mintcar

Points:

While I was exiting Central Avenue off I-80 West today: There's always at least one homeless (and I mean really dilapidated) person standing on the corner, soliciting change. Today, she was an old caucasian woman wearing a black nylon track suit and dirty white sneakers holding up a sign: "Please Buckle Up Seat Belts." In the rain. I was thinking ... I wish I had time to give bits and bolts of money to every homeless person out there. Turning left, I see a posh couple in their red VW eyeing her literally with their mouths open. I wished I could scoop up that old woman with the small, wrinkled face, instead of seeing wide eyed out-of-towners (or even in-towners) ogle her and probably think terrible things about her existence. What meager existence, but as meaningful as any other. No one deserves those kinds of stares.

"Suck on that zinc!" Dana B. leaves bottles of echinacea and zinc tablets for studio "germbombs." Thank goodness, because I am perhaps one of the most potent germbombs presently. YUCK. I think the sniffling, snot, and coughs are driving studiomates mad. Being sick puts things very much in perspective. By this, I mean, you start to realize just how generous, patient, and kind people can be when you are down in the dumps, and even when you're disgusting. Especially when they're just as stressed out as you are. (FINAL PROJECT Deadline's this Sunday night at 9 PM). It makes me so happy to get hugs and reassuring smiles from so many people even though I think I'm like yesterday's trash. I mean, imagine hugging yesterday's trash! I'd stay a few feet away.

On another pleasant note, Norah Jones is heavenly, and I think in retrospect, really deserved those eight or so Grammy's she got last year (I think last year). I call it transcendant. On the drive back home from work, I was listening to her CD in my car (this dismal rainy day) ... what a contrast. Her songs are out to join the canon of our most precious music, where it's no longer the artist's work, but a never-forgotten collective memory. Her voice plays out on a level above the cacaphonous traffic, and touches the sky.