Musica

I don't have an Ipod. I'm still reeling from the ability to download every song I've ever liked, then burn the best mixes the world has ever seen. I use my Discman, and this is enough. This morning:

-Waiting on my bike at the crosswalk with Esquivel's Mucha Muchacha blasting. Feelin' a bit boppy, fresh, no stoppin' the body rockin'. There's an uptight square standing on each side of me and they both sidle away with their eyes to the ground. Fools.

-Cruising down the longest, most nightmarish escalator in the world (not a verified statement) at the Porter subway stop, Talking Heads' Road to Nowhere helps restore my faith in synchronicity.

-When I get on the train, I take a quick seat next to a waify little gay hipster who I've seen a few times on this train. In fact, I'm pretty sure he has made eyes at me, which is why Prince's Sexy MF brings a half-smile to my face when I notice him looking my way.

-Some moody trip-hop by Hooverphonic gets me sad about the sullen little Chubb Rock sitting across the way, ignoring the pleas of his older sister or too-young mother. The song ends and the boy leans his head on mom-sister's ample bosom. I am relieved.

-As I emerge from South Station's newest entrance, I am greeted by a sunny day and the strains of the Pixies' Caribou. This is the perfect emergence song; I remember Mose and I would play it every morning when we left a new city (NYC, Augusta, D.C., etc.) on our New Orleans road trip ten years ago.
New beginnings.