"The Girl From Ipanema"

I've never been especially fond of this one. It feels to much like elevator music, which is unfortunate for any song. I think elevator music had not yet reached its peak of popularity, or public awareness, when this song came out in 1963.

Speaking of which, for once, I remember when I had my very first clock radio. This was pre-LED, back when the numbers were on flaps that flipped down one after the other. I had my radio alarm originally set to the elevator music station, which is embarassing to admit now. At some point, in high school, I changed to something else, but I can't remember if the next iteration was classical or pop.

These days I don't listen to commerical radio at all. In the shower, on my fabulous garage-sale-find shower radio, I listen to the listener-supported adult alternative-folk station. I switch on NPR now and again, usually on my iPod these days, since the news is not the kind of thing I want my daughter to hear very much of on the car radio. We do financially support our local station, one of them, at least, which makes me feel good about listening.

More often than not, I cherish silence, which feels very strange when I stop to think about it. I do love music, love singing along, love dancing wildly in my living room--but these days the peace of quiet is so precious, and rare.

Perhaps, though, less rare now. After almost seven years in this house, the bar across the street, the Horoscope Lounge, has been closed for good. It was officially announced today. Suddenly it feels almost peaceful, living on a main urban road: there's no shouting outside our house in the evening, visibly less trash, less people after dark. My husband doesn't have his working lady friends to say hello to while waiting for the bus in the morning, true, but I don't think he misses them that much. I feel like having a party in our front yard--but for now, the quiet is gift enough.