceptable behavior in this noisy but peaceful place. There are many shenanigans here but no mean-spiritedness. I said, “Ow,” quite loudly so it’s likely that whoever did it heard me. Also, I think I know who did it. Lol

Sisters have arrived. They’re elderly, the same height, same haircut. They *might* be twins but even so, I can tell right away which one is older. They’re sitting together outside. Older sister is in a light blue shirt and matching blouse unbuttoned, long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her sister is wearing a pink shirt with a pinky-peach checked blouse, also unbuttoned, cuffs rolled back. They’re eating the delicious pasta salad available from the coffee shop and sharing what looks like an Arnold Palmer. (I’m so nebby. haha) I wish I could hear them talking. I can tell from their body language that they finish each other’s sentences. And that they love each other. There’s a softness in the way they’re handing each other napkins and utensils. I’ll bet when they fight it’s hilarious to watch. Gentle, biting words while they work together to make dinner. Lol

My sister (Hi sis) and I do NOT fight like that. When we fight, it’s claws out, daggers drawn, pistols at dawn. Hehe My poor brother-in-law. What he has to endure. I don’t know why he puts up with us. Well, particularly me. He MARRIED you, sis. Lol

There’s a tiny, tripod terrier outside. It could not weigh more than 5 pounds. Cuteness overload.

Much love.

Disco Dancing at the Diner

A little rain under the robotic knife

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 5 Comments

Life is so crazy some days. And then others, you’re sitting on the side of the road in Texas waiting for the police officer to issue you a warning for doing absolutely nothing.

My paternal grandmother, Myrtle the Turtle Traffic Light, as my sister and I use to call her before dissolving into the sorts of giggles produced only by very young children, was the kind of woman who would absolutely have been a rule-breaker, a flapper, a radical feminist. She was a little bit wild, an assertive leader, who received surprisingly naughty letters from her future husband. Those letters have changed me (what is once seen cannot ever be unseen) in ways that are probably not for the better. I think I’d have preferred to see her letters instead of his but apparently men of that era were less inclined to keep love letters tied in a bundle.

Many years ago, probably in the late 1970s, Grandma MtTTL took my sister and me to see a version of The Ink Spots perform at The Brown Derby, a long-ago restaurant in Erie. We were the only children in the audience and those elderly men were absolutely delighted to introduce us to the music that has influenced so many musicians who came after. 

The Ink Spots profoundly proclaimed in one of their songs “Into every life, rain must fall.” No one, in the history of forever, has been more right than they were in that song. 

There’s a thing – it’s not X, Y. or Z. It could be an anomalous A or a blah, blah, blah. It’s big and it’s on my liver. By the time most of you read this, I will be in robotic surgery, after which I’ll rest in some high-monitor unit of a hospital. I’ll be lighter by 20% of my liver and grumpy. Neither of these would be normal for me; nor were they on my bingo card for 2024. See the above paragraphs for pithy wisdom about predicting your future.

Why am I telling you mid-event? Why am I telling you at all? Why me? (Why not me?) There are no good answers to these or many other questions. I won’t have access to technology for a few days and then I’ll be using my initially limited energy to finish a project I’ve been working on. I will check in, though, to let you all know about life with less liver.

Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands and in good spirits. And I’ll have a cool scar to add to my collection. Maybe, if it’s worth it, I’ll write a blog about the experience. 

Life is crazy some days. 

Much love. 

A little rain under the robotic knife

New Year, New You?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

So, it’s 2024. Do you have a Holiday HangoverTM? Did your 2024 resolve become reluctance when your alarm buzzed this morning? Don’t be discouraged. Time is a construct. You can actually start anew anytime. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, actually meaningless, unless you’re complying with America’s outmoded tax filing laws or you’re a child counting the days to your birthday – “Mom, mom. You told that lady that I’m 7. I’m not. I’m 7 and a half.” 

Is there a point to all this? Not really. True change can and does occur without resolutions and calendar pages. It took leaving the corporate world for me to be kinder, to be present, to know the people around me. I hope that, when I near the end of my days, my thoughts will be on the smiles I created and not the times that I failed. As the darkness closes in on me, I’d like to know that I helped someone, not that I won something. When I am gone, I’d like for people to remember my love for them, not my fumbling mis-steps, of which there have been many. 

All those self-improvement social media posts and books that challenge us to have “no regrets” don’t really mean that. They’re actually telling us not to lament where we focus our time, energy, and attention. Everyone regrets careless words, poorly worded jokes, unkind actions. No doubt it is the worst use of energy when, instead, we could set the intention to learn from our unkindnesses and then, ACTUALLY change our behaviors. Nonetheless, behaving better in future is not self-forgiveness for past actions. 

When my husband was receiving chemotherapy, his skin deteriorated – yes, this story has a related point and I recognize what a surprise that is. The chemo was very drying. He was supposed to moisturize heavily … and we had to be careful what kinds he used since some contain ingredients that are very hard on chemo skin. He refused to use any moisturizer – and I’m talking hardcore, back-to-the-wall noping. His skin – particularly his feet – began to peel and crack. I searched for different versions of body lotion, thinking he didn’t like the texture or the unscented scent of the various brands I bought. He continued to resist. We became Virgil Earp and Frank McLaury. 

I’d had many conversations with his oncology social worker about where to draw the line, where to encourage him instead of doing on his behalf but I’ll never know if the lines I drew were in the right places. None of my choices would have changed the outcome but could my actions have made his days more peaceful? Perhaps, on the other hand, if I’d done more for him, he would have done progressively less. Thus, my deep and abiding relationship with regret and forgiveness.

With the closing of 2023, I found myself listening to a lot of introspective music, perhaps coming to grips with some of my more questionable life choices? Some of the songs continue to resonate as the new year begins:

“Playing God,” by Polyphia. The band was started in 2010, when Tim Henson was only 17. At that age, I was learning to drive, working at McDonalds, and wondering whether I’d ever tell my high school crush how I felt. Tim was taking garage band to the next level. He plays an acoustic-electric guitar created specifically for him. His virtuosic acoustic performance of “Playing God” is astounding, though you should also listen to the full band performance. 

“Little Life” by Cordelia. It’s a new song, all the rage on social media. The lyrics are a bittersweet acknowledgement of our own failings, of falling and standing again. There’s an earnestness to it that I keep having to acknowledge as my life choices slap me over and over again. No matter what happens, I think I like this Little Life.

“The Mountain Song” by TopHouse. This song is a bit of a departure for me, a bluegrass-y sound with Irish influences. I don’t know where I first heard it but the mountain metaphor for the struggle and beauty of connectedness is particularly lovely to me. My days are often surreal in ways that aren’t really explicable except when compared to the concept of climbing and falling and starting up the mountain again. 

Much love.

New Year, New You?

The Second Best Chris(lite)

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

Hospitals are strange places. 

I’m sitting in a waiting room that’s playing 80s music but not the good stuff. The sound is probably supposed to be calming but I think it might be just increasing the ambient noise level without adding any benefits. It’s very busy here, with people arriving every few minutes. Most patients have a designated wait-person (like me) who stays in the waiting room after the patient is called to go through a mysterious door to ‘somewhere else’. 

A surprising number of people in the room are listening to things on their phones. I know they are because none of them have headphones. I’ve listened (unwillingly) to news reports, songs, game sounds, voice messages, and phone calls. Is it rude to do this? Since so many of them are doing it, perhaps I’m the anomalous person in the room. 

“Soulfight” by The Revivalists is playing on my playlist. They’ll be at the music festival I’m going to later this month and I cannot wait to see them perform. The sound is very bluesy, melancholy even, which sort of fits the day.

Across from me is a neurodivergent man with his elderly father. They’re waiting for Mom, as the elderly man keeps reminding his very impatient son. The adult child has a good throwing arm, which he just demonstrated for the entire room. I caught the action in my periphery. It was a solid effort, fast and possibly very accurate, if the woman he hit was his target.

Should I wait elsewhere? I wouldn’t embarrass the father but I also don’t think I have the skills to avoid being clocked by a water bottle hurtled across the room. On top of that, I’m not sure I would be as gracious and undisturbed as the woman hit by the last one. Not that I would yell. More likely I would do something stupid like burst into tears. (Yeah, I’m a crier and it’s a burden.)

Many years ago, I was at swim class with my son. It was one of those baby classes so I had to go in with him. Someone’s child who was running around the pool area, unattached to a parent, grabbed the pole that holds the flags warning backstrokers of the pool edge. (I was a backstroker. Those flags are essential to solid flip turns and head-bump prevention.) 

The poles aren’t heavy. He easily pulled it out of its hole but immediately dropped it, directly on my head. It all happened so fast. I wasn’t watching him, you know? I was carrying my baby, watching my footing on a slippery pool deck. CONK. I immediately burst into tears. To this day, I cringe when I think of that. My sweet MIL was there to collect baby Tristan while I examined my life choices in my mom-suit, squatting on the cold pool deck. LOL

Next up on the playlist – “Like Real People Do.” Hozier’s lyricism is remarkable. I want, once in my life, to write emotion the way he does. 

An important note: the hospital events are over and I am now at the coffee shop doing my coffee-shop things. Weirdly, I am grumpy, however, and not much enjoying the coffee-shop life atm. There aren’t any dogs here but the “people who do not use headphones” set has followed me, which requires that I turn my sound up so I don’t hear conversations, news reports, etc. Background noise doesn’t disturb me at all but I can’t seem to tune out a cell phone speaker. 

It’s graduation/end of semester time here in the city of colleges. The students across the street all moved out last weekend. Pitt students are also out or mostly so. CMU graduation is this weekend, also known as the weekend when students dump their unused cleaning products curbside. That’s a mouthful, though, so I just call it graduation.

Cleaning products are not, of course, the only things overly optimistic parents purchase for their kids to not use while at school. Hangers, sheets, garbage cans, clothing (tags on), lamps, tables, shelf-stable food, garbage bags, ziploc bags, storage boxes, notebooks …. I’ve written about this before. The new or nearly new reusable items to be found curbside are plentiful. 

For a highly vocal generation that marches and protests about climate change, it is noteworthy but perhaps also unsurprising that a very wealthy minority is apparently disinterested in or utterly unaware of reusability, rampant poverty, and the importance of not adding to landfills. If only we could connect the various organizations – 412FoodRescue, the Free Store, Construction Junction, the Center for Creative Reuse – with this predictable opportunity to prevent waste.

Told you I’m a little grumpy today ….

“What’s New” by Ax and the Hatchetman – a work of art, in my opinion – is currently playing. They remind me a little of Huey Lewis and the News and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. HORNS.

A guy at the table diagonal to me just said “Well, I mean, you can die anytime.” Yep, and yet, I’ll bet we could all have gone the whole day without thinking about our own mortality, so thanks for that. But fine. You’re right. I guess I’ll get the roof repaired. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience on my deathbed. 

Musical interludes continue with “All We Ever Knew” by The Head And The Heart. 

The coffee shop window is open. The sun is bright in a nearly cloudless blue sky. The weather is such that you can find every type of outfit here: hoodies, shorts, tank tops and that’s just the three women at the front of the coffee line. (Rim shot here)

Chris Pine’s doppelganger was here a little bit ago. He was a bit younger than the actor and clean-shaven. The Chris from his Princess Diaries days, wearing the bluest shirt I swear I’ve ever seen. It rivaled the sky in blueness. I’m not exaggerating. It also did some very nice things for his eyes, so there’s that, I guess. 

He’s gone, much to the disappointment of my friends, for whom I was to kidnap said doppelganger. Now, I’m sitting in the coffee shop with rope, duct tape, and a VERY innocent expression on my face. 

Maybe he’ll come back for a refill.

Much love.

The Second Best Chris(lite)

Who Is Your Home?

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It’s windy today. Leaf sparrows skim along the ground, more quickly than their bird selves, and then take to the skies with less elegance, directionless, in fact. They rustle without risk, drawing the attention of my neighbor’s cat. He has killer instincts without the mental acuity to recognize bird from leaf. It’s a pleasure, truthfully, to watch him expend his boundless energy on something that is already dead.

My next door neighbor – the 90-something man – is a little mad at me but he can’t yell at me because I’m helping him with something. As such, when I was talking with him yesterday morning, he told me (very loudly) how angry he is with … ahem, SOMEONE ELSE (me, he means me) because they don’t rake their leaves.

I was so delighted by this interaction that I have been telling people about it since yesterday. I’m not going to start raking my leaves either. This spring, my BIL will be helping me transform my yard into a pollinator garden. Perhaps that will please my neighbor (it absolutely will not). 

There will be a walking path in the new garden so he can bring his wheelbarrow through my yard – which is almost exactly the size of a postage stamp. He is, in fact, pleased about the path, which might also encourage the mail carrier to stop stepping on my flowers (it absolutely will not). 

It’s Friday evening and I am dumfungled. Every word I write is the most words I’ve ever written for a single story. Every additional minute I live is the longest I’ve ever lived. Each of my heartbeats adds to the longest stretch of heartbeats …. You know where this is taking us, right?. Some weeks feel like a combination of achievements and hurdles. I suppose it’s yin and yang but right now it feels more like being shot and poisoned.

There’s a poem – I Saw Emmett Till This Week at the Grocery Store – that I think about often. I won’t interpret it for you here. Like all poems, it is best that you read it for yourself, take from it what speaks most clearly to you. I’ll say only that it shouts to me in a melancholic whisper that hurts every time I read it. As it should.

Poems are strange that way. Every day I read poems that speak to the particular moment I’m experiencing. Is it just the right poem finding me at the moment it’s most needed or is it me taking what I need from those words? Who knows? If you don’t like poetry, may I suggest that you aren’t reading the right poetry? There are so many types. Don’t be fooled into thinking that the only good poetry is dead poetry. Please. Shakespeare was great and all but have you ever read In Praise of My Bed?

As the snow falls here in Pittsburgh today (don’t get me started. I’m very bitter), novel revisions are underway – yes, I removed my agency from that sentence but I am, in fact, the one doing the revising. At this stage of the writing process, though, I feel as though my characters are in charge of telling their story. The novel – written from the butler’s perspective – is called The Butler Loves the Governess. It’s set in the very early 1800s and includes some rather delightful love letters. 

Anyway, I’m only the conduit. The butler is always trying to take charge of the story telling. Our arguments have been … interesting. For example:

The butler: I need to prove my love for the governess.

Me: Hmm. And what do you have in mind? 

The butler: I’m going to hold up the mail coach that she’s riding in.

Me: ….

The butler: I’ll need a pistol

Me: What?

The butler:  And a mask.

Me: Eamon, this is not a rewrite of The Three Musketeers

The butler: What kind of story is that? Do they get pistols?

Me: Well, actually, I think they use swords

The butler: SWORDS! Yes, swords. That’s a great suggestion. Much better than pistols.

Me: [drops head to desk, sobs]

Mostly, it’s been a delight, even if none of you ever get to read it. Of course, I fully intend to keep asking agents to consider it. I’m water on a stone, you know. Eventually, I will wear them down. 

I’ve been listening to a lot of new-to-me music this week: Oh Wonder, Josie Man, Madison Olds, 5SOS. I think my current favorite song is “Tattoos Together” by Lauv. I’ve only listened to this song like a million times this week. I think it encapsulates that teenage feeling of temporary but eternal love, how frantic and deep that emotion seems at 17 or 18.

Eamon’s calling to me again. I think he wants to “discuss” how he’s going to pine for the governess in this latest scene – it’s a new chapter that I’m adding near the end of the book at someone’s request. He doesn’t know this yet but he’s going to write a bunch of letters that he won’t be able to mail because REASONS. These new letters are going to be full of piney, angsty grief. It’s going to be delicious. Got to go do that right now!

Much love.

Who Is Your Home?

Five Years

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It’s five years last Sunday. Five. Every year, as the anniversary of Ken’s death approaches, I vow to have a normal day. If success is measured by survival, every year I have succeeded but if it’s measured in tears? Well, that’s a different story, isn’t it?

BUT … a couple months ago, I saw a billboard announcing that Colin Hay would be doing a show in Pittsburgh on March 30th and something about that just felt right. So, I bought myself a single – five rows back from the stage! – and went to see him last night. 

The show was at the famous Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead. It only seats about 1,000 people and the acoustics are wonderful. Maybe 8 years ago, Ken and I went there with friends to see Joe Jackson – probably the last performance Ken saw live actually. And Joe was wonderful, of course. Older than I expected but then again so am I.

The same is true of Colin Hay. If you look closely, you can see the 80s music icon in the grizzled older man. He’s funny and surprisingly Scottish for a man who has spent more years away from his birthplace than in it. 

According to Colin, most of the world is unfamiliar with his music post-Men At Work. When he mentioned a particular album and the audience cheered, he joked to us that everyone who had bought the album was apparently in the audience last night. Personally, I think his newer stuff is better than his last Men At Work album, more thoughtful, less glory-seeking.

I wasn’t expecting him to talk about grief and loss but discovered last night that most of his music is rooted in his childhood and his grieving. Dour Scot, right?! But it resonated with an audience of mostly graying fans. He told a story about carrying the ashes of his parents and his sister around with him for years and as someone who has two sets of ashes in my house right now, I totally feel that. 

And eventually he sang “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You” – a song I happen to know very well – and I cried and missed Ken so much. Why couldn’t I be seated next to him instead of the overly chatty stranger (poor man just didn’t know what to do about the grieving woman next to him). Awkward but it was dark and I’ll never see him again.  

I am equally glad that I won’t see the very amorous couple who was seated to my left. Talk about inappropriately Barry White-ing a performance … though it does make me wonder if Barry White ever had any problems with his audience. If only I’d gotten my concert neighbors’ names.

Colin Hay got a standing ovation at the end – after he finished his callback song. It was lovely. He kept bowing and putting his hand on his heart and smiling so wide, even though it was obvious how tired he was. Finally he gestured that he was leaving, but the audience kept applauding until the venue brought up the house lights. 

Much love.

Five Years

Hooray and Up She Rises

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Tristan gives our pooped doxy a lift. Shadow loved riding in the sling pack.

Have you seen Fisherman’s Friends on Netflix? It’s fantastic, charming, corny, eccentric, entertaining, everything a good movie should be. In brief, it’s a story about Cornish fishermen who sing sea shanties as they work. 

It just so happens that one shanty in the film is a personal family favorite. I sing it frequently – badly and incorrectly – while I’m driving, cleaning, cooking, annoying my teenager … you know. It was also one of Ken’s favorites. 

About a million years ago, in 2013, we took a family vacation to the Finger Lakes. The trip itself was relatively unremarkable but it had some brilliant moments. The five of us were packed into our 17-year-old Subaru Legacy wagon, with all of our camping gear and our 13-year-old dachshund, Shadow. 

The car was so jammed with stuff that my husband, who hated to drive, insisted on driving for the entire 6-hour trip. There was no way he was going to stuff himself into the back with the dog, two bickering children and a case of potato chip snack bags that some jokester had dumped all over the back seat of the car. 

Anyway, at some point on our trip, Tristan and his dad, both sitting in the front, started singing sea shanties. If you know Ken, you probably heard him sing – he sang frequently – but you might not know that he and Tristan could harmonize perfectly together. 

Whenever I hear the song, I travel back in time to that vacation, sitting in the Subaru on a sunny summer day, listening to Ken and Tristan singing ‘hooray and up she rises’ so beautifully it still sends a shiver down my spine. 

Anyway, go watch Fisherman’s Friends. And maybe raise a glass to Ken when they sing “The Drunken Sailor.”

Much love. 

Hooray and Up She Rises

2020 – [Take] Two

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It’s January, which means a new 30-day yoga program (Move) from Yoga With Adriene. Ken never understood it; but for me, yoga is about self-acceptance, really self-love. When I “get on the mat,” as Adriene, from Yoga with Adriene, would say, all the self-criticism, all the self-doubt is silenced for that 30 minutes or so. And if I consistently do yoga, I start hearing inside my head those words of self-acceptance, instead of the self-beratement that I learned very early in life. 

“Meet yourself where you are” is such an encouraging statement. If I can only briefly hold a pose, if I fall during crow, if I stay on my knees during plank, that’s all good because it’s where I am in that moment. That lack of judgment can feel pretty weird at first, pretty unbelievable, because we are taught that no matter how good we are, we are never enough. 

What if, in fact, you are enough … actually enough, just as you are? Something to think about.

I read something recently that has stuck with me: “I walk down memory lane because I love running into you.” It sounds lovely, doesn’t it? But of course it’s not really true. Walking down memory lane is a very bittersweet experience. 

You all have memories that run on repeat through your minds, right? And some of them are triggered by objects or pictures or even smells. I have a blanket – it turned 25 years old in early October. How do I know that, you ask? Because I remember the day Ken and I bought it. Every time I see that blanket, the event comes back to me. 

We actually bought two identical blankets on a Friday in October, 1996. We were going to a sleep concert, this sleep concert. We weren’t really prepared – I had no idea what a sleep concert was – and Ken had mistaken the day, a thing he did consistently because he never really cared what day it was. 

So, we drove there on Friday, discovered that it wasn’t until Saturday, looked at the venue (a gymnasium floor) and realized that we needed blankets and pillows. We called my MIL to make sure she’d be okay watching our son for another day (she was thrilled), found a hotel for the night, and went shopping for supplies. 

We got to the venue early and picked out our spots on the floor in front of Robert Rich. Yep, THE Robert Rich. He had a big, amazing, crazy setup and was already there testing his equipment. Ken, of course, went over to introduce himself – a thing Ken would absolutely do and I would decidedly NOT. 

Robert was gracious and thrilled to hear that Ken was a huge fan. They chatted for a long time while I fussed over our sleeping arrangement – it was really just two blankets and like 4, maybe 3, pillows tossed on the floor. (It’s a good thing I was young then. When I think about that setup now, all that runs through my mind is how incredibly uncomfortable it must have been to lie prone on a gym floor for 8 hours.) 

Of course, I couldn’t really tell you what it’s like to spend an entire night on a gymnasium floor, because I had a horrible, mucousy cold. It was the worst. I could only sort of breathe out of my mouth, when I wasn’t coughing, of course. By Saturday evening, I was a toxic waste site all on my own. 

In case you’ve never gotten the opportunity to attend a sleep concert, let me explain. It’s a very lengthy concert experience with live music, some from albums but lots of improvisation. Concertgoers attend with the intention of going to sleep. Noise at a sleep concert is beyond criminal. There’s no rustling, no snacking, no snoring, no whispering. It’s really and truly silent, except for the performance.  

Most attendees do sleep, at least for a bit of the concert, especially as the music gentles to an ambient, atmospheric, spacey sound for a portion of the night. Some people doze or go into what they describe as a trance-like state. As the next day dawns, the music becomes more vibrant to intentionally but gently wake the audience. 

Thanks to my terrible, drippy, disgusting cold, unlike the rest of the attendees, I stayed up the entire night. Initially, I would lie down for a few moments, sit up to sneeze and then lie down again, occasionally tiptoeing out of the room to blow my nose heartily before returning – very quietly – to my little sleep spot. 

Eventually, Ken furiously whispered that I needed to go away because I was disturbing the vibe  – a fair comment. It’s hard to settle in for an ambient sleep music experience when your neighbor keeps sneezing.  

So, I left the gym and sat on the hallway floor listening to the concert until Robert Rich himself invited me to share his picnic table. (There was a literal picnic table placed in the hall directly outside his performance space.)

I accepted his invitation after warning him about my putrid condition. He didn’t care and encouraged me to watch his entire concert up close. Every once in a while, he would take a break and sit at the table with me, chatting about the nothing things that strangers talk about in the middle of the night. It was ridiculously lovely. 

Ken and I attended other similar events throughout our lives together. All have great stories to go with them, of course. One of these days, I’ll dust off the story of the time I wore khakis to Projektfest (black tape for a blue girl – and absolutely nothing sleep concert-y about that experience!) at the Vic Theater in Chicago.

I think I still have the tshirt from that one, though I left my ego on the ground outside, somewhere behind one of the many groups of goths in spike collars who made fun of the only girl there in a button-down shirt and khakis.

I’m not sure if there’s a lesson here regarding memory lane – maybe it’s to be careful how long you linger, though while you’re there, you can wear whatever you want.

Happy New Year. 

2020 – [Take] Two