Difficult Music

Music found me last weekend, rather than vice versa. We drove around a fair bit and took our chances with CISL 650. Musky Welshman Tom Jones asked his special lady to help herself to his lips and also to his arms. She just had to say the word and they’d be hers. Alllll right. Yeah. The Beatles pointed out the inadequacy of the seven-day week for showing how much they care, bookending their observations with an intro and outro of the purest genius. Between songs, the increasingly senile and surreal Red Robinson plugged the Grease DVD so urgently that I suspect his RRSP was indexed to its sales.

Saturday night saw me slipping into a wine and cake-induced coma while watching Jackie Brown, which has a damn fine soundtrack. I would have liked to have seen the whole movie, but I’d done myself an injury.

Seals & Crofts serenaded us over Sunday breakfast at the White Spot. A summer breeze blew through the bacon on my mind. Or something. Phew, that’s a stretch.

That afternoon the stinker (in town for her semi-annual bath) and I made art to the creepy strains of In the Woods. She outclassed and out-produced me, running down the hall every couple minutes to deliver pieces to her favoured clients.

I’m looking forward to this weekend. Super is sending me emails about some kind of Saturday night gala he and the Fatman are cobbling together. I’m afraid I’m expected to participate. I have no idea where this is to take place. As long as it’s not at the Coppertank Grill I think I’ll be okay.