Hey, Mozart’s got a new tune out, and it’s got a beat and you can dance to it, I’m tellin’ ya.. He was about ten when he wrote it, so I don’t know about you, but I’m prepared to forgive the hint of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles I picked up in there.
Malachy’s wife was preggers. She started into craving this and that. Peanut butter and olives. Saltines and vermicelli. Liver and garlic. Malachy is constantly going to the store and fetching odd assortments of ingredients. She tells him she wants snails and cabbage. Honestly, snails and cabbage. Malachy shrugs on his coat and goes out to find such a thing. He’s passing the local. His friends call out to him. Malachy! Come in and wet your whistle, nothing more than that, surely. Malachy goes in. He comes up with an idea. Bet you can’t guess what’s in the bag, he says, to one innocent party after another. Put up a whiskey against what’s in the bag. Who in God’s green would figure Malachy would have a bag of snails?
Seven hours later, and somewhat the worse for wear, Malachy arrives home. He was hoping the light would be off, and he could sneak in, but nothing doing. He looks at the soggy, disreputable bag of snails he’s got, pawed over by various and sundry personages, thinks the better of it, and dumps them in the gutter. Then he puts the key in the lock as quietly as a man three sheets can manage, but it’s too late. His wife jerks the door open, takes one look at bleary-eyed Malachy, and wails, “Malachy, where have you been! I’ve been starving here alone.”
Malachy waves towards the snails in the gutter, and says, “Come on, boyos; we’re almost there!”
Otis Rush!
I have children, and they play music.
It’s interesting to me to see what they pluck out of the dump of pop culture to resurrect. It’s very difficult to predict in advance, although we’re more or less the same people on the cellular level. We got all the nature and more unadulterated nurture than any public school kids are ever going to get, and yet they are their own people with their own opinions. On second thought, that premise is exactly wrong. Of course they think for themselves. They don’t attend public schools where that’s not allowed.
So I can say with some standing that somewhere, Nicki Bluhm’s parents are scratching their heads and muttering, “Hall and Oates? Really?”
Sure, why not?
Sinister bass playing. My brother is a sinister bass player, and lives far away. I miss him from time to time.
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