My wife!  What can I say about my wife!  I could explain in detail how I love every single aspect of her existance, from the way she looks at me to the way she makes strange soft moan / snoring noises that wake me in a panic in the middle of the night.  I could go on and on about how adorable she is, about how her little psycho routines and bizarre obsessive behaviors and loving gestures and selfless acts are what make my day possible.  I could do this for days and weeks.

I'm totally in love with that chick.

Topic 2: My Father and Music.

My dad turned 59 yesterday.  He was 3/4ths of his way into a bottle of 12 year old Dewars, listening to Miles and Coltrane, smoking a pricey cigar, getting ready to throw together a gourmet pasta dish from six ingredients.  I wished him a happy, and he turned the music down and stepped outside to smoke his cigar.  He lives in a little quad-plex in Livermore, in a predominantly hispanic blue collar neighborhood.  Reminds him of El Paso, where he spent his teenage years, formed a band, met my mom, had kids, worked his ass off day and night, had his formative life.  He loves it, I can hear it in his voice. Yeah, it's California and no-one actually likes California, but he loves it.

His apartment is decorated in 1940's Bogart Egypt Lounge style.  Totally on accident, this motif.  Camels and fine worn brown leather.  Pictures of exotic locales, dark lighting, dark wood.

My dad at 59 feels better than he did in his 30's.  Is happier than he's benn, has a clear path and knows his routines, loves his family, spins wisdom and humor and love.

He and I are music fans, music afficianados, slaves to good music.  Last night we got into a discussion about which albums I was trying to find on vinyl.  I've been looking for any Robert Johnson outside of "King of the Delta Blues," the Beach Boys "Endless Summer" and "Pet Sounds," the 12" single of "Deep" by Peter Murphy, and any decent delta blues, Texas blues, and ancient Honky Tonk.  So we started talking music, which always takes hours and always is fun.  It's like talking about cars with a car nut.  We take the music apart, find relationships between artists, and introduce one another to music we'd not have heard otherwise.  I normally end up with a page of names or album titles to track down.

Right now, he's trying to track down a copy of Bob Seger's "Smokin' O.P.'s" on vinyl.  My mother has his copy, I am sure of it.  So we have a discussion about what she still has.  Which turns his mind to her, and him.

I had to back away from that.  His tone and voice did not change, and to any outward appearence his mood didn't change, but I know him as well as I know me.  I hope it was only a minor scuff on an otherwise brilliant evening; his girlfriend was on her way over, and she's pretty damn cool, so I'm sure she saved the day.

Topic C: Cars.

My fist car was a truck.  It was a 1968 Ford F100 with a 300ci straight 6, 3 speed on the column with overdrive, and one of those all-vinyl no-nonsense interiors that you could just hose out.

I loved that truck.  It was actually my step-father's truck, and he'd purchased it from his father, who'd bought it new in Santa Fe in 1967.  It ran rough until we figured out that someone at sometime had cut some sort of emissions control and the engine was compression leaking like mad. Six bolts to replace the bad hack and the truck ran like new, just like new.  The motor was as clean as the day it had been assembled.  Being a straight six, the motor took almost no room, and I could stand in the engine bay to work on it.  Supposedly pushing around 250hp and 300lb of torque, the motor was the "high output" version, intended for towing.  The white paint was impervious to scratches.  The whole package was ideal except: no stereo and no air conditioning.  Both are a detriment to a highschool student in the southwest.  But there was nothing like the freedom, late at night after work (my first part time gig was at a burger joint) driving through the cooling desert, up the quiet hiway toward home.  I loved it.  The old yellowing lights in the dashboard, the baked vinyl smell.

I now own a 2005 Acura RSX type S.  It's a Civic in many ways, is called the Honda Integra on other shores, and is a very nice, well made car.  It's like a precision instrument, a swiss watch.  It is fast, the motor is lively and loud when it needs to be, the six speed tranny is precise and perfectly done.  Front drive, which is annoying, but nothing is perfect.  More and more, though, I find myself wanting something...less.  Something dirty, impolite, with no amenities.  I'd love to get an old Ford pickup, and restore it to factory.  No hotrod nonsense, just clean and running like a sewing machine.  No A/C, no ABS, no airbags, no proper safety gear...drum brakes...three speed on the column with a kick-up overdrive....

Topic H.5: Chicks.

I mentioned my wife earlier, and mentioning her gets me all worked up.

Current celebrity crushes:

1. Amy Hadley from News 8 Austin.  I saw her lugging a camera at the opening of the Blanton.  I almost fell over.  Se does these "Fit for Friday" segments where the producers try to kill her in amusing ways.  She's cute but not obnoxiously so, is disarming in her sort of numbling charm.  I saw her putting gas in her car one day and nearly went all fanboy at the gas pump.  That's how bad this is.  Scary, really.
2. Gabrielle Union.  She reminds me of a girl that I tutored in highschool and dated for about two weeks.  Except much better looking.
3. Sandra Oh. Both Laurea and I have a huge crush on Sandra Oh.  She seems like the kind of person who'd just as soon kick your ass as say hi.
4. Julia Stiles.  For a guy who doesn't like skin-and-bones anorexia victims, this makes no sense.  Her mouth scares me.  In a good way.  And her dancing-on-the-table scene in "10 Things I Hate About You" is worth the rest of it.
5. Julianne Moore.  Yeah.  Oh hell yeah.  In Boogie Nights?  Oh my god.
6. Sarah Silverman, who I'd love to hear a dirty joke from in person.

That's it for me today.  Nothing heavy.  No offensive audio content.  No real writing.  Just, friday.