<$Friday, September 12, 2008$>
Nothing Odd
| There is nothing odd about this Friday morning. It’s grey outside. We’re expecting rain this afternoon. I’ve still heard nothing about the interview a month ago. My current work unit is assuming I’ll be transferred over and they’re pulling all my work away. It’s casual Friday. We were supposed to wear colored shirts to show our “diversity support” for our “work team”. I picked a peach colored T today because it doesn’t support any “team”. When asked why I did this I answered “Diversity means you notice people for who they are and not what group they belong to.” I refrained from saying “Ra-Ra crap made me barf in high school. Why would I participate in it now?” As Tom Petty said, you can’t be subversive and obvious at the same time it defeats the purpose of being subversive. “W” is still pissed at me. I have a twinge of sorrow at that. I am also still committed to my choice of not repeating the “waiting story”. I have traveled a good many miles in the desert to arrive at who I am today. I am not the girl I was twenty years ago. Cousin Tuesday is fondly remembering Strohs and the rose’ wines of the 1970s. It’s amazing we lived through them isn’t it? J2 is cheering Ms. Fu Fu on from across the ocean and suggesting that perhaps when the Russians have set up their military strong hold in Venezuela then I can come and be his “flat mate” in London. If I have trouble on U.S. roads what on earth would happen to me in the U.K.? Last night my Piloti shoes arrived. The driving sneaks are the reddest shoes I’ve ever seen in my life! I danced around the house in them and giggled all the way!  The driving “shoes” are black with peach colored trim and lining. They are suede and super lovely. ( I have a suede brush in the box with my dancing shoes, so I’m prepared.) I may need to swap them for the next half size up, but I love them that’s for sure! Ms. Fu Fu is living up to my expectations. She’s lining up the sights and mapping out the campaign. She’s the red and orange energy of fire in the belly. To her the muscle isolation of dance class is something instinctual. She reminds me that it is just something I’ve temporarily forgotten. Tom Petty is on the XM radio singing “I Won’t Back Down”. It’s Ms. Fu Fu’s theme song. She also likes “Don’t Have To Live Like A Refugee”. Someplace in her CD collection she’s got a techno version of “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’”, I heard her cranking it last night sometime after midnight. Like I said there’s nothing odd about today. I got run into the curb by somebody taking their half out of the middle of the road. Luckily for me the traction control killed the power to that wheel when it hit the curb. I was able to turn back onto the roadway instead of jumping the curb. No visible dent in the rim. The tire is still holding up. The car still drives ok. I’ll have to take it next weekend and get it serviced. I just had the front end done and bought new tires in August. I’ll be glad to go home tonight. I’m Friday tired. It’s been a tough week holding down the home front with my buddies. My best buddy “D” was threatened by one of her grown kids this week. It’s been trauma drama to the max. “D” is retired on disability. She’s got a horrible form of arthritis that puts her into out of this world pain from head to foot. Her meds manage the pain so she can stand it and have some little joy in life. But she’s on disability. After working for fifty years she’s living below the poverty level. Her son wrecked his pickup truck and didn’t report it to the insurance company. He also didn’t get the front end aligned so he’s chewed off the tires. When “D” didn’t have the money to give him for tires, he had a fit. He actually drove to her house and started pounding on the front door, screaming, and frothing at the mouth about how she’s never done anything for him. She only worked two and three jobs and did without food herself to keep him fed when he was a kid. That’s not much, do you think? She phoned her daughter for help and her son in law stepped in to keep “D” from getting her bell rung. Hurt feelings, knee jerk reactions, and Romper Room behavior ensued on all sides. Now “D” has been “forbidden” to see her grandchildren. She’s also been told she’s been exiled from the family Thanksgiving and Christmas festivities. Those kids don’t know how lucky they are. If I’d have raved up on my mom, she’d have cracked my skull with a cast iron skillet. Even now she may be 82 and have Alzheimer’s but she’d conk my head with a lamp if I tried that foolishness on her. Besides, everybody knows that if you strike your mother in anything but self-defense you go straight to hell. You just get sucked right through the ground, like a reverse “assumption”. Snap! You are instantly on a spit in hell between Hitler and Sherman. I told “D” to just pack her suitcase and come to stay with me for the holidays. We’ll party down at my house. I have a “check your drama at the door” rule, so anybody that wants to start a fracas goes outside and gets a steel door slammed on their nose. Just because somebody is family doesn’t mean you have to let them abuse you. Sometimes it’s much better to love someone from far away. That is one of the hardest lessons in life. ACL where are you? When will you be arriving at my house? I’ll have my red shoes on. Wear a carnation in your lapel so I’ll know it’s you. There’s nothing odd about this Friday morning. Tonight I’ll go home and enjoy the cool rainy evening. There’s a set of Top Gear episodes on the DVR. I’ll pour myself a glass of something cool and comforting and watch Jezza stomp James’s feelings. I’ll also admit that, after Ms. Fu Fu’s comments, I might pay more attention to Mr. Hammond. But I’ll hold fast that I’ll always put my money on the wiry fighter, the compact guy has had to scrap and fight all his life. They have a spark of life, energy, and determination that makes them interesting. Of course I am still keenly aware that James May is still having more fun then I am and Jeremy Clarkson still says things the rest of us secretly would like to. Nope, like I’ve said there’s nothing odd about this Friday morning except that everything feels different from last week. What a relief. |
<$Thursday, September 11, 2008$>
Yes James May Still Has More Fun Then I Do
| Ms. Fu Fu has decided she needs to stick around and take things in hand. She took a few moments last evening to cast an eye around the household and at my schedule. We had an interesting chat. We agreed that she’s going to play a bigger role for a while. It’s an issue of self-preservation. It’s an issue of breaking the story line of “standing on the shore waiting”. More than overturning the pattern of being second choice, second priority, last on the list with friends and family, this is about no longer being last on my own list. “W” is deeply wounded that I didn’t appear to value what was important to him. The cheap shot would be to say “Funny, that’s what I just said about you.” I regret if I’ve hurt his feelings, but moreover I regret that he doesn’t see that I feel the same about him. It is the fundamental misunderstanding we repeat over and over. Wayne has brilliant flashes of empathy and understanding. He thinks of things most male minds don’t. That is his most endearing quality. He also would rather argue then breathe. In the mortal words of the Rolling Stones, “All this too-ing and fro-ing is hurting my guts.” I’m not cut out to be a theologian and argue translations. That sphere holds the school that says I’m a second class human because I was born with female reproductive organs. Spirit has tapped my shoulder in another way. If Wayne wants to sit up all night and write arguments about the Protestant Reformation then “Have a good time.” My position is that I take umbrage at being told that ten minutes a day or every other day is asking too much. Is that position sensitive, juvenile, needy, or a personality quirk? Perhaps. For me though, it is a foothold in breaking the cycle, refusing the live the story again. Does this mean that I don’t love “W”? No. Does it mean that we don’t have a long history and know each other well? No. Does it mean we still have the same misunderstandings and places where we don’t connect? Yes. Does it mean we have the same circular story repeating itself? Yes. Does it mean I have any idea how to break the cycle? No. Cousin Tuesday dropped me a line to compliment Ms. Fu Fu on her “knife throwing” skills. She is vehement. She sees her arrival on the scene as the definitive arrival of the cavalry. I need heavy duty help and she has answered the call. Now that she’s arrived, she’s going to see to it that things change and old cycles are broken. Resolution will be achieved and she’s ordered two pairs of driving shoes to show she means business. Yesterday afternoon we ordered two pairs of Piloti’s from Enless.Com. On order is a red pair of driving sneakers and a black pair of driving shoes. Winter is coming and I’m going to have to wear something besides Crocs on the commute. (Like many women, I keep my dress shoes at work.) The other night I spied the box with my red and black python Beatle Boots in them. They’re out of style at this moment, but I have my hopes they’ll make another sweep through being en vogue. When combined with a slacks suit, they lend an air of Ms. Fu Fu-ness. A month ago I embarked on a “trial balloon” for a project that I haven’t written about here. It went well so the project is on for the next five months with a possibility of an extension. My nearest and dearest, if they are still reading, will have their guesses at what I’m up to. I won’t write about it. It’s too personal to shine a big light on. I’ve just completed my monthly request for a job transfer. No dice yet again. This afternoon I will need to cook up a training plan for myself to fill in the next few weeks until the next round of projects begins. Four more dance lessons left. Two weeks until the group trip to the pistol range. I cancelled the manuscript class. There’s a colored pencil techniques class coming up that looks interesting. I use the copyright free images from Dover in my projects; new pencil techniques would be useful. Top Gear is still on the horizon around the house. Ms. Fu Fu likes Jezza’s attitude. She’s made some rather interesting comments about Mr. Hammond's response to having someone try and shove a dog harness on him in the polar adventure. Her opinion is still out on Capt. Slow. I asked her if she thought James May has more fun than I do. Her response was “Damn straight he does. But you’ve got better hair and your bristols are bigger!” I should hope so. The shoes arrive tonight. There will be dancing. Cousin Tuesday you are invited. Feel free to bring your own CDs. Bring a six of that New Schlitz in bottles will you please? |
<$Wednesday, September 10, 2008$>
Twitch
| After yesterday’s guest appearance, Ms. FuFu has made herself at home at the Tuxedo Inn. I believe she’s taken up residence in the guest room. I can hear her in there hammering up posters of the Silverstone track and Johnny Depp. She’s wound up all the music boxes in the dolls and they’re all playing at the same time. There’s a faint smell of cigarette smoke coming from under the door. Last night I could have sworn I heard the clink-clank of beer bottles piling up in the rubbish can. This morning she came in and rummaged my closet for a pair of red shoes. Lucky for her, I have three pair. Sometime during the night she loaded my MP3 player up with Alice Cooper tunes. I’d forgotten just how good an album “Billion Dollar Babies” was. “I Want To Be Elected” is particularly appropriate. Ms. FuFu’s favorite is “Hello Hooray”. Dance class last night was a good first plunge into hedonism. It’s a reconnection with the body. Think about how much you live up in your head, especially if you work a desk job. Remember the childhood days when you could look at any point on your body and make the muscles move without thinking hard about it? Remember twitching single toes, swiveling your belly button around in circles, twitching your nose, or wiggling your ears? Try it now, you sober sided grown up. Can you contract your upper abs without pulling in your lowers? How about contracting one side of your tush without the other? Think about selecting whether you will move your hip with your hamstrings, your knees, or your core muscles. Dance class was about isolating muscle groups and figuring out how to move them independently again. There were only five students in my class time. The other four had all taken the class before and sailed through twitching and isolating with flair. I kept asking the teacher for direction. After the class the teacher came up and asked me how I thought I did. I made my “Good God what have I done?” face. She told me that if I didn’t come to the next class she was coming out to my house and making me dance like a chicken. I told her I was going to come to all the classes if it killed me. Killing the ego self is critical in spiritual practice. I think this class is going to be a double dipper. I’ll bash up my ego and figure out how to shake my right butt cheek all at once! Next week, we’ll go through the motions again. In the meantime I phoned my dance teacher friend and she’s giving me remedial instruction on isolating muscle groups. Luckily for me she taught five and six year olds so she has a flair for explaining things to a "head dweller". Last night wasn’t a total loss though. I had the hip shimmy down pat! I’ve got hips honey and I know how to use them. Wickedly Yours, Ms. FuFu Ms. FuFu's Little Red Driving Shoe  P.S. Yes FuFu stands for “F.U. Twice”. |
<$Tuesday, September 09, 2008$>
Standing On The Shore Waiting
| September is making itself well and truly known. The rains have returned. The sun has that deep amber glow in the afternoons. Although the sky is still a shocking Maryland blue, there is less haze as it bumps across the trees on the horizon. From the pace the candles in my office are burning down I can well see that the light is fading earlier. The darkness has arrived again. Halloween decorations cover the catalogs flooding the mail box. Tonight I’ll take a peek in the storage room and draw a bead on where the glass cat shaped luminaries for the front window are stored. It’s time to pull out the haunted village and set it up on the breakfast bar. Only last Saturday I bought a new set of tombstones and gargoyles for the graveyard. Halloween is a gentle holiday to start the darkness of the year. We are plump and happy with harvests of apples and chocolates. We take our skeletons out of the attics and out of our closets and we laugh at them. We meet them eye to eye before we dance with them through the winter months. Autumn is when I sweep the hearth clean. I declutter the house and my life like sweeping away dead leaves and cutting back dead branches. This is the time of year when I make my sweeping changes, buying a house, leaving a lover, or turning my attention to a new career. This year the changes look smaller but underneath they are larger. Tonight I set foot in a dance studio for the first time in two decades. I had thought my dancing days were over; this fall I have decided they are not. Last Saturday I set foot in a shooting range for the first time in my life. I’ve been told that learning how to use a fire arm is very liberating. This fall I am about liberating. This fall I am about refusing to accept my story. I am refusing to let it repeat again and again. I have chosen to make it different. I find it hard to explain here, this bit about “my story”. My friends know that I believe that a “story” has a power beyond the words and the plot. I believe it has a cohesive message that radiates into “knowing” deeper then catchphrases or dogma. Story is communication on a deeper human level. We live our story as we twine out our days. Sometimes our stories repeat themselves over and over as our lives unfurl. My story has been one of standing alone on the shore staring across a wide ocean and waiting. As it has repeated itself time and again the alone-ness and the waiting have bent me under their pressure. I have been the one who waits and watches for the right time to act. I have been the one who patiently listens to those who needed to been seen and heard. I’ve been the witness, the hand to hold, the one who notices. I’ve been happy watching my friends find love. I’ve shared their joy. But when the darkness comes and the world falls to sleep, I am alone and still waiting. The Lord bears me up in all things but I am human. My need for love, comfort, solace, and joy from others often goes unanswered. I am still and yet, standing on the shore waiting. I’ve tried what most people try. I’ve been fixed up. I’ve joined social groups. I’ve even tried an internet service. You don’t find an Anam Cara with a punch list of questions. Everyone is more complex then a one minute “elevator speech”. What all this is about is more then a one night hook up or a disposable actor in a six month drama. I’m different. Just like everybody else. That’s the best way I can express it right now. Last night “W” reconfirmed all the decisions I’d ever made in our relationship. It was a true gift from providence and put me at rest. No regrets. Sometimes the best you can do is to have no regrets. “W” is wrapped up in his online chat group. He spends hours pouring over concordances and translations. He puts me in mind of a medieval holy man trying to define the spiritual world by the words on a piece of paper instead of the knowledge of his spirit. He is still entrenched in arguments and “being right” and appearing wise. I needed an Anam Cara to minister to my disheartened spirit. (A few moments of something besides dogma.) He was quick to let me know that even though I’m “important” I rank behind checking for fishing lures on Ebay and arguing Galatians with a chat group. Spending ten minutes a day paying attention to what I have to say would put a dent in his “ministry and calling” and that simply can't happen. It's the basic misunderstanding we have always had, at least for the last twenty five years or so. Perhaps it is the struggle of people who are long in propinquity. Perhaps it is my story repeating itself over and over again. My very existence was inconvenient with my family, my stepfather, my fiancé’. I have been an inconvenience in the plans of so many. When a marriage splits up, the kids are a bothersome left over after all. When an engaged man finds a woman who the office grapevine says can “suck chrome off a trailer hitch”, a fiancé is a nuisance. By virtue of who and what I am, I have been “in the way” most of my life. Well my darling friends and family, fuck you all. As the darkness comes this year I am shedding you and all your demands. Between now and spring tide I am going to be the most selfish, self-centered, hedonistic bitch you have ever seen. I am going dancing, racing, shooting, traveling, and painting at the beach. Anything you had lined up for me to do will have to go wanting. If you don’t like it, I suggest you go stand outside and stare at the stars and see if I come back.  Cousin Tuesday: You are exempt. I will be around this afternoon to pick you up. Bring a change of clothes and cash. |
<$Monday, September 08, 2008$>
September_Playlist
| September Play List Click Here to Play : 1. Long Ago And Far Away - Jo Stafford 2. No One Like You - Sarah Brightman 3. My Immortal - Evanescence 4. O Mio Babbino Caro - Sarah Brightman 5. 18th Variation from Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini - The 5 Browns 6. Alleluia - Sarah Brightman 7. Somewhere In Time (From 'Somewhere In Time') - Ron Merritt 8. Only An Ocean Away - Sarah Brightman 9. Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper 10. Polonaise in A-Flat, Op. 53 'Heroic' - Frederic Chopin Click on the title to play the playlist on Rhapsody as my guest. This month's playlist does have a theme. You get a peppermint pattie if you figure it out. (No it is not Richard Hammond either!) |
I Wear The Red Shoes
| I’m the woman who wears the red shoes. Even if you don’t see them on my feet, they are in my soul. I wear my red shoes and I dance when I chose. No cursed hokum “should” makes my feet move without my volition. I wear the shoes. The shoes don’t wear me. I’ve got the stockings too. My seams are straight. I do as I please. I earned the right. I earn my own way, I built my own home, I keep my own counsel. In my house there is God and there is Peace. In my bones is the work of the Lord. I dance when the moon is bright. I dance in the dark of night. I sing the song of life God whispers in my ear. We are happy we three, God, my red shoes, and me.  Do you ever wonder if the Top Gear boys have red shoes? Last week Jeremy Clarkson had a pair of red Nike's on for his drive in Iceland. Do you suppose James May has a pair of red boots? Hmm. Not something I want to think about really. It's been a "feeling punk" few days. Divine discontent has me roiling. Dance lessons start tomorrow and I'm ready to be on the way! I spent three hours on the phone last night with "W". I got the rundown on Bruno the Beta, Mikey the Cat, and the after market modifications on the motor bike. "True Blood" started on HBO last night and I just happened to luck out and have a free trial HBO weekend. "True Blood" is based on the Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris. I love the books and have them pre-ordered so they drop onto my doorstep on release day. I usually sit up half the night reading when they arrive. The HBO series won't be enough to get me to buy HBO. The clowns at HBO threw in as close to hard core porn shots as they could. The first twenty minutes of the one hour show was bouncing boobies, wobbling willies, and naked people romping around. None of it had anything to do with the story, but I guess HBO wanted ratings. Of course the parts where they hit key points in the development of the main characters, HBO spent about thirty seconds, cut out dialog, and threw in a lot of boob views. HBO ensured I'll stay on budget because I sure won't be paying the extra twenty two bucks a month for that mess. If I want to watch a porno, I'll rent a porno on pay-per-view. If I want Sookie Stackhouse stories I'll re-read the books. I sure don't want that momicked up mess that HBO created. Slightly out of time, wearing my red shoes, packing my bag for dance class, Justine. |
<$Sunday, September 07, 2008$>
Patience Is Knowing It Will Happen & Giving It Time To
| “Lose hope and know it will happen.” What kind of whack job philosophy is that? It’s what is written on the first picture I pulled up in the gallery of new work on Rodney White’s website. I’ve been oogling a print of his work in the framed art section of the Target store for three weeks now. Somehow I can’t get myself to pay seventy bucks for a print on a plasti-canvas, no matter how much I like it. Yesterday’s mail had a catalog form ART.COM in it with Rodney White prints in it. The prints are still price prohibitive when I look at framing things their size. This isn’t the old days when every piece of art on my walls was hung up with a thumb tack or a poster holder. I do regret that I don’t have enough wall space in my office for a push pin and white board wall. My magnificent three by five foot corkboard and two by three foot white board are both in my storage room languishing. In July when D and I went to hang up pictures, I realized I had sent a good portion of my framed artwork to auction. I had forgotten about it. My collection of Maxfield Parish is gone. Good. That stuff made me maudlin. Right now I’m looking for something to put over the fireplace in my office. An interesting picture of Billy Bob isn’t going to do it either. The bedroom walls are in need of a new picture as well. I have enough framed needlework to cover the wall and make the room look magazine perfect. But, I don’t want all the emotional baggage that comes with all the stitch work. Perhaps a black and white photograph of Paris or London. I’ll know it when I see I guess. I could just go nuts and hang a flat screen TV on the wall instead. I’d still have to have a shelf added for the cable box and the DVD player. The ceiling fan put the kibosh on my plans to install the canopy for the bed. I’m feeling no great rush on getting more artwork though. Right now I’m the project on the table. This morning I spent some mellow time reading Hunter Thompson’s “Kingdom of Fear”. I love the way he writes, there are pops and clicks that resonate to the core. I’m at the section of the book where he is manager of an all night sex theater. It makes me feel like a fossil of another time. I’m definitely the product of another era. I grew up in the seventies and eighties but I must have missed the bus. “Casual Sex” never it made it into my repertoire. Sometimes it would be easier on me if it had. I read about the antics people get up to and I wonder how they live with themselves. (Very well probably.) All that frolic wouldn’t do for me. I’m one of those serial monogamy dinosaurs. That doesn’t mean I don’t notice the sumptuous creature from the art store who dresses like a pirate. It doesn’t mean I don’t notice that Mike Rowe is built like a brick house. It only means that I endeavor not to treat men like walking dildos. “W” used to give me hell for my prudish attitude. At one point he told me “Well maybe people just do it because it feels good!” Now “W” is on the Holy Roller bandwagon, how he reconciles himself is his business. If I did what felt good, I’d have run my formerly affianced over with my Thunderbird. Then I would have reversed in order to enjoy another satisfying crunch and squish. After all, mother assures me that men do have feelings even though I’ve never noticed any. (J2 will flame me over this statement later on .) It’s best karma wise to treat them with some respect. If Jeremy Clarkson drove his tank by my house and he missed flattening my mailbox, I’d smile and wave like a good neighbor. When he loaded the gun up and took out the yowling alley cat daughter of my neighbor and her boyfriend fornicating in the street at midnight, I’d give Jeremy another wave and a smile. I’d probably even pass the hat so we could get him some more ammunition. Anyway, before Jeremy shells the neighbors, I’m still debating ordering a print of the Rodney White painting that says “Patience Is Knowing It Will Happen and Giving It Time To”. I’m sure there’s some kind of deep seated lesson in there for me to pay attention to. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon and the sky is Maryland Blue. I’m going to go out for a drive. Why? Because it feels good! Below: A pic I found today of the only one in this life that loved me exactly as I was.  |
It's Always Midnight In London
| It’s always midnight in London. At least that’s the way it seems with J2 and me. His emails to me are time stamped at midnight. I’m always answering his emails last thing in the day. When we try and connect on Messenger things are always out of whack. By my calculations, as I write this it’s 4:30 a.m. in London. J2 is most likely sound asleep. Even if he did go out for a wild night on the town! I started to write that it’s amazing that we have almost instant communication since we’re on opposite sides of the Atlantic. But when I think about it, London is closer to me then Denver. My friend “D” in Denver and I yap on the phone for hours at a time and never think about it. Top Gear and James May goodies that J2 posts to me from London arrive in my mailbox days before anything that’s sent from Denver. It’s still pretty amazing that I can now watch and entire network of first run shows from the U.K. When I was in college with my trusty black and white television, there was only a choice of three stations. Two were network affiliates and the other was Public Television. Public TV was the only one on after 1:30 a.m. Television fare consisted of soap operas, network night time line ups, and Public Television's mostly recycled BBC programs. The big highlight of the week was PBS “Live From the Met”. It’s hard to believe that I fell in love with Princess Turandot and Puccini through a twelve inch black and white screen and a three inch mono speaker. Somehow I did. PBS kept me alive more or less. While the network channels hammered me with the farm report and Dynasty, PBS had Opera, Symphony, Ballet, and Classics. PBS even had Doctor Who. I know it was a kid’s show in the beginning, but anybody talking about anything that didn’t involve tractors, fishing, or hunting was a relief. When I worked my summer job to pay for school, the older women would always say they didn’t know what I wanted to go to college for because I was just going to get married anyway. Those ladies tried to tell me about the finer points of getting a “man’s meal” on the table on time and keeping shirts mended. I decided that I would rather try and swim to England then marry a “good old boy” and become a domestic slave. Late at night PBS streamed in like radio waves from another planet. This morning when I woke up and wandered out to the kitchen for some tea, it finally hit me. This is my house. At last I have a home. Mine. I’m not living here by anybody else’s largess. No boyfriend, fiancé, or long term companion to answer to. At last I’m safe. The stepfather who beat me almost to extinction is in his grave. I'm not living in the middle of a heaven forsaken soybean field. I can play the stereo all night long. I can turn the surround sound up and watch vampire movies at 3 a.m. I finally have my single family place surrounded by a nice yard that keeps the neighbors at bay. This morning I think I gave a sigh of relief from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. This afternoon’s Saturday afternoon nap was the most luxurious ever. Outside the remnants of Hurricane Hannah watered the flowers and flipped the damper on the chimney. I turned on the television and went sound to sleep. This evening as I pried open the mail, I listened to Jimmy Buffet sing the same songs he sang when I was in college. Jimmy is still a one man party but I’m no longer a surf rat living out of her Toyota. After years at sea I’ve finally found a home. |