My cousin wrote me from Massachusetts yesterday, and mentioned that she thought a thunderstorm was due. I had a moment of envy, as electrical storms are rare in southern California, and I miss the feeling of settling in and closing the windows against the rain. I rethought my initial response ("I wish we'd have a thunderstorm") because the mast of my boat is essentially a giant lightning rod, and the idea of being struck, even as a sacrifice to all the shorter masts on the dock, unnerved me.

I went to sleep last night under my robin's-egg blue silk comforter, and woke up at 2:20 AM to a loud rumbling I did not instantly recognize as thunder. A lightning storm had arrived, which cements my belief that I can control the weather--a benefit--but re-invigorated two unpleasant concepts:

1. The mast of my boat is a giant lightning rod; and


2. Night Moves, by Bob Seger

My parents forbade me from listening to the radio as a kid, afraid that the worldly influence of the Top 40 would lead me down the slippery slope to Hell. I did keep a small transistor radio in my room, and listened to the only station it would receive, which exposed me to the works of Bob Seger and Huey Lewis. Suffice it to say that I developed my own definition of Hell, but in the short-term, I sang along to the great classic hit "Night Moves," misinterpreting the lyrics freely.

Lived too soft, coulda used a few frowns, I sang along. What can I say? My little transistor radio was not known for its high fidelity.

The line that sprung to mind last night when I awoke to the sound of thunder was, of course,

Woke last night to the sound of thunder.
How far off? I sat and wondered

Except in my mind, it is difficult to escape my initial (and long-held) translation of that second line as:

I fell off my satin wonder.

It made perfect sense to me. The comforter on my parents' bed was quilted green satin, and that is what I envisioned on Bob Seger's bed. I assumed he fell off it due to shock at the loud thunderclap, combined with the lack of resistance provided by the relatively slick fabric.

My first impression has since, obviously, been corrected, but I cling to the image of Mr. Seger hitting the floor, stunned and tangled in puffy bedcovers. I encourage you to think of him that way, as well.

The next line is, Started humming a song from 1962, and I have occasionally wondered what it was. "Land of a Thousand Dances," maybe, or "Monster Mash." Look up popular songs of that year, and you're presented with a rich soundtrack to go with that image of Bob sitting on his bedroom floor, watching the sky light up. "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)." "If I Had a Hammer." Could be anything. Of course, a little more research on Wikipedia has sucked all the mystery out of the bottom of that particular bottle, revealing that Mr. Seger later identified the song as "Be My Baby," by the Ronettes. A slight let-down, but why should I let it change my beautiful memory?

The reality doesn't matter, because the song that comes to mind when I am woken in the night by thunder is, and likely will always be, "Night Moves." And last night, I stayed securely beneath my own satin wonder, humming a song from 1976, waiting for the storm to pass.

My song, were I to write one about the experience, would include a verse on the text messages sent between the Keelhauler and me. "Just stay in bed and listen to the sounds of nature," he advised me. "The storm is 20,000 feet above you and compact. Lightning would just go down the mast and into the keel."

"OK," I replied. "I want to go outside and look."

"OK," he wrote back, "but wear pants."

Star of the day. . .Greil Marcus