prematurely grey

When you’re stuck at the three and a half minute light at Bull Creek on the way to picking up your youngest daughter from piano lessons so you can spend an evening going to the bookstore, eating matzoh ball soup, and seeing “Pride and Prejudice,” there’s nothing like a little Van Halen to remind you that you have phantom balls, no matter how chickified your life appears.Two of the major streets of my driving life–the way to the highways and the way to yoga–NOT the way to the school–that particular fucking Austin road construction nightmare seems to be over–are under construction. Piano lessons are on the way to the highway. Driving on this street, 45th Street to those of you in the know, is a serious pain in the ass. It has been a pain in the ass for about six months and is scheduled to be that way for at least another twelve. To get through piano lesson Fridays (which used to be my happiest afternoon of the week: let’s go to the park, let’s meet at Ruth’s house, let’s have playdates so I don’t have to deal with anything), I drive to Carol the piano teacher’s house three times: 3:45 drop off kid one; 4:30 kid exchange; 5:15 kid two pick up. This schedule means that I drive through the bulldozer zone six times in ninety minutes.

Clearly, this sucks.

On the last leg of the race, anything helps. I wish someone would stand out there with M&Ms, Diet Coke, and a sign saying “Keep Drivin’ Lize B! You Can Do It!’ Or maybe, “Hang In There, Crazy Piano Lesson Chauffeur Hostage!” Or, “Only One More Near Death Experience to GO!” “No Bulldozer’s Gonna Stop You, Momma!” “At Least You Don’t Have to Do This Every Day of the Week!”

Instead, I just keep driving and wondering why the light at Bull Creek is so long. Does the Department of Transportation office 200 yards down Bull Creek have anything to do with it? Is this a more important intersection than meets the eye? Let’s see. Three 1950s houses and a tract of state land. Hmm, not quite Lamar and 38th. I don’t know.

All these questions melt away when I hear some Van Halen or another (it sounds nothing like David Lee Roth) say, “Have you seen Junior’s grades.” Here is the debut in SOTD of the fifth of the programmed car stations, perhaps the most steadfast of them all: KLBJ. Austin’s classic rock. Where I go for shelter and Sabbath.

It’s Friday at 5:10. Horizontes is over. It’s the 501 Blues on KGSR–I usually hate the 501 Blues, both musically and from my avowed anti-pun stance. I’m the only person in Austin who doesn’t care who’s playing at Antones.

I love this song. I love Van Halen. I’m proud to love Van Halen. This may be my love that knows no name. The one I feel for ZZ Top and Aerosmith. The one that keeps me in touch with those balls I discovered via Peter Frampton in seventh grade.

So, here’s to KLBJ–”Austin’s Rock”–for playing music for the fifteen year old guy in all of us. Here’s to Eddie Van Halen for letting Alex have the drums. Here’s to my insane channel surfing. Here’s to the length of the light at 45th and Bull Creek–three minutes acording to Carol–keeping me listening when I should have been picking up, in place while rushing around, completely happy in the midst of chaos.