Summer's Here: The Cicadas Are Whirring

Thid image has nothing to do with the post. But, it was these three guitar maidens, or a far less
charming cicada. This came from smashintransistors, and shows a
"girl group power pop band" called the Baby Shakes. Pictured, in what order is not known, Mary, Judy, Claudia, and not pictured, their detached male member, Dave
Rahm Murat.

There's a couple of sounds indicative of the South and a place and time. First, is the zipping exhalation of a screen door's spring, and the subsequent percussive slap when the door shuts. One of the great opening lines of any popular song enshrines the nature of that sound of summer--and by a composer with a song that cannot be confused with anything Southern, Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road. He certainly must have known about screen doors slamming and porches, because a welter of memories and associations are packed into these few lines:

" The screen door slams
Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely"


The other aural season indicator that is more prevalent these days than screen doors slamming is the whirr of cicadas. They are returned to Colonial Avenue, these chanting monks of summer, seeking not enlightenment but the propagation of their species. Their biological imperative commands them and their music is far more lulling than the hoots and rap music of sideways-baseball cap frat boy chippy chasers.

The buzzing in the trees is commensurate with people out and on their front porches, crowding balconies, parties that spill into the sidewalk; or in the early evenings, a glasses of chilled wine, or strumming the guitar, or just sitting and reading. On my way home from work I pass by a couple w ho brings dinner out onto their small front porch. They have a bottle of wine and little candles. Or they are playing cards and I hear their triumphant slap on my way by; the couple recognize me and wave.

These are summer sounds in this part of Richmond. I welcome them--but not the heat-- and an occasional brief thundershower to cut the humidity.

I suspect, perhaps hope, that one of the collateral social tremors that may occur as electric bills rise and people seek relief from the closeness of their living rooms, that they may be using their porches more. If they have them. I'm quite thankful the neighborhoods near mine are of the vintage when porches were regarded not as an affectation, but a real part of enduring the warmer seasons and community connection.

I've hear porches described as "the missing room." They are the nerve centers of a community, or should be, if it's any kind of community. Here's a memoriam for the porch.

We even had sleeping porches on the second floor where, before they got turned into media dens by later inhabitants, were where a family retreated at night. All the windows were opened and whatever meager breeze could be felt was helped along by a ceiling fan. And, while we're at it, let us pause to praise ceiling fans.

Air conditioners have made the South livable for those who can't take the heat. Hell, even I have difficulty with blast furnace weather. But we practice restraint here on Colonial Avenue in regards to artificial cooling; cost is one factor, drying out the air is another, and a wafting breeze is just so much more relieving (provided the air isn't clammy) than a constant blowing of cold air.

Where I work I'm right under a vent. This is an older retrofitted brick structure, which I love and am able to get to by walking, but: the cooling system is difficult to adjust -- one side of the office freezes, the other side bakes. Frankly, if we practiced what used to be the case in Spain and other countries, during the heat of the day, you go home. Get a long lunch, have some afternoon delight, whatever . So much more civilized and less stressful, you ask me.

Greta Got Nuptialized


Speaking of heat, members of the billion-eyed audience are aware of my unabashed admiration of Greta Wodele who hosts the morning Washington Journal on C-SPAN. I know I'm not the lone wonkish nerd guy out there who holds this view, judging from my Sitemeter, of people who've come to this post. And even Esquire Magazine's Scott Raab could see the reason for my assessment. And other people could understand why Esquire made the decision, as seen here on FishBowl D.C.

Well, she went and got herself in the marital way--back in May, actually, and she's now Brawner. A few weeks ago a caller asked her outright, "Did you get married?" and she responded with one of her smiles, "Yes, yes, I did" as though you couldn't notice the sizable glittering adornment on her heart finger. At any rate, the best of all happiness is wished to her and Mr. Brawner.

That's going to take some getting used to. Look at her. She's like our Mona Lisa of public policy. Except, of course, Greta does research, write and conduct herself as a journalist. She doesn't need graphics and theme music. She already has them.

Is Esquire Reading The Blue Raccoon?


Probably not, though I am given to wonder of late about some interesting New York hits on the Sitemeter a few weeks ago when I posted both about the would-be candidacy of Dennis Kucinich and C-SPAN siren Greda Wodele (pictured above, in her glory).

Both show up in the November issue of Esquire with"The Sexiest Woman Alive" Charlize Theron leaning on a wall in a tank top and peering at you over a raised arm, like any number of men must've imagined her bracing herself against the doorway of their bedrooms. Yeah, I used to read Esquire for the articles. No I just get it for the Scarlett Johansson center fold. Wow. This one almost burned a whole in the 7-11 bag.

There, on page 165 in the "Women We Love" section, is Greda, assayed by Scott Raab, whose lush phrases aren't perhaps as gushing and fantastical as mine. He admonished me -- maybe without knowning-- and betters my description: "She is not hot, she's beautiful. Her hair, thick and mahogany shows no more traces than having been put through more than a brush. Her dark eyes are moist, her smile prim and pink. Each facial plane--her high, wide brow, that long, smooth heart-shaped stretch from cheekbone down to neck-- sings in milky harmony. That face would make old Plato--Plato's dust--rock hard."

That last bit was a bit much, to me, though I thought my, "At least in this messed up world there's one of her," was OK.

Curious, but it is the same Scott Raab who gives Dennis and Elizabeth a big exclamation point thumbs up. (p.183 and following). Dennis isn't that short--5'7" but she's six feet and wears heels. In my August 18 post, I suggested to Kucinich that he go home and set up a kind of permanent campaign fair, with rides. Well, photographer Michael Edwards posed the goofy-in-love couple kissing on a carousel. I didn't know she is the third Mrs. Kucinich. Well, he's not running as a marriage and values candidate, at least not in a hypocritical way.

I'd touch a computer screen for him, if I could, but that opportunity won't be allowed because corporate-funded centerist candidates are going to kick him out of the way. I voted for John Anderson, too. But the man who defeated him, Jimmy Carter, helped put me through college so that I didn't owe anybody a dime. Which is why I don't badmouth Jimmy.

The Distinguished Representative from C-SPAN:
Issues. Answers. Hotness.



She'd never accept a Maxim offer.

Thank goodness. She is reserved for us in the bubble of C-SPAN's wonky aspect, where we in our solitude can imagine otherwise. We get to watch her punch the phone, and glare from atop imperious cheek bones through eyes that cut into the future, the truth, and everything that makes this shambling suicidal republic great. I'm calling on the line that allows me to say with nervous respect: politics and social discussion should look and sound as good as you do at 7 a.m. I acknowledge that my infatuation doesn't get us any closer to solving these problems before us, but I had to say so. There it is.

She's the person, whom, meeting her at an all night coffee shop, you'd talk past three, and you'd fall hopeless for her within 10 minutes or less. She's enticing and makes puns that you don't get, and she's keeping score. You nod and say uh--huh as she schools you: Adlai Stevenson, Harold Stassen, Barry Goldwater, Norman Thomas. You walk alongside her to her Metro stop and it's snowing, and she's wearing a vintage big, black coat -- a military cut maybe from Woodward & Lothrop, from a half-century ago--and her hands shoved in the pockets and head bent forward so all you see is her hair tumbling past the collar--Why isn't she wearing a cap? --you watch as she descends the icing stairs into the earth to catch her train. The two buttons in the back get smaller, and the snow gets bigger, and sighing a cloud of breath you think: At least in this messed up world there's one of her.

Later, you fall asleep, dreaming of her in one of your old concert T-shirts--maybe Tom Petty-- with the sleeves ripped off---- and a pair of worn jeans, hers, and how you'd always have to think of what to say next and how good that would be.