Hot Tub, T-Bone & Potty Mouth

It occurs to me that I never did write an entry about the hot tub.

Not that it’s all that compelling, but I did have myself worked up about it for a while. Now, I am quite aware that I could have far bigger problems than hot tub ailments, and I know that I run the risk of sounding petty and shallow, but bear with me please…

We bought this hot tub about a year and a half ago – a nice conservative six person tub (we looked at the chrome twelve person Elvis deluxe, complete with big screen TV, floating bar and DVD player, but being that ostentatious is not really our style). Anyway, in the past couple of months we’ve had three different repairmen here to fix various things that have gone on the fritz. And they all tell us the same thing: the problem is OUR fault, because apparently, we should be taking water samples in to the manufacturer every week for testing. I mean, who has time for that? It seems that our nasty water has caused many parts to become defective. The parts are not covered under the warranty if, somehow, WE – being the hot tub neophytes that we are – have unknowingly created it. Hmm, fishy. But here’s the catch: if we agree to pay each repairman a very hefty service call fee, he may be able to make a call to the big hot tub honcho, and work out a deal. It just reeks of scamminess to me … not to mention the fact that we’ve spent hundreds of dollars on fancy test kits and chemicals for the *@#!! thing!

We live in a culture where building things that DON’T last seems to be a trend. Planned obsolescence … things that go the way of the dinosaur just after the warranty expires. I’m miffed, but not miffed enough to write a song about it. Besides who could relate to a song about a broken hot tub … except maybe Neil Diamond.

I went to Seattle a couple of weeks ago to see T-Bone Burnett live. I’d never seen him before and wasn’t sure what to expect. He was amazing. His band was amazing. I was totally inspired. His music and sound is so timeless. I wish I had more hours in the day to devote to writing right now – being a mom is totally time intensive. Both babies caught a bad virus, so last week was vomit week – this week diarrhea – I’ll spare the gory details. Anyway, I’ve got all these sparkling, brimming ideas tucked away in the archives of my psyche, just waiting to be set free… T-Bone has this great tune called ‘Palestine Texas.’ It’s basically a commentary on the spiritual state of the U.S. – the atrocities committed being no different than Palestine yet parading under the do-gooder propaganda of the Bush administration. All set to the world’s heaviest, coolest riff. Jim Keltner played drums and Mark Ribot on guitar. Mark Ribot must be at least fifty, and he totally rocked. Like a teenager. It was so inspiring to see. John and I brought five younger guys from the neighbourhood with us and they were all blown away. It’s just so inspiring to hear someone writing great music that actually means something. As opposed to so much of the disposable stuff you hear these days. I mean, Paris Hilton has a hit single for goodness sake…. I’m laughing at myself right now, because I’m sure there are people who think I’m a talentless bimbo – hey, I was marketed that way – and really, I’m totally okay with that. So why is T-Bone not a household name? He’s not pretty? That might be it. Gosh, the industry cheeses me off…

Speaking of which, since I’m on a rant today … I’m watching TV the other night, and who is featured on Soundstage but a certain female artist who I’d rather not name. Anyway, I’m absolutely astounded at how utterly pretentious, self-absorbed and falsely self-important the lyrics to every single song are. Not to mention, nothing memorable or hooky or sing-along-ish. When did the record buying public get to a place where they actually buy into this shite? Arrgh! I was sooo put off. Every song started with “I, me, I, you, I, me, myself…” Followed by lots of self-examining pontificating in a liberal ‘I’m OK, You’re OK’ way, rather than an ‘I’m far from OK, and need to take responsibility for that’ way. This particular artist has made a career out of this style of writing. A one trick pony, it sounded much more believable on the first record where she was really angry…

I’ve been making my most valiant effort to curb my potty mouth and speak respectably, mostly around our two year old, who repeats everything. CRAP had become my new alternative word – to other not so nice words – “Oh, crap” – “Oh, what a crappy hot tub” – “I can’t listen to this crap,” etc. And then out of the blue a few days ago, our daughter spills her Cheerios and emphatically says “OH, CRAP!” I was horrified! It sounded so ugly and lowbrow coming out of her pure little precious mouth. Bad, bad Mommy! Check. Mommy must learn new, alternative word. Check. Mommy must review old Doris Day movies and learn how to behave. Check. More than ever before, dropping the ‘F’ Bomb is definitely no longer an option. Crap.

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