Dear Jennifer Lopez,
I’m in that wonderful time of year when I don’t have a single tv show to work my schedule around. I don’t have cable or any kind of digital recording device so the number of shows that I could potentially waste my time on are much less than the average American. And yet I still find myself watching a whole lot of tv when I could be spending my time working on a design for a jet pack that can hold more than 30 seconds of fuel. (Oh to have a jet pack.). I justify it because a lot of what I watch is on PBS which is essentially NPR for the eyes and the only thing wrong with NPR is Carl Kasell’s voice, which can only be described as jowly. PBS does not have Carl Kasell which means I can spend hours watching American’s Test Kitchen and Foyle’s War without having a single seizure. And yes, even I am amazed at how 80-year-old-ish I am.
During this golden season I find that I have a lot of time to read and sew and color (my latest: “Dude Descending a Staircase”). It feels really luxurious, like I’m actually living my dream of being an Independent Woman of Leisure, and I make all sorts of resolutions to not get hooked on any tv shows when the season starts, which leads to resolutions to work out every day and go to bed earlier and eat lots of leafy greens. And then the Office comes on and the world cannot possibly expect me to miss the Office, or American’s Next Top Model for that matter. And what goes great with anorexic 20-year-olds whining to Tyra Banks about how their lives are over if they don’t get that Cover Girl contract? Bert & Rocky’s ice cream. And then suddenly my resolutions are out the window and lethargy sets in for the winter.
This brings me to my point: you should really take better care of your husband.
You see, all this reading makes me kind of sleepy. Because I’m an 80 year old woman I can’t read for long periods of time without falling asleep on top of the book. The other night I got back to the Duke’s place after work, made myself some dinner and read for a little while. Around 8 I noticed that I was falling asleep in between paragraphs and that’s just too early for me to be doing that so I turned the tv on and started watching a tribute to Paul Simon. He was getting some award from the Library of Congress (Did you already know that there is a Librarian of Congress? How can I get that job? Maybe you have some connections that could help me out.) I was pretty excited about the show because I love Paul Simon. He's my go-to guy. Whenever I can’t decide what to listen to (I also do not have an iPod, so I’m 80 and a cavewoman) I can put in any Paul Simon cd and not skip a single song. During my formative years the Concert in Central Park tape was on constantly in my dad’s truck. That album is the soundtrack to many fond childhood memories, like my first time to Acres of Books.
I was not disappointed by the show. You were there so you’ll remember the line up: James Taylor, Lyle Lovett, Allison Krause, Stevie Wonder, basically every one I love. Seriously, Lyle Lovett singing a Paul Simon song is about as good as it gets. And you’ll recall that they had all these other performers from different genres doing covers. Gospel, cabaret, even Steven Marley doing The Mother and Child Reunion, which was just the right amount of reggae. It all wrapped up with Paul coming out and singing, among other things, Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes with Ladysmith Black Mumbazo. Really cool. It was only made better by some very comically dressed back-up musicians, two of whom were in kaftans, and you know how much I love a man in a kaftan. It was pretty much the perfect show.
Except when your husband sang El Condor Pasa and Late in the Evening. I know to a producer he would be the obvious choice. Ricky Martin has been too busy reinventing himself for the last 5 years and Marc Anthony is the only other marginally talented popular male Latin singer and they’re kind of Latin-y sounding songs so why not.
Well, I’ll tell you why not. There is nothing more painful than watching a 92 lb. consumptive mamboing across a stage. Those dark sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made me want to wrap a shawl around him and sit him down on a fainting couch with a bottle of laudanum.
Please J-Lo, feed him a sandwich and find a good doctor.