The Melody of Our Lives I t’s 5:30 a.m. again, and my alarm explodes with the snarling opening guitar cords of the Reverend Horton Heat’s punk cover of the Johnny Quest theme - which on weekdays, sends me to the shower like a firefighter answering a call. An hour later, Angela’s phone lights up with a shimmering pop melody that I don’t recognize, but greets her as if the sunrise has learned to sing. In the hubris that is our morning ritual, I stumble toward the coffeemaker for a second time, fueled by rebellion and caffeine; she’s still stretching in bed, a smile that greets the day like an old friend. By our 7:30 a.m. drive time, I mutter at the world, and have to shout above the din of our Rice Krispies (Police, Synchronicity II!); she hums along with it, such a sweet creature (Harry Styles!). Somehow, after all these years, the punk rocker and the pop princess still manage to meet back in the kitchen at day's end, tired from the trials of work life, but energized, too - e...
