I Am Transported By The Pan Flute...

...Then Flummoxed By It.

It starts in my car.

I am driving on the 405 freeway with Morticia. Traffic is moving pretty well and we're listening to some sweet tunes on my new satellite radio system.

Morticia scrolls through the XM stations, checking them out, one by one. All at once the car is filled with the dulcet and soulful tones of the pan flute.

Its ethereal melody whisks away the urban sprawl around me and by the time the wind chimes begin their enchanting tinkle in the background, I am an eagle soaring above the breathtaking rock chimneys and sand pipes of our great Southwest, thrilling to the rush of dry air under my majestic wings and wondering when Georgette (that was her name, right?) is coming back to start my 60-minute Swedish massage.

I am also asleep.

[Note: this is not cause for panic, for two reasons. 1. As a mom, I am a champion multitasker. 2. I come from a long line of sleep-drivers, chiefly my father, who once napped peacefully while piloting our Delta '88 the entire length of the Great Smoky Mountains Parkway in a hailstorm.]

Morticia tells me when I awake that the XM channel is called "Spa." Really? Massage music? A whole channel of it? What's up with that? I picture the DJ in a terry cloth robe with little cucumber slices on his eyes. Do people call in requests and, if so, what are the song titles?

"Uh, yeah, dude, can you play 'My Heart is a Hot Stone Without You' by The Exfoliators?"

And who are these bands? Do they know they're making massage music? Do they get together in their garages on the weekends with a cooler full of longnecks, slapping high-fives, griping about their old ladies and talking about how they are going to raise the effing roof - yeah! Does the pan flute player walk in wearing a studded leather jacket and holding a little black case lined in red felt and covered with AC/DC stickers? Or is it just the opposite - his pan flute hangs jauntily from his shoulder by a strand of raffia, nestled against his organic cotton messenger bag?

I need to know how this works.

What about record contracts? Does some fat cat music executive suddenly jump up from the massage table in the middle of his weekly Lomi-Lomi, spit out his cigar and yell, "By God, that's the sound I've been looking for! Get those kids on the phone, now!"
And think about this: do they play gigs? If so, where? I picture a guy with a pan flute and another holding a wind chime, standing on the sidewalk outside The Whiskey up on Sunset Boulevard with all the Lycra-wearing hair-band guys. Hmmm. Or maybe they're more of a coffee-bar act, playing where the audience has at least a fighting chance of staying awake if they mainline enough espresso. Senior centers seem like a non-starter - that's just asking for trouble.

More importantly, do they have [gulp] groupies? What would that situation even look like? The pan flute guy stands at the edge of the stage, one foot perched on the monitor as he rips off a scorching solo while scanning the crowd and motioning with his eyebrows to his security guard: That one there in the second row...the one in the embellished t-shirt with the crystal glasses chain...bring her to my dressing room after the show?

What does the crowd fling onto the stage when they get worked up, sprouted bread? Dream catchers? Birkenstocks? At the climax of it all, does the lead guy smash his pan flute over an amp? Or set it on fire like Jimi Hendrix? Do they trash their hotel rooms like The Who? Or play Mancala with the roadies instead?

It's about this time that the frantic burbling of an accordion explodes inside the car and Morticia announces that she's found the all-polka channel.

Polkas? Really? Now, how does that work?


I want to send a huge thank-you to Margaret at Nanny Goats in Panties for this hilarious tabloid-style "interview." Margaret is a true comedy ninja whose posts consistently bust me up. She also builds all her own furniture. Go figure.

And thank you to Mommy's Martini for this delightful lemon drop: