Sunday, immediately following church, the wife and kiddies and I are rushing home, changing in to comfies, hopping in to my Kia, and heading for The Empire State. For that reason, tomorrow will be a non-blogging day, as there is a house to clean, clothes to wash and pack, and all the little details of getting ready for a week's vacation to prepare.
Ugh.
I mean . . . Yay!
Anyway, I had thought I was going to post something about going home (I had settled on U2's "A Sort Of Homecoming . . .") but then, inspired by who knows what, I decided to do something else. Before I begin this little tale and post the song, I just want to add that, if you haven't checked them out before, the Late Night Music posts over at Crooks and Liars are awesome, usually in a completely different category than mine, and hosted either by John Amato or Howie Klein. Amato and Klein are both veterans of the music business, and love music. Klein was a pioneer in the indie/punk movement in the Bay area in the late-1970's, so his posts tend to dwell on punk. Although I do love those posts (and they were what inspired me to do these little things; hey, at least I only do a couple a week, not one a day), I sometimes find Klein's little personal tie-ins somewhat off-putting. Nicole Smith, who also does a few, usually begins hers with the line, "When I was a roadie with The Clash . . ." and I feel the urge to roll my eyes and sigh heavily, a al my ten-year-old, who often gets exasperated with her father. Yet, I find myself doing the same thing, and probably getting the same reaction.
Oh, well. That's the beam in my own eye that prevents me from seeing clearly the mote in others'.
In the fall of 1991, I was on the Washington Beltway, driving to a date with a lovely woman with whom I thought I was falling in love (I was, and it ended badly; in early October, I had no way of knowing the future). As I drove, I was listening to the radio, and the song I am posting below came on. Now, I will tell you that I like this song for a single couplet contained in it. I would never be mistaken for a Damn Yankees fan. The prospect of seeing Ted Nugent, Tommy Shaw, and Jack Blades on stage together . . . it gives me chills. In this unremarkable, utterly predictable song, with otherwise really bland, typical lyrics, as I sped around I-495 on my way to an evening with someone special, one verse of the song stood out ; "When I get my hands on you, tell you what I'm gonna do. Lay you down, strip you bare, make love to you till the morning comes around."
I love it when the obvious is stated as boldly and baldly as that. Rather than candlelights and flowers, with Michael Bolton playing in the background, it just says what most men think and directly as possible. Since I was going on a date anyway, that little couplet entered my brain and never left it. So, while I really don't like this particular song, for those two little snippets of "verse" - here's Damn Yankees with "Come Again" (and, yes, I like the entendre in the title).
Virtual Tin Cup
