Saturday came with its easy vibe, cloaked in laziness and splendor.
A chaise lounge beckoned, and I reclined, the better to revel bodaciously.
A glass of red in hand, the radio on a slow, low, sexy jam, stretch out your hand
And touch me there, and here. Oh, the wine might fuel me, but it’s you who
Moves me, every time, every single time. Come closer, and kiss me.
Several years ago during spring break a friend and I were visiting Nashville, Tennessee, for the first time. We’d gone on a bus tour of the city and sung karaoke in a downtown bar. We’d even checked out Coyote Ugly, which was a bit disappointing. Maybe if we’d been a couple of guys it would’ve been more fun.
One of the oddest occurrences from the trip was when an obviously drunk guy in a well-tailored grey suit stumbled across a crowded bar, weaving between tables as a singer belted out a Charlie Daniels cover from the stage. To our shock, the drunk approached our table, pulled out a chair and sat down.
With no preamble the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m kind of a big fu**ing deal.”
My friend and I exchanged looks, rose from our seats, and left the bar. Neither of us needed this guy’s line of b.s.
I feel like Donald Trump is the drunk at my table. He keeps telling me what a big deal he is, and I keep walking away. He keeps spewing b.s., but no one holds him accountable. When will the GOP controlled Congress say, “Enough!” and walk away from the table? Once Kim Jong Un hits the nuclear button, it’s gonna be way too late.
I’m fond of the Coffeehouse channel on SiriusXM radio. It’s the station that plays acoustic versions of just about any song you could name. I’m not sure some songs SHOULD be performed acoustically, but for the most part I enjoy the offerings on Coffeehouse.
This week the station is playing only Christmas music, and I’ve become enamored of some of the songs.
I’d never heard of the group Civil Wars, but I really like their version of I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. It’s a new take on a beautiful old favorite.
Likewise, Last Christmas by Denny Lloyd is a slower, sweeter version than Wham!’s.
And James Taylor’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas is as wonderful as ever.
Christmas at the Airport is hilarious. I have no idea who Nick Lowe is, but he had me chortling as he sang about the travails of being snowed in at an airport on his trip home for the holidays.
Coffeehouse is Channel 14 on SiriusXM.
(Lest you worry that I took these photos while driving, let me assure you I pulled over before snapping any of these shots. We don’t want Santa to think I’ve been naughty, right?)
What wine pairs best with a white nightshirt?
A red blend of course. Somewhere between the table and my mouth my wine took a detour, landing in a splatter pattern on my chest.
I know I should have immediately applied Shout or some other brand name stain treatment, but I elected to wear it as is, pretending it’s a work of high end non-representational art.
For some reason this spillage caused me to ponder the music of Neil Young. I’ve been listening to Neil on my Alexa device quite a bit lately, and I have to wonder: Where are the Neil Youngs of today? Where are the singers who are raw and real, who wouldn’t have gotten past the audition stage of The Voice or American Idol, but who speak to the soul of the resistance?
Nowadays someone would try to clean Neil’s vocals up. They’d treat the stains and strains and commercialize the lyrics. Screw that. My nightshirt and Neil are gonna resist that shit.
Here’s Neil’s Old Man. Enjoy.
I came within a heartbeat of purchasing this box of Partridge Family paper dolls at a garage sale this morning. Thankfully I came to my senses and walked away with my dollar still firmly ensconced in my pocketbook.
There was a time I’d have bought anything with a picture of David Cassidy (aka Keith Partridge) on the box, but maybe I’ve finally grown out of my fan girl years. I texted the photo to an old friend who’d shared my fascination with David and other male teen celebrities—namely John and Barry Cowsill.
Via text we had a couple of giggles, and she asked if we could have been considered groupies. I thought about that term and its negative connotations for a moment and then responded that if so, we’d been lousy groupies, not given to indulging in drugs or orgies. We were born to be mild.
Here’s a bit of The Partridge Family’s I Think I Love You. You’re welcome.
Dissonance, we’re told, followed by harmonic resolution, heightens emotions, takes us beyond the ordinary.
One chord away from our comfort zones, straining our understanding, challenging our deepest beliefs.
Every piece worth keeping keels on an edge of unease, hiding a slip of protest between the lines, so we may join the refrain.
When one’s singing is so awful it requires police intervention, that’s really bad karaoke.
by Leslie Noyes
Standing tall and proud
Voices raised in joyful praise
An anthem for us
Outside looking in
The disenfranchised hear but
An anthem for some
Until all are free
The lyrics are merely words
An anthem for none
She waved her arms, jumped up and down, but not a single person noticed, even though there were plenty near.
Her bold orange blouse and flamboyant floral jodhpurs, a sight to behold for those who might’ve seen, had
They bothered. A certain age had rendered her transparent, of no apparent interest to the world at large. Their loss,
She thought, launching into a power ballad that threatened to shatter windows. Except no one was listening.
When the music starts,
when the beat begins,
I still want to move
like I did way back when
My hips find their groove
My feet find the beat
Hands sway in time
And I can’t keep my seat
Lord, I know I’m past the age
Of raising hell on the floor,
But when that downbeat hits
I beg for one dance more.