Seated in the toasty coffee shop with a frou-frou blended concoction because it’s HOT FOR FRICKIN’ DECEMBER, but complaining about it won’t solve it (back in the States they would beat me up for complaining and here they would tell me to go back where I came from if I don’t like it, thanks much), so I plug the noise-canceling headphones into the pocket jukes-box (if you’re a John Wayne fan you’ll get the reference) and watch a sky afire.
SoCal has great wintertime sunsets, if nothing else. Purple canvas and fuchsia brush-strokes.
Just letting the tunes play reminds me how very accepting I am when it comes to music. I can roll my eyes at certain movie and book titles (“I stereotype, it’s faster” ~ “Up In the Air”), but I will listen to some stuff that will clear a room. In fact, I usually clear the living room at home because no one wants to listen to God’s playlist. (It’s not called that, but what a title, eh?) I hate genre-listening, to be perfectly frank. Hours of nothing but jazz or country or heavy metal would cause me to list to the starboard side. I can handle one artist for an hour, at the most, and then I am reminded of a chord in something entirely different (a switch comparable to going from Mumford & Sons to Corey Hart, Aerosmith to Alan Jackson) and have to switch gears. My iTunes recommendation collection looks like Pandora’s box.