I just got back from LA where I had entirely too much fun, and I've been tired and ratty all day—as were most of the people I dealt with. (Hmm, could that have been a reflection of my attitude, I wonder?)
It’s Monday. Blah-day. It’s been raining for eight grey hours and no one wants to be working. But I try to make a conscious effort not to wish my days away, even the dull ones, and so I did what any sensible English woman my age would do. I called it a day. Came home, plugged in the woofer, revved up the bass so the floor vibrated, and leapt around my apartment to Eminem until I couldn't breathe. “White America…I could be one of your kids. White America.”
Tomorrow it could be Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, Etheridge’s My Lover, REM's When a Man Loves a Woman, or Ali Farka Toure’s Ai Du.
The equation is simple: Music feeds the soul. The soul feeds the spirit. And before you know it, Hey Baby I’m Back!
4 comments:
Vicki or bibi, you rock!!
jon d.
Hey Jon...not so sure my downstairs neighbor would agree with you, LOL.
I guess it's true then that music soothes the savage beast. Or in other words, do not ask for whom the bass beats, it beats for thee.
LOL ... so true John!
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