Back when cars came with compact disc players, I had to drive to South Carolina. I took along a stack of CDs and vowed to listen to one all the way through. It had been a while since I’d done that, what with Sirius XM and Spotify and so many services that had given me musical ADD.

I plucked “Fountains of Wayne” from the passenger seat, popped it in and listened to each track in order. I think it took less than 40 minutes, but it felt like that half that time – each song a little power-pop gem.

Adam Schlesinger wrote most of those songs, as well as music for two movies that are guilty pleasures: “That Thing You Do!” and “Music and Lyrics.” He’ll probably be remembered for a FoW song I really despise called “Stacy’s Mom,” but at least it was used in a couple commercials and probably supported his family.

He died today from the coronavirus and I’m sad. He is the first person I “knew” who died, and I hope he is the last. He was my age, and that always gives one pause for reflection.

I left the house to take a little walk and listen to a couple Fountains of Wayne songs. They’re short, and I will confess I didn’t go very far. Toward the end of my little walk I waved to a couple on the opposite sidewalk. We stopped and yelled greetings to one another. It was nice to meet some new people and hear about their day. Then I came home and listened to “Radiation Vibe” on the back deck and remembered how much I dig that song.

Tomorrow I’m going to listen to “Welcome Interstate Managers” straight through – except for “Stacy’s Mom.”

Within 90 minutes, the next 30 days collapsed.

In quick order on Thursday fell the taping of “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me” – hours before we were supposed to attend – then Friday’s tours for Phoenix Flies, then Saturday’s soccer match, then the business trip that was to begin Sunday.

And that was just my weekend.

So it went for the rest of March. With a travel ban, and a press conference**, all snowballed into a shutdown of every facet of life.

Instead of using APM’s place in Inman Park as a launch pad for days of city fun, I decamped for home. I undid all the rituals associated with my usual events. All the luggage went down in the basement, my travel kit and packing list were shoved in a closet, the Atlanta United game day materials were relegated to a corner.

Nice surprise: I went through all my pouches and found all my travel-sized hand sanitizers and anti-bacterial wipes and Lysol sprays.

Not-so-nice, not a surprise: I’m a planner, so this has me cross. I had it all arranged. I don’t like it when my plans get disrupted, and then I feel guilty for complaining about something so unimportant in the long run.

The speed of all this is pretty amazing and frightening. Let’s see what comes next.

_____________________

** I guess you’d call it that. No questions are nasty, by the way. It’s called freedom of the press. Get over yourself.

In keeping with ancient Leap Year traditions, I am reviving my weblog.

Oh, you thought the Feb. 29 tradition was for single women to propose to their intended? Not in this corner of the world.

Here the way to celebrate a bonus day, sunny and cool, is to do those things I somehow never get around to:

• Wash the car.
• Go to a cool lunch place and read a book.
• Try a new beer.
• Paint my fingernails – a garish red.
• Make food for the week.
• Watch Atlanta United win their season opener.
• Write a blog post.

I used to write a lot of blog posts. Somewhere along the way I stopped, and I’m not sure why. Maybe my life seemed less newsworthy. Or I didn’t want to share the news that was happening. The news was good! It just seemed pointless to put it up on a website.

Then I realized, I put those posts up for me. Keeping a weblog was a way of celebrating little things, even when they were very little. It helped me reflect and remember.

This is not an influencer blog. It’s not a political blog. It’s not a cooking blog.

It’s the flotsam and jetsam of my times at home and away, recorded here to fight my faulty memory and to practice my writing.

I plan to post more than once every four years.

I love staying in hotels, partly because the bathrooms usually contain a mounted, lighted mirror. This is handy for eyeglass wearers who need a boost for tasks like shaving or applying makeup.

My parents have a mounted, lighted mirror in their master bath. One side of the mirror has a magnification factor that I believe was developed in a government laboratory. It is chilling what this mirror can pick up. It shows each wisp of lanugo, every tributary of wrinkles, the lunar landscape of pores. This mirror delves into your soul.

During a recent visit, I pulled the mirror toward me and began my morning routine. It took me twice as long as I halted over shocking discoveries on my face. Is one eyebrow higher than the other? How can I have a freckle on my eyelid? Do I have a white nose hair?

Oh, the humanity.

This happened minutes before I had to go to work in a large office building. I now worried that there was some other unpleasant discovery that a colleague may spot during a meeting.

I thought about a train trip in Europe many years ago, a long debate with my seatmate, a young Spaniard who schooled me in [his take on] U.S. foreign policy. We spoke intently for many hours, as sun filled the coach, illuminating his eyelashes. We parted company; I walked to my hotel, feeling that particular joy of learning something foreign. I snapped on the light in the tiny bathroom and saw my face in the makeup mirror, with two horrifying chin whiskers, one pointing SSW and one pointing SSE.

Dios mio.

When did my face become one of those Magic Eye puzzles, inscrutable to me yet obvious to other onlookers? I asked myself the same question the second morning in my parents’ bathroom, tracing a pattern in the newly discovered age spots on my left cheek.

I broke away and finished putting on my makeup in front of a different mirror in the guest bedroom. Mercifully, it had less visibility. So my eyeliner veered off-path and my mascara wasn’t quite even.

At least my eyes matched my wonky eyebrows.

 

The only thing I love more than taking a trip is planning a trip.

People tease me about my trip spreadsheets, but they’re my favorite pastime. I’m working on one now for my Big Birthday Trip – many months from now – and I’m already spending way too much time on it.

It took me a while to decide where to go on the Big Birthday Trip. I had to consult a different spreadsheet: Places I Want to Go.

It’s true: I have a lot of spreadsheets. And I have a system.

At the outset, I spend hours gathering lots of information, even if only about one-eighth of it ever turns into action. I usually fill one worksheet with links to anything of interest: historic sites, lodging, tours, museums, transportation, restaurants and lots of travel articles.

Then I map out a rough calendar – usually Plan A, Plan B and Plan C.

Then because I’m having too much fun, I work on a budget tab. That usually sucks some of the joy right out of it.

Today I worked on the budget tab. I may need a second job. Or a Plan D. But I look forward to mapping that out. I’m still very excited about this trip!

 I had the most perfect cup of tea last year. I sat in a bright room in Oban, Scotland, looked out over the harbor and wished my vacation would last another week. The pot of Earl Grey was scalding hot, the fragrance was amazing, the taste divine. 

Why haven't I ever had this good a cup of tea back home, I wondered? Maybe tea is best realized (or would that be realised?) in the United Kingdom. 

That room in Oban is one of my mental happy places, and I went there recently and savored that morning once more. Then a moment of inspiration: an electric kettle! My enjoyable tea times in Northern Ireland started with an electric kettle. So I bought one last week. I peeled off the cellophane from a yellow box of Twinings Earl Grey. 

I just had the most perfect cup of tea: steaming, strong, delicious. It's 90 degrees outside. 

 

Today marks the 80th anniversary of the United States' repeal of Prohibition. This isn't a big red-letter day on my calendar, but I'm aware of it this year for two reasons: First, I'm reading a great book about America in the late 1920s. The author, Bill Bryson, makes a case about how destructive Prohibition was economically, politically and socially. (He thinks it was stupid.)

The other reason is that I recently came across an organization on social media called The Whiskey City Collaborative, which is trying to revitalize my hometown of Peoria, Illinois. Peoria was The Whiskey City for a large part of its history — in fact, taxes on alcohol generated the most internal revenue on alcohol in any district in the nation.

Growing up in Peoria, I never heard much about the town's boozy roots. This may be because I grew up in a house where no one drank alcohol. My extended family, for the most part, didn't drink alcohol.

This will probably surprise people who read my Facebook page, which is a virtual catalog of libations, particularly beer. Obviously there came a point in my life where I decided that alcohol would be part of my life — even as I recognize the societal ills it can carry.

But the convergence of Bryson's book and the Whiskey City have made me think, What effect did Prohibition have on my hometown? Did people lose their homes? I know there were plenty of speakeasies and even organized crime in Peoria during Prohibition, but I wonder what happened to the people who lost their jobs at distilleries. What happened to the old brewery buildings? What was the immediate effect of Prohibition?

And how did people celebrate in Peoria 80 years ago today?

I feel a research project coming on.

 

 

NASHVILLE – Part of the lure of Thanksgiving with JFA was the opportunity to watch the Iron Bowl together. The Iron Bowl, for those who are not steeped in SEC football tradition, is the hotly contested annual game between dread intrastate rivals Auburn University and the University of Alabama.

As you may recall, JFA and I attended an Auburn home game this year. It’s his alma mater and he is a tremendous football fan. We had a blast. The experience definitely increased my interest in Auburn football. (Read as:  Now I pay slight attention to Auburn football, as opposed to my previous level of attention, which was non-existent.)

So as we prepared for the day of the Iron Bowl, JFA set some context: The two teams are bitter rivals … so bitter that they refused to play each other for 40 years, until the State Legislature threatened to withhold funding to both schools. Now on game day, the state of Alabama pretty much shuts down. Everyone watches the game and chooses a side. And this year, the stakes are supremely high: the winner will go on to the conference championship.

For me, watching the Iron Bowl was really an excuse to wear my Auburn shirt and drink beer and watch JFA recite all kinds of Auburn cheers. Trust me, there are a lot of them, and he knows them all. Most involve some sort of insult to the University of Alabama.  

Auburn went into the game as the underdog, and scored first. They kept pace with the Crimson Tide throughout the game, which was really dramatic and suspenseful! JFA even brought out the Magic Shaker which we employed throughout the game to cheer on the Tigers. JFA confessed in the second half that he didn’t expect the game to be this competitive. Auburn had exceeded his expectations.

I won’t be able to do justice to the heart-stopping finish – but the game was tied at what seemed to be the end of regulation play. Alabama negotiated for one second (00:01) to be put back on the clock. They failed in their field goal attempt, which Auburn caught and returned 109 yards for a touchdown to WIN THE GAME.

We were jumping up and down in front of the television, screaming our heads off. We couldn’t believe it. There was joy in Nashville, in Auburn, and all points in between.

JFA started getting texts from all over the United States as friends, colleagues and fellow alums wrote to say, “Can you believe it?”

No one can believe it. Even 24 hours later, we can’t stop asking, “Can you believe it?” All over the media today (old and new), people are recounting their disbelief in the amazing end to an amazing game. And as you can see here and here, we definitely were not the only people jumping up and down in front of the television. {Warning: links depict screaming, profanity and scenes of joy and heartbreak.}

 

Professionals in various areas of expertise have called me out over the past week. I must confess:

No, I haven't been flossing regularly.

No, I haven't been watering the lawn.

No, I haven't been watching my cholesterol.

All of these disclosures have come as I rush to complete a series of appointments in advance of my departure for Germany. I'm trying to mark everything off the list, but here's one more thing I must confess: I don't want one more disapproving look from a professional. Sorry!

Friday really depressed me. I'm sure that sounds like a very selfish reaction to the tragedy in Colorado, and it probably is. I was extremely sad, in waves … first the horror, then the political fallout, then the inevitable arguments. I decided on a weekend news fast, including social media. This was easier than I thought [except for my NPR Saturday morning].

The only thing that helps me in a situation like this is going to the movies. Ironic, right?

I chose the only kind of movie environment that would make me feel better: The Fox Theater. An organist played songs on a giant instrument that rose from the floor. There was even a sing-along. Cartoons were shown on the big screen. We sat in an enormous, old-fashioned auditorium under a starry sky (artificial but beautiful) and felt like we were in a Moorish palace.

I slipped away for a few hours, then emerged into the thrill of a Midtown Friday night. I took MARTA back to my wonderful house, my fabulous bed, and felt that the next day would be better. For me, life goes on. But I haven't forgotten about the tragedy. And I'm not eager to learn anything more about it. All I can do is pray for people who were more directly affected. And stay off web sites.