Hounds of Love

If you’re not careful you can clock a lot miles on the odometer and feed slices of your day to driving without even realizing it, like you might eat a half a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels while you answer email. There is not much to do while you drive except listen to stuff and drive; I am not one of the 2% who can talk on the phone and drive, let alone text. Sometimes I have an ipod plugged into the car but lately it’s been CDs. For radio, there’s NPR, and, if you’re not careful, the Rick ‘n’ Bubba show, which features provocative, dumbass talk radio and a surprising amount of Elton John.

Sometimes I listen to this: \”Hounds of Love\” by The Futureheads which I think is very funny. I listen to the same songs over and over because the distances are short, 5 or 15-minute trips up and down the same roads, over and over, but they add up and they add up to nothing more than getting there, dropping off, doing errands.

You can’t surreptitiously stare people or eavesdrop on their conversations, or read, or do crosswords. You have to pay attention, but you can’t take notes. Gradually the incongruous music in the car seeps into the landscape. The song that is playing joins the stiff, dead, upside-down armadillo that lay by the SportsMed Center for three weeks or sets the dance you do to finesse the patched up potholes.

As the voicemail of some telephone provider here says, “Please enjoy the music while your party is reached.”

Where, oh where, is my party?


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