Art of the Odd

Last week, I had an unusually vivid dream about a Duran Duran concert. (I mean that the dream was unusually vivid — not that it was unusually vivid as dreams about Duran Duran concerts go. In fact, I think it’s the first dream I’ve ever had about a Duran Duran concert…) Anyway, as a child of the ’80s, who watched Sing Blue Silver again and again (and liked to replay the bit where John Taylor sticks his tousled head out of his hotel room door at 9 AM and says “No, go way. Too early. Go away,” because he was just too damned cute in his pineapple PJs), I’ve wanted to go to a Duran Duran concert since I was 14. Okay, 12. And I never got to. Then, of course, they broke up and I thought I’d never get a chance, and then they got back together but I’d just started a new job and had no money when they came to LA. But the dream (in which Nick Rhodes made eye contact with me, John Taylor sang to me and Simon Le Bon tried to seduce me) moved me to visit their website. And, where should they be playing next but in New Orleans, at the Voodoo Music Experience? With the Red Hot Chili Peppers, no less? And the Flaming Lips?

I spent two weeks in New Orleans in the early ’90s, and I’ve wanted to go back ever since. After Katrina, it became even more important to me. And to see Duran Duran (and several other favorite bands) in this, one of my favorite cities? “Damn,” I thought. “I wish I could go.”

And then I thought, “Well, why can’t I?”

“NovySan,” I asked. “Would you like to go to New Orleans the weekend before Halloween?”

“Yes!” he said.

I bought the festival tickets the next day. I’ll book the flight and hotel just as soon as we know how long we’re staying.

So, John — from an awkward teenager who may once have sent you a gold chain she’d worn every day for months (I honestly can’t remember if I ever put that chain into an envelope or not) — thanks for the push I needed to get me back to New Orleans. And Simon — you’re still not getting any.

I had a rare moment of human contact on the 101 yesterday. Traffic was moving slowly to not-at-all in both directions. Buzzards were circling above the freeway. (I am not joking. There really were buzzards circling over the unmoving vehicles.) I was in the far left lane, with my window down, and coming toward me was a woman in a red Jeep, with her window down. We made eye contact. Both of us smiled. A moment later, she said, “Nice car!” I said thank you. We drove on.

It felt good.

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday. Never pull off an acrylic cardigan while wearing headphones plugged into your computer.

First, I heard the static.

“Why are my headphones all staticky?”

Then I felt something. Something odd. Something uncomfortable and crackly and blue. Traveling up the cord from the computer to my headphones and into my ears.

“Oh, shit. I’m going to be electrocuted by my headphones!”

I pulled them off and threw them onto the keyboard. The static crackle intensified as my hands touched the headband and my hair. I finished pulling of the sweater, and felt the fibers stick to my fingers and heard the tiny lightning caught in the cloth. Hung it carefully over the back of a chair, gingerly put the headphones back on.

Next time, I take the headphones off first.