If you're happy and you know it, skip this post.

Okay, this one is a downer. That being said, if you're happy and you know it, skip this post.  I went to Memorial Gardens today to visit my mother's gravesite. It was a splendid day, a light breeze was blowing, and songbirds were singing in every tree. The grounds were beautiful, and there were several families there to visit their loved ones. Many, many graves had small American flags blowing gently in the breeze over them. As soon as I got to my  mother's grave, I plopped down next to her (on her left side - my side) and burst into tears. I wish they had been tears of grief or sadness for her loss or gratitude for her peace, but they were tears of shame and recrimination and helplessness for feeling that I had failed her so badly in her last weeks and that I have since made such a cock up of the life she worked so hard to help me make. I have no doubt she is not a peace - she is one seriously pissed off mama. She was not one to forget or forgive, so unlike a good Catholic who can visit the priest for the Sacrament of Confession, I left my confessions at the grave, but departed with only a sense of unending penances. No absolution. Maybe some of you wonder why I articulate something this personal in a public forum. The reason is that there is no difference between thinking it or writing it down in a journal or a blog if there is no one to read or hear it. Sometimes nothing will do but to indulge in Whitman's "barbaric yawp" just to confirm that I am still here. "Hello? Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home?" Damn you for giving it a name, angst, Søren Kierkegaard. I couldn't go to Greenfield or Trezevant to visit the rest of my family because I'm afraid to take a trip with the giant crack in my windshield. I think I will feel better when I go, though, because they were more likely to seek solutions than find fault. Maybe I'll gain some insight from them. Here's hoping I have an epiphany - preferably not one that blinds me while I'm on the road.

Why does a good word like "rumination" have to be spoiled by association with a cow chewing its cud?

I have faked my way into the age of technology pretty well up until now, but I am stumped.

Where does one find liner notes in the digital age?

The Allman Brothers "Live at the Fillmore East"

Back when artists actually released LPs, there was always that big old album cover and often an insert that contained not only information about all the composers, session musicians, back up singers, and guests, but also told wonderful anecdotes about the writing and recording of the songs. If you were really lucky, you listened to an FM station with a DJ that shared even more anecdotes, the history of the artist(s), and probably some freaky gossip like the time Duane Allman swallowed an entire bottle of Coricidin D while pulling an all-nighter working out a cover of Statesboro Blues. Not gossip, BTW.

Now, performers (I hesitate to use the words "singers," "musicians," or even "artists") barely release a CD because almost everyone just downloads singles. Is there anything on those CDs except credits?

Is there any place online to find that old school information? If I want to know who is singing backup to Kanye West on "Gold Digger," I can go to You Tube and recognize Jamie Foxx. If I really want to know who is singing "Lover Man" with Duke Ellington and it's not on You Tube, I'm SOL and even if it were, I wouldn't want to bet money on knowing a songstress from the 1930s who doesn't get her own credit on the track title. You can bet your sweet bippy that if Ella Fitzgerald sang with Duke Ellington, her name was right there next to his. AND JUST WHO IS BACKING UP LES PAUL ON CARAVAN? That bassist probably went home complaining, "I've got blisters on me fingers!" See? If you had a great FM DJ or had read the liner notes, you would have just gotten that joke about the blisters.

This is what Google has made of me: an instant gratification information junkie. My friend AJG has just taught me a new tech-acronym: GTS. I had to Google it. Thankfully, it is the perfect expression for that compulsive need to get to Google NOW.