Raincoats

I remember sitting in Sunday school in the dank, stone basement of Saint Michael's Church in Stillwater, while my parents pretended to socialize with other adults over crackers and fruit punch. After being reminded again of hell, we spent most of each session sniffing around the choir robes, trying to find the wafers, and scribbling in coloring books.

I forget which vagely moralistic coloring book it was I was blotching with ragged markers, when the Amish-looking guy looked down on me and announced to the pint-sized congregation "you're old enough now where you don't have to color with your whole arm. Just use your wrist." I'm not into coddling, the self-esteem-everybody-gets-a-ribbon movement, but what a whacked-out thing to say to a kid who months earlier learned to control his bowels.

In 1980, four women from the U.K. bought instruments, formed a band called the Raincoats that splashed and sprayed inventive, breathing sounds. They broke up after every record, gigged sporadically, inspired other women to make happy rackets. The songs on their debut fracture and heal without painkillers. Opener Fairytale in the Supermarket has some chanting. The drums sound tribal. Spacious creativity like this doesn't just come. It's made with smiles, and by using both goddamn arms in the process.

These two seemingly unrelated incidents are bound together by the fact that I'm at work, have (another flu illness) and am counting down the hours to Thanksgiving break. Plus, I would really love some fruit juice right about now.