Musical Life Preserver
After a debilitating four-day, 50-plus-hour week and a yet another teeth-grinding commute from North to South, my week ended on a high note.
After a pit stop at home, I took a relatively breezy drive into Oakland to get to the classy-comfy, ushered, delightfully step-back-in-time Carnegie Music Hall (where parking in the lot behind the museum is just 5 bucks!) to see the River City Brass Band.
Tickets to the show can be had for as low as $21. For just a bit more, you can get one of the best seats in the house, like second row, first balcony, center, where I eased into my red-velvet seat between two of my favorite people in the world, Mom and Dad, and felt the lasso that binds me to the Rodeo de Ridiculousness unknot and slip away.
Lights dimmed and the band came on stage and the Best Loved Marches-themed show began. For each number, the band’s Conductor, Scotland-born James Gourlay, provides interesting, entertaining information about the song, its composer, or other historical trivia.
And they play. Lord do they play.
A brass band—a great brass band—live. It is an experience. Trumpets, cornets, trombones, tubas, a lively group of percussionists. It is so American. (And, I think, so Pittburghian.) It is music that reverberates through your ears and down into your gut before slipping out through fingertips and toes that, even among the most unmusically inclined, move throughout the show in easy, involuntary accompaniment.
The music itself would be enough. It moves you to audible ooh and ahhs, a primal appreciation, an ancient-feeling of wonderment that such sounds could come from the brassy metal implements before you, and at times, like while hearing “to dream the impossible dream” (The Quest, Mitch Leigh), sung last night by flugelhorn player Drew Fennell, tears.
Yes, the music would be enough. But there is more. This group of incredibly talented musicians also has a delightful sense of humor.
The Imperial March (John Williams), which most would recognize immediately (dum dum da dum dum da dum) from Star Wars included an appearance by Darth Vader, who used The Force to take over and conduct with his light saber.
During a medley of Scottish tunes, Gourlay conducted in a kilt. After which, he asked the audience if they were wondering what people wonder about Scotmen and kilts. And then he removed the kilt to show . . . rolled up tuxedo pant legs, from the pocket of which he swished out and twirled a Terrible Towel.
And there was a Spike-Jonesian solo on a xylophone that included notes played on a block of wood, a pot lid, and squeaky toys.
So, yes, it’s a band concert, but it’s not quite like any band concert you’ve been to before.
Offer me tickets to anything in this amazingly big small Pittsburgh town—city, pavilion, or arena—and I will choose the River City Brass Band. They are talented. They bring goosebumps, cheers, tears, guffaws, and giggles. And they bring the music. They are an affordable marvel. They create moments of purest happiness. They infuse joy.
This is an experience that reminds you that the soul you had as a child still exists. The River City Brass Band is a musical life preserver.
The band’s season runs from fall to spring, with the last show of the current season coming next month: May 10 at the Carnegie Music Hall and May 3-13 at other local high school venues, which can be found on their website, www.rivercitybrass.org.
YUMMY
The restaurant is called BRGR, and until today, I couldn’t decide if the name was clever or stupid.
It was on the menu with the unassuming name of “fried chicken appetizer.” You could have easily overlooked it. But the description, once read, intrigued. A rather interesting mix of flavors. Comfort food with a daring twist. Absolutely unique. And absolutely “YUMMY.”
And I mean the kind of meal where you are liable to actually, involuntarily blurt out a loud, boisterous, overly theatrical, gleefully playful “YUMMY!” (with a tone of South Park’s “Timmy!” being greeted by a drunk but happy Janis Joplin) after every single bite AND again, here and there, should the indescribable Morsel of Weirdest Goodness cross your mind while staring into an empty pantry cupboard, skirting the mall food court, approaching the Communion alter, etc.
{“YUMMY!”}
It’s a small bowl of penne pasta mac n’ cheese {“YUMMY!”} topped with kimchi coleslaw {“YUMMY!”} topped with a couple of pieces of the tenderest, moistest, boneless, breaded chicken ever. {“YUMMY!”}
It was my go-to lunch on days when I am in desperate need of a better-than-usual, not-at-my-desk, life-preserving lunch, days when the desire to escape the round-peg-in-a-square-hole cube life overwhelms, days when the Inner Child has plopped to the floor, red-faced, lip pulling in toward a grand screaming rebellion of No.
Tired, stressed, sans umbrella on a rainy day, the clock nearing 3:00 before I’d had a moment to consider lunch, and The Marvelous Yummy crossed my mind. {The Inner Child’s lip relaxed, Yum-mm-mmm-my?} {C’mon sweetie. It’ll be okay. We’ll go to BRGR and read vacation guide books, k?}
But.
They have secretly replaced the strangely, wonderfully schizophrenic fried chicken appetizer with a kind-of-nasty, boring fried chicken appetizer. I asked, “Is this the one with the kimchi and penne pasta?” and was told, No but it is “The Best Fried Chicken I Have Ever Tasted.”
Not. Even. Close. Not the best fried chicken ever. (This waiter has obviously never attended a Pittsburgh wedding, graduation, or family reunion. Pretty sure he’s never even been to Giant Eagle’s cafe.) And, obviously, not even close to the original dish.
Why? Why did you take this uniquely wonderful dish off the menu? What’s next, replace Christmas with a Tuesday? Put lima beans in a Cracker Jack’s box? Pave paradise and put up a parking lot?
Not clever, BRGR.
Post Office Puts the FU in Fun
So. I had a package (item valued at about $100) coming in (on a Friday) that I then needed to ship from East Coast to West Coast overnight for Saturday delivery. To use Fed Ex or UPS, the cost of shipping would be more than the package’s value. A lot more. So I thought I’d double-check at the Post Office.
I didn’t have the package in-hand yet but wanted to be prepared in case it came in last-minute, so I drove over to the Post Office in the morning. I stood in the line. And I made it up to the counter with my questions. It went something like this:
Q: Do you have overnight service? I’m looking into what my options are.
A: Yes. It would get there tomorrow at Noon for about $20.
Q: Really?!
A: Yep!
Q: Saturday delivery?
A: Yep!
Q: Great. What time do I need to have it here?
A: 7:00 p.m.
Q: Really?
A: Yep. You probably want to be here by 10 til 7:00 to make sure we process it by 7:00.
And I strolled out of Thee Wonderful Amazing U.S. Post Office feeling happy. Bounce in my step. Easy-peasy-pie! What nice people! What an amazing difference in price! What an incredibly quick service! Oh what a beautiful day!
The package in question arrived about two hours later, and I drove back to the Post Office. I packed it up in the appropriate packaging, I filled out the form, and I waited in the (longer than before) line.
A different clerk waited on me this time. He checked boxes and pushed buttons and slapped the label on and turned to me and said, “Okay. That’ll be there by 3:00 p.m. on Monday.”
Very aware of the long line of people behind me, their breath hot on my neck as they slid glinting letter openers from breast coat pockets . . . I explained that I needed it there tomorrow and that I had come over earlier in the day and was told it would get there by Noon on Saturday, not Monday afternoon. He looked at me like I was a little nuts, smiled, and shook his head. I took the package and drove away, imagining how Post Office employees might answer other questions.
Q: I see you now sell greeting cards. How do they compare to Hallmark?
A: They are BETTER! You simply buy one of these extra-special 2 cent stamps and the mail carrier will deliver it and sing a stunning Birthday operetta while giving your gramma a foot rub.
Q: I need to ship this animal. Can you help?
A: Yep! Grab one of those small-size flat-rates, and for $5.35 we’ll have that baby elephant romping round the Serengeti before you get back to your car.
Q: Would my teenage niece like this?
A: Absolutely! Our research shows that stamp collecting is now more popular than American Idol, Dance Dance Revolution, and talking about boys among the 13-18-year-old female demographic.
Q: Can I get a passport here?
A: Yep! Go through that door, turn around 3 times and click your heels, and then leave. The next time you go through Customs, your Passport will be there waiting for you.
Q: How does the future look for a government-run postal service?
A: Never better! The average letter carrier makes over $50,000 a year—with 11 holidays, 13 sick days, and 5 weeks of vacation after just 3 years of service!
(psst . . . one of the answers above is true.)
Smack!
I am into day 6 of a really nasty cold. Not bad enough that you’re flat on your back, dead to the world, nothing matters, zzzzzzzzzz—but sick so that you feel you must somehow continue to attempt to function as a responsible adult while feeling like absolute crap. Aching muscles, feverish, an impossibility of flem that makes you imagine that research scientists would be amazed if only there were a way to measure the actual volume of it, and moments of exhaustion so extreme that I nearly fell over while waiting in line at the drug store where I had dragged my weary self to buy Kleenex, o.j., soup, cold medicine, and a Lord of the Rings Pez set.
(Yes, a Lord of the Rings Pez set. It was just sitting there on one of those post-holiday 75% off tables. Freakin’ sweet.)
In the past week, I had tried everything in my medicine cupboard: cough drops, cough medicine, Cepacol throat spray, Alka-Seltzer Plus, Mucinex DM, vitamin C tablets, and echinacae tea.
But I trekked to the drug store once again because, obviously, I just didn’t have the right product. After nearly crying real tears over the overwhelming array of choices before me, I selected TheraFlu. TheraFlu! Yes! It has honey and lemon! The-ra-Flu! It has the right symptoms listed on the box. And, more important, as I stood there in the drug store, stupified with fever and unembarrassed by my childlike whimpering, I recalled a lovely wonderful image from TV of a sick person cupping their hands around a warm mug, with steam rising as they drank in the elixir that brings them back to life. TheraFlu! da-da-da-DA! TheraFlu. Yeah.
So, I get home and read the directions. I am hopeful. I am almost breathing easy. I believe I am near relief. (We never give up hope that there is actually an option other than “feel crappy for 5-7 days.” And the drug companies know this.)
Two points:
1. Dear makers of Theraflu, I’m not sure you grasp the simple idea that a sick person—between fever and chills, mangled sheets, body-wracking-pet-startling coughs, some really quite astoundingly funny but loud enough to wake you nose whistles, and extreme stuffed-up-ness that makes you lie there at 3:00 a.m., absolutely certain you will never-ever-ever feel normal again and at 4:00 a.m., paranoid with the knowledge that being found dead from snot-induced suffocation in an unclean house with teetering dish piles and unrinsed soup cans in the kitchen and 1,002 balled up tissues lying about every other room in the house, wearing stinky gross pajamas, sporting the world’s worst flu hair, and with all that I-swear-it’s-not-boogers dead skin under the nose would be a sad way to die—desperately craves only one thing: A good night’s sleep.
I bought the night-time version of this product. The directions say “Take every four hours.”
2. The directions say to dissolve the packet of grainy particles in hot tap water (hot tap water!) and include the warning: “If using a microwave, do not overheat.” (Do not overheat?) There won’t be a little curl of steam? I won’t get to curl up on the couch, hands and heart warmed by my lovely cuppa? Well, hoping (feverishly, irrationally) as I was for a cure, I did as instructed—and nearly had to add puking to my list of symptoms.
That said, I have made it back to work. I’m not proud of how I look, but I am at least no longer wearing the toxic jammies and I have washed my hair, and 80% of the time I feel 57% certain that I will survive this. And when I do, I’m going to find the people who created the TheraFlu TV commercial and kiss each one on the lips. And spit on their keyboards. And lick their phones.
Thank-you Tom Russell
I believe that each of us in this life is granted a few special messengers outside of our biological family, who cross our path to teach us something important, to provide vital guidance if we’re paying attention.
In the early 80s, I was in college and, thank heaven, paying attention in my Intro to Journalism class.
I had every intention of being a schoolteacher when I grew up. But, in my Sophomore year of college, I took a Journalism class “just for fun” and wandered into Professor Tom Russell’s classroom with a new notebook, a couple of pens, and nary a clue.
He was a retired newspaper reporter and an Air Force veteran who served in World War II. He dressed a bit like Mr. Rogers. He commanded, never demanded, respect. He did not tolerate laziness, bad grammar, or cliche. Sharp witted. Friendly. Un-sugar-coated. Brilliant. He was tough – but tough in a good way, in a way that challenges and inspires.
I can recall, with vivid clarity, The Moment—as I walked out of Biddle Hall after one of his classes—when I made the decision to be a writer, to do what I loved instead of what was safe and expected. It was one of the first big things I fought for, one of the only decisions I’ve been 100% sure of, one of the few things I got right in my life.
I truly don’t know if I would have discovered my place in the world or found the courage to pursue it if not for Tom Russell.
Now, I may not have attained exactly what I dreamed of that day, but I use the things he taught me every single day of my life.
We’ve exchanged cards and catch-up letters for more than 25 years at Christmastime. His hand-writing on an envelope is one of my Favorite Things. I sent off my card and letter to him last week, with a promise to print out and send a couple of blog posts in a separate envelope. This morning, at the office, I used the internet (instead of my address book at home) to check his address to get those into the mail. As I scanned the white pages’ search results, I saw one with a notation: “Passed in 2011.” Oh no, no, no. But, yeah. I found the online obituary next.
He left this earth in May, so this paper is late. He’ll deduct points for that. And he’ll roll his eyes at this “armchair fluff.” But I owe him a good-bye. And a stronger word choice than Thank-you. And a novel.
Fare thee well, Mr. Russell.
# # #
The Strange Goings-on on 34th Street
Email from my bank: You have a new bill from Macy’s.
Odd. I haven’t used my Macy’s card in about a year. But I check. And, yep, instead of my beautiful zero balance, there’s a charge for 50 bucks with the description “Hotline.” The bill also includes a “Have a question about your bill? Call Macy’s Customer Service!” So I do.
I’m on hold being bombarded with two-second snippets of songs followed by minute-long advertisements. Then, I’m arguing with an automated voice.
Hi. I’m a machine pretending to be a person with bad hearing who, golly gee, didn’t quite hear what you just said. Could you please try again to tell me your social security number?
And I say (again), I’m not going to give you my social security number. Let me talk to a person.
It feigns confusion. I repeat. It repeats. I repeat. And, then (machine pretending to be a human with a prefrontal lobotomy) it suggests I speak with a person.
I’m on hold a while longer.
Finally, a How can I help! and my explanation and Oh, you have to call the hotline company for that. Right. And so I call the hotline and a machine asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number, which I do. And then a person gets on and asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number. (123 Deja Vu Lane?)
She asks me many questions. They have no record of me. I am put on hold. I am transferred to The Analyst. She asks me the same questions and more questions including, “Does 2009 Main Street ring a bell.”
[An aside to the Piker Family: Does it ring a bell?! HA!]
Uh yes; I used to live there. And, suddenly, The Analyst is done with me and getting off the call and I’m sputtering like Ralphie on the Santa slide as the boot comes down.
Me: Wait. Wait. I didn’t have a Macy’s card when I lived there.
Analyst: The charge is for a card protection service that was initiated through Kaufman’s.
Me: I cancelled my Kaufmann’s card years ago.
Analyst: Kaufmann’s bought Macy’s.
And I want to say I know that you stinking smarmy dipwad; my point is, Why the heck am I suddenly being charged for a FREE service that I had on a different card from over 20 years ago? but, The Analyst, she is gone. And I am left with original tele-person who desperately wants to update my address in their system. I inquire why she would bother. I don’t want this service; I’m not paying this charge; Why do you need my current address; And why am I suddenly being charged for a free service that I had on a different card over 20 years ago?
She can’t answer me that so I say, Okay, let’s just cancel this then. And she begins a sales spiel about how this service can protect me from fraudulent charges.
She. Has. Absolutely. No. Idea. How. Funny. That. Is.
She explains that I’ll get a refund and I inquire how that will occur. Do I pay and get a check? Do I not pay and get a credit? I do NOT want to end up paying any finance charges on this.
Her patronizing response? Oh, you’ll have to discuss that with Macy’s.
I will indeed have a chat with Macy’s. Or, at least, I will have a chat with a machine pretending to be a person who is bummed out about me canceling my credit card.
It’s a busy time of year folks, but keep an eye on those bills this month.
Motto/Sign from 1960s Macy's Campaign
Um, Hi?
So, this morning, I’m sitting still in rush hour traffic. I’m in the left lane.
The right lane is (of course) moving. However, a guy in the right lane just stops next to me and honks. I look over, he’s waving and smiling. He is stopped in rush hour traffic to smile and wave. The following thoughts went through my head, in this order:
1. I bet it’s one of my cousins! (There are a bunch of them in the neighborhood.)
It’s not a cousin.
2. Must be . . . some-bo-dy I know?
It’s no one I know.
3. Is there a pie on my roof?
Long-time-ago funny family story, my Dad once drove home from my gramma’s with a pie on the roof of the station wagon.
4. Do I have my purse?
Ah heredity. I once drove quite a ways with my purse on the trunk until a kind, honking, waving person pulled up next to me at a light.
5. Is there a fake bumper sticker on my car that says, “I [heart] cross-dressing”?
Practical joke once played on a co-worker.
6. Is there something wrong with my car?
Blessed Mary Mother of God, please don’t let me be the disabled vehicle in rush hour. Not here at this intersection. Not again.
7. Too old to be hitting on me. Too young to be senile.
I may have had a good day here and there, but let’s all be honest, men aren’t hitting the brakes in rush hour to meet me.
As all of the above finishes going through my head, I realize that my hand is in the process of rising up to wave back. In slow motion, halting, but it’s involuntary. Another human being is smiling and waving; I’m telling you, the wave-back is reflexive. (Your fingers just wiggled a bit right now, didn’t they?)
So I wave back. And the person gives me a great big thumbs up, nodding like a bobble head, smiling, thumbs up again, and drives away.
All of the above took place in about 5-10 seconds. No time to roll down a window, ask a question. Barely time to pull my hand down, glance around a bit sheepishly, and chuckle.
And now, dangit, for the rest of this day at least, my brain will be doing Rewind Play Rewind Play, my already faulty synapses trying to put a name to a face or a rational explanation to an odd and random moment. Who was he? What exactly about the situation warranted a thumbs-up? What was the dealio?
Am I absolutely certain there’s not a pie on my roof?
Un-shopping
I love getting gifts for other people. I enjoy shopping. I adore the Christmas season. But, from now until sometime in 2012, I won’t go anywhere near a mall.
Not to shop. Not to get my hair cut. Not to pick up a free TV. Here are a few reasons why.
People suck at parking in parking lots. And no one seems to be paying any attention to my suggestion that SUVs, Hummers, and mini-vans be given separate parking areas where they can take as many spots as they want within that area and park as close to each other as they want.
Note: It has been calculated that, on average, it will take approximately three shopping days to find a space, requiring a lot of gas, a lot of time, the patience of a saint, and the bladder of a camel.
There are many criminals in the mall parking lot this time of year. (I always wonder where they park.) It’s not a good idea to leave packages in the car. It’s not a good idea to be walking through a parking lot over-laden with packages. It’s also not a good idea to put packages in the trunk and then go back into the mall. (The trunk is easier to pop open than the car door.) Better to put stuff in the trunk and then move your car to a different parking space so the criminal will think you are leaving.
Of course, by the time you find another parking space, Christmas will be over.
Let’s say you actually do find a spot. The people inside the mall are only a little better than those lurking in the parking lot waiting for a chance to rob or injure you. Mall shoppers on the best of days are rude, obnoxious, self-centered, and on a cell phone. This time of year they’re twice as bad and there are more of them. It’s Walking Dead with a little less biting but less respect for personal space.
Let’s say you’re brave and tough enough to handle the hordes. Department store prices are ridiculous. Sales are virtually meaningless relative to value. And they won’t have the size or brand or color you want.
Gift boxes aren’t free anymore.
Christmas music is some of the most beautiful, sentimental, wonderful music ever written. Christmas music filtered through mall speakers is sadistic and may cause vomiting.
And then there are the extras:
- Spritzers.
- People who want you to eat small bits of mystery food out of little plastic cups.
- Creepy Santas.
- Sticky, frightened, sugar-high children and the mothers who scream at them.
- Carts run by carny folk capable of casting a spell to make really stupid sh*t look interesting.
I avoid it all. I shop online. Choices are endless. Hard-to-find gifts aren’t. Free shipping offers are everywhere. It requires no gas. It can be done while baking cookies, decorating, watching Rudolph, or drinking a martini in a tutu while playing a harmonica. It can be completed early in the morning or late at night, no camping gear required. Items will be delivered to your front door or to someone else’s front door.
And, best of all, you’ll make it through the next few weeks without losing your temper, getting frustrated, or being plagued by visions of stomping all the Who’s in Whoville. You can make it through the Christmas season without growing to hate all of humanity, which is sort of the best part given the real reason for the season.
Peace and fa la la la la folks.
93.7, The (so-called) Fan
Even if (and I still say it’s a big if) Hines is no longer a starter when fully healthy, he deserves more respect than he got this morning from 93.7 FM, The (so-called) Fan.
They seemed inexplicably smug (bordering on happy?!) to note Hines’ minimal play yesterday, talking about him as if he’s some new-kid-nobody who got outplayed and didn’t earn a starting position. First and foremost, I’m not convinced he’s lost his starting position. The man’s dealing with two injuries that would have put a lesser man (a radio talk show host for instance) out for at least 4-5 weeks, if not the season.
It’s a small miracle and a tribute to Hines’ toughness (and perhaps a sign of the Steelers caginess) that he was even dressed and on the field yesterday. The team is in a great position right now with a phenomenal group of receivers, so why not give Hines a bit of a rest when he’s banged up?
They talked as if Hines isn’t as good as Jerricho Cotchery. Seriously? Nothing against Jerricho. Glad to have him. But he’s no Hines Ward. He hasn’t been here since 1998, a catching, running, blocking, fighting, bouncing-backing, smiling from ear to ear symbol of what football means in this town. Jericho’s a nice addition to be sure, but if he had that beyond-height-beyond-speed-beyond-training-beyond-coaching-beyond-explanation spark that somehow makes things happen — like, oh I don’t know, some 6-foot tall guy being the team’s all-time leading receiver or, um, maybe, catching five passes and a touchdown to be MVP in a Super Bowl that brought the Lombardi back to Pittsburgh — I think he’d have played in more than three games this year.
Yeah. I know. There are other talented receivers on the field with younger legs than Hines or Jerricho. That’s icing on the cake. That’s smart succession planning. We’ve breathed a collective sigh of relief in the past few months. Not because we like Brown and Wallace better than Hines Ward but because we’ve known, deep in our blackest-goldest gut, that the day would come when we’d be without Hines. And we’ve worried about it. And we’ve dreaded it. And the whispers in our heads say, This could be it; this could be the last year. I don’t know about you, but that breaks my heart a little. And I, for one among what I suspect are many in Steeler Nation, am in no hurry to see such an iconic, talented, intelligent, and spunky Steeler retire.
In a time when very few players stay with a team, in any sport, throughout a career, we have had the privilege to call Hines Ward “ours” since 1998. He was drafted a Steeler. He’ll retire a Steeler. And, in-between, for one play or one hundred, he plays his heart out.
That’s what loyalty looks like, 93.7.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Commuter’s Life Preserver
My commute is about an hour on a good day. After a few years of that type of commute, you get tired of every type of music (even your own mix tapes) and every variation of morning show antics. You get tired of people arguing, whether it’s know-it-all sports talk or 2 minutes of politics followed by 58 minutes of commercials. Twice a day, day after day, whatever button you push, radio gets redundant.
About 6 months ago, I switched to audiobooks. I never thought I’d like audiobooks much; it felt like cheating. But, it’s not like reading Cliff’s Notes. It’s not like seeing the movie instead. It’s like grown-up story time. It’s an engrossing time passer. It’s the complete opposite of road-rage. It’s delightful. There are even mornings when I look forward to getting in the car to go to work. (And those who know me well just fainted.)
Should you be interested, here are a few things I’ve learned about audiobooks:
1. Audiobooks are not just for old people. Really. They’re not.
2. Like real books, audiobooks can create goosebumps, cause you to tear up, make you laugh out loud. They can entertain. They can teach. They can inspire.
3. It may take a book or two before your brain adjusts to the experience. For example, without pages shifting from right to left in your hands, you won’t have indications of progress that your subconscious expects. After a book or two, the pacing of stories will reassert via the number of CDs and/or tracks.
4. Next to whatever makes a great book great for you, the most important thing about an audiobook is the narrator.
5. You might want to look up a book before purchasing the audio format. Audiobook packaging doesn’t always include the same level of description as a physical book. And you might wind up, for example, tolerating 20 CDs read by some annoying, grating very proper enunciator before realizing it was book 1 of a trilogy.
Yeah, some cliffhangers I can live with.
6. Speaking of the angst of buying a bad audiobook, you can avoid this issue completely by joining a library and borrowing their audiobooks.
7. Keep in mind that it appears to be library policy to put all audiobooks on the shelves nearest the floor, with labels pasted alternately North-to-South and South-to-North, so you’ll squat there, tilting your head left to read one title, then right to read the next title. Squatting, head moving—chicken-like—left, right, left, right, pecking at row upon row of miniature books sorted only by author, not genre.
Still, it’s free, and if you get a bad book (or an enunciator), you can just take it right back and try another.
8. When you go to the library, don’t ask for “books on tape.” (They’re on CD now of course, and librarians, who are, apparently, rather literal people, will tell you they don’t have any.)
9. When you go to another library—because the first one you went to (near where you work, where your hours of being able to look at books best matches up to their hours of operation) can’t give you a library card unless you first get one from the neighborhood in which you reside (even though it’s all computerized and you have a valid driver’s license, and even though, once you get the card from your home library and go back again to the first library, they give you the option to use the exact same card)—don’t call them “books on tape.”
10. I am now looking into ways to download audiobooks from the web. I’ve looked at amazon’s audible.com ($14.95/month seems a bit high to me) or iBooks via the itunes store where, it appears, you pay per book, but I haven’t yet tried either.
I’m sure there must be other similar sites or apps. If you know of one that you enjoy, that seems reasonable, and is user-friendly, please share some details in the comments. Thanks!
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April 27, 2012 at 9:51 am 1 comment