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A month away from the console usually results in a few butterflies before the "on air" light goes on... having the cat goose-step across my belly at six-thirty in the AM for the rude awakening, threw the usual defenses out the window. Instead, it was a groovy situation (Thank you, Dave and Ansel.). Vented some political bile, thanks to backup from rumblelizard. Lots of good new music (reggae without synthesisers from Prince Allah), good calls on the phone, shooting the shit with The Birmingham Troubador: who provided the inspiration for my next bumpersticker. Affixed to his cap, above the brim, was a strip of duct tape... a flub from cabinetmaking, I thought at first. No, more clever than that. "A fake hardhat?" says I. Much Better... a subtle dig at the Twang Dynasty.
Well said, Pierre. All through the afternoon, the view through the studio window was wet,contrasty greyscale. When I finally stepped outside, it was like something my Grandmother would have said: "Like pouring piss out of a boot." Frigid, slating rain damply fusing with the aroma from the chinese restaurant, next door. A smell I will always equate with the radio station. Descent into gridlock. Escape to the sushi house that I've fallen in love with. Hot sake. Shrimp ball soup (You Try!). Daikon salad. toro-scallop-uni sashimi. I bask in the afterglow. Uni... sea urchin roe... the "foie gras of the sea." Years ago, this would've pranged my gag reflex... just the ovum part. And I don't like liver, either. But, a flavor that in its complexity just says... "woman." If memory serves me right. I praised the chef for his style, his choices at the fish market, and his sharp knives. I though we'd never stop bowing. All the way back home, Miss Jane was along for the ride... silent in the passenger seat, as always. I could not stop from thinking in French. Translating backwards and forwards, I remembered that this tongue finds its charm in enhancement, enchantment, and l'amour fou. Saying everything in all the ways that english fails. But they never left my head... they wouldn't be understood. All defenses intact. All mine. These butterflies have flown. My epitaph, should it ever be written (and I'll not be leaving behind a granite slab after the ashes are scattered), will be: "His Mind Was Somewhere Else." That could benefit from some editing. |
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