For some reason, my husbo and I are posting songs that make us uncomfortable. Make us uneasy. Make us lash out. Music, it matters. Clearly. Oh the tunes. Painful to reflect. Tonight, he is off delivering beef to athletes. Grass-fed beef. If you’re going to eat beef, do it right. Grass-fed and grass finished. Never a grain.
While he was away, I posted an Ani Difranco song. Fair enough. He posted Yes, I respond.
Playing this song reminded me of a moment in my college years. Grabbing what few bucks we had, my roomate and I went out on the town. The cheap town. The one up the road. Where the sidewalk ends. And ladies of the night begin. A pizza joint on Aurora ave in Seattle. Such great pizza! Such amazing weirdos!!
She started an argument. She started it, I saw her. Lamb puppet was having none of it. She fired filth. We all heard it. Lamb fired back, in an expected lamb voice. The two went on and on. They sat next to the fire. We called for the check. She still argued. We gathered data on people who talk to puppets in a remote pizza joint by a roaring fire. In a town where roaring fires was an attraction. This was for me. With no advertisements. Thank you Puppet lady. I’ll find your tip jar. I will. To my roomate, I can still do puppet lady and she will laugh. A hearty laugh. The one where you are so happy and also have no idea what the hell is going to happen in the next minute or next few months laugh. That laugh. A good place to be. Scary and also …