A dip into bliss; a gentle drift into mental illness

I don't know how I could've ended up with a better day. (OK, that's a lie at the outset: I could end it with some steamy sex. So, to rewrite: Considering I'm single not sexually active (with others) at present, it would be hard to beat this day. Except for the overshare, that's better.)

So, what's the big deal?

Let's start with the cello. I was complaining on Thursday night that I feared I was tone deaf. Well, guess what? I'm NOT.

It turns out, I'm just a PERFECTIONIST. I already knew this about myself, but I had no idea it was applicable to my experience with music.

I thought I was not hitting my notes. My teacher, however, says that I am. The pitch, she says, is fine. The F-sharp is an F-sharp; the D is a D.

Then why does it sound like shit? I asked.

"You seem to have an ear for tone," she said. "You're complaining about the tone, which you want to perfect. But you're not good enough for that yet. That will take a while."

I am a musical neophyte, so I asked, If the tone sucks so bad, how can you say I'm hitting the notes?

She explained, "There's a difference between pitch and tone. You are hitting the notes. The pitch is correct. Your ear just wants something better, something more lustruous. That's good, but until you master the bow hold or learn vibrato, you're not going to be able to do that, and it takes a lot of time. But you *do* obviously have an ear for it."

So that made me happy and made me frustrated all at the same time. Such is the experience with learning an instrument, I guess.

After my cello lesson, I came home to work on a written assignment for my Diversity class, but I got sidetracked by some kind of Internet crack over on Dr. M's blog: video hits from the '80s.

I *loved* Erasure SO MUCH. "Ooooooh, sometimes, it's the broken heart that decides..." I'm so in need of an Erasure CD. Jesus, it's playing in the background right now. I can't stop it!

After being waylayed by the '80s videos, I went over to The Good Witch's house to prepare for a quick trip to swim in a lake that is one of the Northwest's hidden little gems. It was warm and sunny and I was sitting on a patio up on a bluff with an excellent view of Mt. Hood and Mt. Jefferson, and there I had a most pleasant phone conversation with a friend while waiting for TGW to do some dishes.

Yeah, the B-52's "Own Private Idaho" is a total flashback in progress. Just perfect.

Then, out we went to the hidden gem, the name of which I shall not reveal publically, given the fact that we learned today there is no longer a day-use fee for this particular Washington state park. The last thing I want is to encourage more use.

But here's a description: It's an extinct caldera -- in truth, I'm *assuming* it's extinct, because there are still geothermal hotspots in the water, so something is boiling down under the surface. It's surrounded by a forest of doug firs. There's a nice little beach where you can walk into the water on a sandy bottom. There being no motor boats allowed -- maybe a little putt-putt motor? -- it's nice and quiet and safe for a swim. I can swim all the way across, but it's big enough to make it a little bit of exercise to do so. Good clean water; no silty mess because it's spring fed. No river in, and I don't know that there's a river out. Just BEAUTIFUL.

So we swam for 40 minutes or so. Then we headed back to town.

Fleetwood Mac's "Gypsy." I was soooo in love with Stevie Nicks at this point. Check out that HUGE hair! But I *still* love her singing in the rain. *sigh*

I had just enough time after getting home to finish my Diversity assignment and post it online for everyone else in the class to read. (Temporarily, this class is meeting online. Next week, we meet face to face.)

And at this point, I'll be thrilled if I can sit in class for three hours without having Def Leppard's "Photograph" stuck in my head. Jesus save me, I wore out the Pyromania album.

I took the pup for a walk and then headed off to get a massage. Except the painful part of being poked in my armpit -- trying to work out a problem with my "mouse muscle" -- I enjoyed a pleasurable and effective massage.

sonofabitch! The Human League's "Don't You Want Me, Baby"! crackcrackcrack. i'm addicted. someone help me.

The Clairvoyant is my massage therapist. She is also one of my sushi pals. Everyone needs sushi pals.

Especially those who can forgive you for breaking out in Wang Chung's "Dance Hall Days" with a piece of nigiri in your mouth. It takes someone who remembers life *before* MTV and understands what a fucking massive revolution it was when that premiered.

So TC and I went and got some sushi. muther-fuckin' yummy, it was.

As a teen-ager in Houston, I lived down the street from Frank Beard, the drummer for ZZ Top. He had a big exotic bird that escaped one day and took up residence on the golf course for a while. ... Fuck, ZZ Top could JAM.

Van Halen: Jump. Are you kidding me? David Lee Roth still hasn't stopped preening, has he? I vote for him as the next spokesman for Viagra: "I get up, and nothing gets me down!"

But, then, I wanted to be the dummer in Yes -- "Owner of a Lonely Heart" just ROCKED. But what the fuck was up with that snake in the car seat. Creaped me out the, creaps me out now. ... Don't deceive your free will at all!

I saw recently saw a t-shirt online that I *really* wanted to buy, but I'm concerned about just how pink the pink is or whether the red is really my color. In any case, it says: WWJJD? What Would Joan Jett Do?" That is such a good question right about now.

I think *I* will try going to bed. As if I can sleep with The English Beat's "Mirror in the Bathroom" running through my head. Perhaps I'll just drift gently into mental illness.

Someone call 911. I love The Talking Heads....