erika, that's perfect! I'm always wonderng what the soundtrack of my life would sound like. But it's more a memory thing -- for instance, ninth grade would be Born to Run, no question. But your idea is better.

ita, that one's really powerful.

I love "Radio Dad," Consuela.

Kristin, you really nailed that feeling -- "Again. Again. Faster."

This topic is incredibly rich.

One of my best kept secrets is that I don’t get music. I just don’t. My brain has this huge disconnect between what it hears and remembers and how my body viscerally reacts. I can never seem to remember who sings what. A song never gives me the impetus to dance. Music has never made me cry.

It makes me wonder about myself. What gene is missing in me that lets other people feel music? What do other people hear and feel that I don’t? Am I missing out on something incredible? Will I ever understand exactly what I’m missing out on?

Four years ago, I found out. To say I was heartbroken makes a cliché out of the deep, painful emptiness I had become. I put on Wynonna and heard, for the first time after listening to it many times, “Is It Over Yet.” Music ripped out my already chewed up heart and began to heal it.

She hasn't had a structured thought go through her head for almost an hour. She can only string thoughts together now because she's gasping for air in the overchilled and sterile ladies' room. Breathing was easier out there, driven by the rhythm, shimmering and pounding and grinding against him.

"So what do you think?" Lisa asks.

"Think?" She looks distractedly at the door.

"You gonna go home with him, or what?"

"Go home?"

"C'mon - you want him. It's obvious."

She shakes her head. Sweat flies off her, and splashes into the sink.

"Fuck home. I'm never leaving that dance floor."

Not Fade Away

I've survived.

Somehow, I've made it back from the breakup, to bare functionality. I've fled Marin County and rented this three-room flat on Russian Hill.

I'm standing in the bedroom, miserable, unwilling. The double bed looks the size of Antarctica, and about as cold. So long, since I've slept alone.

My new neighbour's Alfa pulls up, radio blaring. I hear a snatch of something familiar, resolving into a lyric: no sweeping exits or offstage lines could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind....

And I'm suddenly scrabbling insanely through the bathroom cabinet, looking for razors, pills, anything to shut out the music.

I have a new chunk on the Gravekeeper story. Anyone up for a beta?

Yes'm, please send it my way.

Sent, Bev. Thanks.

Read and backflung. Rubbing hands in anticipation. It's getting good!

Need any more betas, deb?

Yep! Sending...