Driving back from Port Huron with a chopping block in tow, I explained to Mike that a certain terrible band (that shall go unnamed) ruined any discussion of "popping cherries" for at least a couple generations. The realization was not dissimilar to hearing of a close friend's death*. He pulled over so I could pour a Gatorade on the curb.
Maybe it's the weather but, for some reason, I'm reminded of Jesse. After work one night, he & I walked down State St. to his co-op and purchased 50-cent beers from an ancient Coke machine. I listened to him play a Coldplay song on piano for a girl who wouldn't leave the room until someone played something she knew. Instead of leaving, she stayed and sang along and I took off. I howled into the icy gale: "Is a little jazz too much to ask for?!"
* Add "in fourth grade" to the end of that sentence where necessary.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment