TUEnESDAY: Lana Del Ray

More often than not, I get my ideas for TUEnSDAY from late night BBC Radio 2 or the t'interweb. Imagine my delight when BBC Radio 1 played something I think is musically beautiful. I don't get to say that much about music played on R1... there's not enough music during the time I listen (driving to and from work), and what does get airtime tends to be, for my middle-aged ears, far too mainstream, far too loud and (if I'm honest) far too young to move me in that way very often. But this song touched me today. It was a welcome respite in a day that, for a lack of a better phrase, pretty much sucked ass. And why it sucked isn't really important - neither is the fact that, realistically on the Worldwide Scale of Suckiness, my one relatively crap day today is probably still better than most people's best day - and I'm not saying that to be boastful, but to admit that I'm mindful that I am very, very fortunate. Whatever... I was feeling a bit shit today, and this song rescued me for four minutes and fifty sultry seconds.

I gather from a bit of eSearch that Lana Del Ray is something of an enigma. Somewhat refreshingly, she doesn't have a Wikipedia entry - so what info there is on her, I've gotten from her Facebook page and reviews online. Born and residing in New York, she sites as her influences a mix of artists from Britney Spears to the Beach Boys, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. From her GQ.com Q&A article, I can't tell whether she's down-to-earth, ultra-cool or a bit of a ice queen. She's probably none of those, thosse being totally unrealistic and unhelpful labels that don't really describe anyone in totality. So I don't yet know what to think of HER. But this song... this song I like. I'm almost reluctant to put the video link here... partly because apparently it's so viral that you've probably already seen it... and partly because the botox overkill in the video is almost enough to distract me from the soul in the voice. But, as one person has said, 'She's beyond talented with a timeless voice so why let a minor Botox injection get in the way of that?'

I love her voice. I love this song. A love song that talks about hanging out and playing video games? You had me at 'Azeroth.' I want to dive a little deeper into Lana Del Ray - listen to some of her back catalogue and definitely keep an eye on her in the next few years. Join me, won't you...?

Two Ways Middle Age is Subtlely Kicking My Ass

Growing up, and especially in my 30s, I always knew that middle-age was coming. I also knew some of the more obvious ways that I’d know I was getting closer to it. Inevitable or just predictable, I knew that I’d encounter at least some of the following: My hairline (not exactly flattering to begin with) would creep up. My belly (again, never six-packed) would spread a bit more than I’d like. I’d spend fewer nights out on the tiles until dawn, and more evenings at home watching ‘Alf’ reruns. All of these things I expected – so when they started happening I knew that I was no longer approaching middle age, I was there. They were so obvious, so blatant… it was as if Nature had put up a missive billboard on the highway of my life that said ‘Stop kidding yourself.’

Unbeknownst to me, though, dear, sweet Mother Nature has also been putting up smaller signs, too – reminding me of my mortality in more subtle ways, just in case I missed that great big billboard. I've finally seen those less obvious hints, and there are at least two areas in which I'm now aware of my advancing maturity.

Music

Music may seem like an obvious one. But this isn’t music in the ‘I don’t understand how kids can listen to that crap’ kind of way. This is ‘modern music makes me react differently than it probably should.’ And it’s not that I’m not identifying with this music – I quite like some of the stuff in the charts – it’s that I don’t think I hear what some current artists want me to hear when I listen to their songs. For example, when I hear Eminem and L’il Wayne’s new song ‘No Love’, I’m sure they WANT me to think of tough, urban kids growing up and making it through some incredibly challenging times.  What I actually think of is this:

Sport

I still consider myself decently active. I am getting back into going to the gym regularly, and I still play fully-kitted American football against guys who are (literally) half my age. I’ve got two Defensive MVPs under my (expanding) belt this season, and have been reasonably happy with my game so far. Having said that – I expect to be hurting more and for longer now than I did when I played in my teens, 20s or even 30s. Approaching (and going past) 40, I knew I’d be a bit slower on the field and a bit quicker to feel injury. So I’m not at all surprised that all of those things are now true. But yesterday I played a round of golf in a collared shirt and chinos. The fact that I’m playing golf at all should have sent up all kinds of red flags about my impending retirement, but when you couple that with the fact that was in goddamned CHINOS and a polo shirt?? You might as well pass me the Ovaltine, because it’s 230 in the afternoon and time for bed. Chi-fucking-nos. The worst bit? I had brought shorts and a t-shirt to change into after work, and I CHOSE NOT TO. Woe. Is. Me.

Wish You Were Here: Fourteen Seven Forty-Nine

Dear Mom…

Even though I’m sure I missed a few of these over the years, your birthday is one of the times when I miss you most. Especially on a day like today, when the sun is shining and my little Peni is so full of what you called ‘hootzpah’. I can only imagine that she’s a lot like you were when you were this young – I only have the one photo of you as a child (about 7, I think), but she has the Gillespie five-head, our wispy sandy-blonde hair, dimples and looks so much like me that I’m certain that she’s got only your genes on display. I know you see her and look over her, but I sure as Hell wish you could have met her. I know that being a Grandma was something you wanted desperately and it will always be one of my biggest regrets that I couldn’t give you that before you left. Still, she’s here and I’ll make sure she knows everything about you as she grows up.

I’ll be meeting up later with Carol and planting another tree for you this year. The olive tree we planted when we moved in to the house didn’t survive the combination of last year’s harsh winter and the cats deciding that it was a litter box, but the cherry blossom and apple trees are doing well. I wonder if Peni will bring in cherry blossoms for Carol, like I used to when I was younger, coming back from my paper route (while Drew was saving the neighbourhood from ne’er-do-wells).

I think I miss you most on your birthday because sharing your 56th was one of the last things we did together. I still have that picture of you, me and the cake. Typically, the chocolate sponge was lovely, but it looked like it had been frosted by an epileptic octopus using a builder’s trowel during an earthquake. True to form, you reassured me with a soothing, “I’m sure it’ll taste lovely” – the same five words of genuine kindness that you offered every other time I’d made a pig’s ear out of one meal or another. Presentation was never my strongest suit. I like to think that you were happy then – whether it was from the cake or the morphine, I’m still not too sure. You were smiling, though, and that’s all that matters to me now. Hard to believe you died less than three weeks later.

Fifty fucking six. Sorry, I know how you hate swearing. I remember how determined you were that wouldn't say 'that sucks' because it was so vulgar. But it really was criminal… and SO unfair. But then, when I used to whine that something wasn’t fair (probably something completely insignificant and brother-related), you always replied ‘Who ever told you that life was fair?’ What a shame that you had to be so right.

I’m determined to make this a happy day, but it’s hard. I miss you. I would love to share with you whatever I’ve manage to achieve so far by work, luck or grace (probably more of the last two than the first if I’m honest). On days like today, with the smell of freshly-cut hay on the slightly salty breeze drifting lazily up the Rheidol Valley, and with the garden just about to give up her gifts, I sometimes indulge in fantasies of you spending your summers here with us, with me, with Peni. They are powerful, poignant indulgences that often come to a halt all too quickly when I remember things like the striking fact that this is not your 62nd birthday but the commemoration of a birthday that could have been – that really should have been.

Please don’t worry – I am not bitter, nor am I often this morose. You have taught me enough to know that life is for the living; a lesson that, along with many more, resonates daily with me and with your happy, vibrant and very Gillespie-looking granddaughter here in Wales. No, I can’t complain that I’m normally this emotional when I think of you. But today, especially, I want you to know that I miss you and wish you were here. Happy Birthday – we all love and miss you very much.

Love,
Dim-Son