Usually, I identify with Morrissey when it comes to Sundays. They can make me feel sick inside, for no particular reason (Heads up, all you therapists!), especially when it's quiet on the friends front. But, add the right music and Sunday becomes a holiday. iPods are great things, but I love 'found" music, the kind that shows up on the radio as a happy surprise. I've had a good run so far this morning: Steve Earle, Van Morrison, Itchycoo Park and Lowell George singing Spanish Moon. I remember listening to that same song on my Robert Palmer cassette, and being eleven and wishing I could play piano like Lee Michaels. Do you know what I mean? I have no idea just how I found all that music; it certainly wasn't what my parents listened to. That's a lie: I know what it was. It was the radio, radio at all hours, through moves across country and stays on South Pacific islands. I'd stay awake in my dark bedroom listening to Handel's Messiah or Bill Cosby, or The Seeds -- whatever the late night DJ would play.
I can't listen to the news anymore: too much doom and gloom, too many talking heads batting nonsense back and forth. I need music. It turns a morning that could have become a pity party into brunch, with a cheese omelet, sourdough toast and sweet tea almost fixing themselves as I sing along.
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