Sunday, October 20, 2013

My Favorite Sunday AM Album

I don't have a "go to" Sunday morning album.  Ordinarily, my Sunday mornings are sedate.  My wife is asleep when I shower, dress, go downstairs, feed the dogs, let them out and make coffee.

Even before I was married, had dogs, and kids, Sunday mornings were a time of calm when the trials, tribulations and harsh realities of the work week and the struggles of Saturday chores gave way to peace.  The house was quiet.  There was no traffic.  There was a freshness in the early morning air. It was a contemplative time to be alone with my thoughts. 

When Sunday morning came around I wanted something soft and familiar, a playlist of soothing tracks, rather than something to which I had to pay critical attention or that would disrupt my morning solitude.  So, as Lionel Ritchie and the Commodores sang, I tend to want it "Easy Like Sunday Morning."

I decided to write this article based on one typical Sunday morning where my music collection was put on random play.  I figured it would give you an example of my usual Sunday morning, the music that plays and how I fit it all together to transcend the rush of the past week and prepare for the next week.  Here's what happened the Sunday morning I chronicled:

As I tasted that first cup of coffee my brain awoke, yet, I still had a sense of calm.  It existed only momentarily as the hounds chased a squirrel as it ran atop the backyard fence. One dog tripped and tumbled over a sprinkler head.  The other crashed head-on into the side of the fence and tumbled down the hillside. Score two for the squirrel.  Perfectly fitting the mood, John Hiatt's "Master of Disaster" commenced as I laughed at the pratfalls. I then went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, took out an egg and the butter and closed the door.

I got out a frying pan and a knife.  I cut a pat of butter into the skillet, melted it, cracked open an egg and dropped the egg yolk in the melted butter.  It sizzled sunnyside up. I turned my attention to my dogs, which were outside the kitchen window, and I saw them defoliating my garden. I ran outside, barefoot, yelling the dogs' names.  I stubbed my toe and went sprawling across the patio to strains of "Flintstones II" from the live Concord Jazz album featuring Herb Ellis, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Jake Hanna and Plas Johnson.


I got up, dusted myself off and checked my body for damage as the dogs ran by me into the house and up the stairs to avoid my wrath.  I limped back to the kitchen just in time to see that the frying pan was on fire. I lunged for the burner knob, turned it off, quickly rummaged through the refrigerator, found baking soda and tossed it on the flames thereby extinguishing them.  The egg yolk remnant and skillet were smoking and completely blackened.  I dropped the frying pan in the sink to "One Less Bell To Answer" by the Fifth Dimension.

I turned my attention to the scorched stove exhaust hood.  I pulled out the stainless steel cleaner and scrubbed it down.  Then, I scrubbed the frying pan. I contemplated what might have been to the prescient "Blew Up (The House)" by Jonny Lang.

I finished cleaning, washed up and opted for a bagel instead of another attempt at an egg.  I sliced one, put it in the toaster oven, set it to medium and turned it on.  I then grabbed my tablet to check my email.  The browser opened to last night's final website.  A set of bouncing breasts covered the screen as The Aristocrats' "Sweaty Knockers" grabbed my attention.

The toaster oven chimed and the doorbell rang.  I ran to the door.  It was a day worker who saw broken concrete in front of the house and wanted to quote a price for its repair.  I was agitated.  I pointed to the sign next to the door and said, "Can't you see the sign?  It says 'No Solicitors.'" He said, "So, I'm not an attorney."  I angrily told him to leave and not return.  I went back to the kitchen. My bagel was now a stone cold brown brick due to my encounter with the salesman.  My serenity and stomach were both being tested. Link Wray's "Rumble," an apt description of my mood and the sound of my stomach, played.

My wife and dogs descended the stairs.  She asked, "Who was at the door?," saw the burnt cold bagel on the counter and gave it to the dogs.  I responded, "some door to door salesman." She opened the back door and the dogs immediately went outside and recommenced the defoliation of my garden.  She then poured a cup of coffee and went to the front window.  It was the end of my Sunday morning.  To the beginning strains of Frank Zappa's "Cosmik Debris" she asked, "Do you think today you could fix that broken concrete in the front of the house?"

- Old School



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