What the hell is that noise?
The alarm clock does its dirty work at the god-awful hour of 6:45 (a normal, if not late, time for most). I reach over, blind and nearly deaf, to turn off its damned blaring. It is a cliched start, to a rather un-cliched morning.
But I am not ready to get out of bed just yet, so I roll back over and close my eyes with a yawn. Mindy is up almost at the sound of the alarm and jolts out of bed. She has found it wise to jam her usual 1 hour of morning prep time into an alarming 45 minutes. A feat that any woman would find impressive. I like to give myself a full 1 hour and 25 minutes to get ready even though I can get ready in under 15 minutes.
I use this time in the following way. This is my morning:
I finally step out of the bedroom door to a radiant and formless blond blur; that runs, scampers, jolts, and slides across the floor. No words are exchanged, but if there were I am sure they would never be heard, as anything moving that fast cannot receive or transmit sound of any kind. The laws of quantum physics would not permit it. As I stretch and take in a deep breath I scratch places and saunter to the bathroom for my morning ritual. I will spare you the details.
I step out of the bathroom, eyes still half shut, and shuffle to the computer ensuring I am not hit by the whizzing blond light. I manage to avoid one of its countless passes - no doubt sparring me certain death. Making my way from the bathroom to the computer is like a very deadly game of Frogger. When I am lucky enough to make it I sit down in the computer chair, and bolt forward as the cold wood of the back touches me - the speed of my movement shocks me momentarily. I don't like to move fast in the morning. I manage to find some good music after a bit of searching.
Ray Charles? Na. Chopin? Na. Balenescu Quartet?...No. Today we need something special.
A little "Journey" should do it. Rock me Steve Perry.
Hitting play, I sit back, pleased with my selection and let the sublime incantations of some of 80's best rock wash over me like a warm blanket. I am at peace with the world. Visions of Trans-ams, tight acid washed jeans, mullets and Molly Ringwald dance around in my head. Suddenly jerked from my trance, the blond light whips by me and briefly touches my cheek. It faintly resembles a kiss, but leaves a searing pain from contact at such high speeds. Blowing by me, it slows down slightly before reaching the door - I recognize it, it is Mindy. I wave goodbye and before she reaches top speed again I hear a faint and trailing, "Love you! Have a goo.....". Soon to follow, I hear the screaming of small innocent Korean children on the street below. The Blur stops for no one.
I slowly pour a bowl of corn flakes and continue to listen as Steve Perry belts out "Don't Stop Believin".
In one slow motion I raise a defiant fist in the air and join him. He brings a tear to my eye that drops into my cereal. Steve Perry can make a grown man cry. I put the box of corn flakes, and my fist, down and munch away. Dabbing my eyes with the back of my hand. Occasionally, I "sing" unintelligible lyrics through the mush in my mouth:
'ust a small 'down griril. Bon and waised in Sous Detroit...hidin fomewhere in da niii'ight...da da da..don stob bewevin!!
Inevitably, around 1 min into the song, the spoon is taken from my cereal and morphs into a Double Neck Flying 'V' Guitar. This transformation leaves drops of milk spattered across the floor in a testament of my loyalty to 80s music. At this point, if I had a collar, I would pop it.
I finish my cereal, clean the milk off the floor, and realizing I just air-guitared in my boxers, I decide to get dressed. My eyes are open and I am cognizant enough to make decisions so I make my way to the closet. I look up and down and use a milk-stickied hand to grab a pair of old hiking pants and a button up shirt. I pull it over my shoulders, button it up, walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth, finish and realize I still have 10 minutes left. I hear Steve Perry who is now singing "Oh, Sheri".
Putting on my shoes and strapping on my pack I pause just before the door and one last time I raise a fist to the ceiling and listen. Eyes closed. Head bobbing in rhythm. I do an entire windmill downstroke on my Flying V. It is this dramatic motion that prepares me for the day. I grab my keys and walk out the door.
This is my morning.
-Scott
The alarm clock does its dirty work at the god-awful hour of 6:45 (a normal, if not late, time for most). I reach over, blind and nearly deaf, to turn off its damned blaring. It is a cliched start, to a rather un-cliched morning.
But I am not ready to get out of bed just yet, so I roll back over and close my eyes with a yawn. Mindy is up almost at the sound of the alarm and jolts out of bed. She has found it wise to jam her usual 1 hour of morning prep time into an alarming 45 minutes. A feat that any woman would find impressive. I like to give myself a full 1 hour and 25 minutes to get ready even though I can get ready in under 15 minutes.
I use this time in the following way. This is my morning:
I finally step out of the bedroom door to a radiant and formless blond blur; that runs, scampers, jolts, and slides across the floor. No words are exchanged, but if there were I am sure they would never be heard, as anything moving that fast cannot receive or transmit sound of any kind. The laws of quantum physics would not permit it. As I stretch and take in a deep breath I scratch places and saunter to the bathroom for my morning ritual. I will spare you the details.
I step out of the bathroom, eyes still half shut, and shuffle to the computer ensuring I am not hit by the whizzing blond light. I manage to avoid one of its countless passes - no doubt sparring me certain death. Making my way from the bathroom to the computer is like a very deadly game of Frogger. When I am lucky enough to make it I sit down in the computer chair, and bolt forward as the cold wood of the back touches me - the speed of my movement shocks me momentarily. I don't like to move fast in the morning. I manage to find some good music after a bit of searching.
Ray Charles? Na. Chopin? Na. Balenescu Quartet?...No. Today we need something special.
A little "Journey" should do it. Rock me Steve Perry.
Hitting play, I sit back, pleased with my selection and let the sublime incantations of some of 80's best rock wash over me like a warm blanket. I am at peace with the world. Visions of Trans-ams, tight acid washed jeans, mullets and Molly Ringwald dance around in my head. Suddenly jerked from my trance, the blond light whips by me and briefly touches my cheek. It faintly resembles a kiss, but leaves a searing pain from contact at such high speeds. Blowing by me, it slows down slightly before reaching the door - I recognize it, it is Mindy. I wave goodbye and before she reaches top speed again I hear a faint and trailing, "Love you! Have a goo.....". Soon to follow, I hear the screaming of small innocent Korean children on the street below. The Blur stops for no one.
I slowly pour a bowl of corn flakes and continue to listen as Steve Perry belts out "Don't Stop Believin".
In one slow motion I raise a defiant fist in the air and join him. He brings a tear to my eye that drops into my cereal. Steve Perry can make a grown man cry. I put the box of corn flakes, and my fist, down and munch away. Dabbing my eyes with the back of my hand. Occasionally, I "sing" unintelligible lyrics through the mush in my mouth:
'ust a small 'down griril. Bon and waised in Sous Detroit...hidin fomewhere in da niii'ight...da da da..don stob bewevin!!
Inevitably, around 1 min into the song, the spoon is taken from my cereal and morphs into a Double Neck Flying 'V' Guitar. This transformation leaves drops of milk spattered across the floor in a testament of my loyalty to 80s music. At this point, if I had a collar, I would pop it.
I finish my cereal, clean the milk off the floor, and realizing I just air-guitared in my boxers, I decide to get dressed. My eyes are open and I am cognizant enough to make decisions so I make my way to the closet. I look up and down and use a milk-stickied hand to grab a pair of old hiking pants and a button up shirt. I pull it over my shoulders, button it up, walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth, finish and realize I still have 10 minutes left. I hear Steve Perry who is now singing "Oh, Sheri".
Putting on my shoes and strapping on my pack I pause just before the door and one last time I raise a fist to the ceiling and listen. Eyes closed. Head bobbing in rhythm. I do an entire windmill downstroke on my Flying V. It is this dramatic motion that prepares me for the day. I grab my keys and walk out the door.
This is my morning.
-Scott
2 comments:
Debbie and I are going to see Journey, Heart, and Cheap Trick at the White River Amphitheater this September. Before you start severing ties in Korea, keep in mind that Steve Perry is no longer in the band! I know! They found some filipino guy from a journey cover band that sounds just like Steve, though. I heard him on YouTube, and though he didn't bring a tear to my eye, I did get a little misty.
-Aaron
Thanks for the picture of the Flying V. Now I get it!!!
Mother Hen
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