Freedom of Sound 08.22.03
So far this is a good morning. The haze is high, my laundry is spinning, COMPUSA has left a message about my dysfunctional computer.
The evening is coming and I will be music-free. Since high school where the trips were long and uninspiring, I’ve always carried a walkman, a CD player, and for the past 3-4 months, the MP3 player that was stolen last week. Ah, those thousands of songs accessible with a few finger-runs over the scroll bar, all gone like the last drop of lemonade.
As you know, my MP3 player was lost/ stolen last Saturday. “Lost/ Stolen” incorporates the following sequence of events:
• On the “patio” with Gully and friends, with the music-box
• Off to the Alphabet Lounge to see my old buddy Jon from Sheepshead
• Walking to another party and looking at my playlist, so I can describe to Pixel the kind of Lite-106 pop cheese I’ve been listening to—to which she expressed surprise, especially when I started belting Kenny Rogers’ “Through the Years.” Pixel, the singing addict also known as MF Skillz joins me, of course.
• To re-checking my bag, seeing if it was closed, while Schnapp offers us a corner store peach, or perhaps it was a plum. We all said no thanks as a little fruit dribble made its way down his chin, juicy but unshareable.
• To the next party, where my bag was nestled underneath a woodern bench on the rooftop.
• To Pixel’s where I check the LIRR schedule online.
• To the Never/ Rarely a/k/a the N/R line to Penn Station…
Where I reach into my bag—all gone, like the last drop of lemonade. I kicked a column. Wore the grim face. Listened to the drunken LIRR conversations on the 3.46 to Long Beach. That day’s feature was a five some from Cornell University, discussing how some “faggot” couldn’t get into (I think) Zeta Beta Tau. As people pushed him out of the way and he game him the fight face. His friend/ girlfriend, stood idly by, just outside this circle of fellas.
It is exciting to walk around listening, an adventure to not lock out the rest of the populace.
For example, yesterday I heard a pair of gospel singers softly hitting the high notes. The were out of practice so it was not in unison; but the two older women around them appreciated it when they sang, when they argued about who sang the song correctly, where they have performed.
I also heard that old man on the subway with pendulous glasses and a pink shirt that wore like a tent; telling everyone within earshot “this is what they always do.” “They,” meaning the MTA. “What they do,” delay the trains (or adhere to their barely-published schedules; or avoiding hitting another train in the ass; or performing voodoo. No one knows).
The community life. Thanks also to the people who have offered me their tunes when I get an MP3 player again... y'all have good music.