The Wrong Kind of Music

Last night, 11:00 pm. It’s still 80 degrees, and I’m still sweating from my Montecito Heights bike ride. We’ve got all the windows open and a fan going.
Sitting at the kitchen table, doing a puzzle together, occasionally swearing about the sticky, tongue-out, no-let-up heat wave. First of the year.
“Hey, can we listen to this record I got today?”
So I throw it on. Nutty jazz music for a few minutes. Then moody synthesizers for, like, ten minutes. The: silencio. I think the record’s over, but every once in a while I’ll hear a pop from the vinyl. Then come the surges: terrifying, weird crashes of discord and clamor, stabbing through the speakers every 45 seconds or so.
It’s still hot as hell.
“This music is scaring me.”
And she’s right. It’s scaring me, too. I usually pride myself on choosing the right kind of music for the occasion, but man, when it’s a sweltering hot night, it’s really hard to chill out to David Lynch’s Mullholland Drive soundtrack.

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