treasure

Well, thanks to Michael Jackson's death, the radio stations are playing nothing but horrible music. The guy can't even freaking die quietly but we have to hear all about it.*

I'm not a connoisseur of the radio myself, but Cindy, the paralegal and office manager, listens to it in her office. So she came to me wearing a growly face and said, "All of Michael Jackson's music makes me want to put a bullet in my mouth. Do you have any music I could listen to?"

This is almost as dangerous as asking me if I know of any good books. Got an hour?

I think my whole body lit up. Grinning, I pulled my maxed-out 75-capacity CD wallet from its spot under my desk and flipped through the pages with a slow flourish.

"What would you like to hear?" I asked. "Do you like folksy stuff? Alternative?"

As I selected recommendations, I filled her in, with all the eagerness of an extrovert freshly released from solitary confinement, on the backgrounds of the bands and their particular artistries and contributions to music and what makes them amazing.

She had to peel herself away. But she did take the disc I pressed into her hand, and said she'd listen to more.

Ahhhh. It's like hunting. That moment when you know -- you know -- that the crosshairs are perfectly aligned, the breeze is still, and there's no way in the physical universe you can miss your shot.

Bang.

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* My reaction to the news, as it flashed across my web browser last night, was, "He's dead?...Huh." And then I returned to watching Season 4 of Angel. Maybe it's callous, but come on, people. Do we have to give the weirdest, most warped, saddest and squeakiest wheels the highest concentration of flash-bulbs? Gah.