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My landlord calls me "Stevie." I like it.
From where he sat, at one of the many red umbrella'd tables which surround the restaurant and, consequently, impede entrance into the building, he could easily watch as I crossed 3rd Street at Monmouth.
He waved and shouted my name: "Stevie!"
"Yo, Abbey," I managed to mutter. The canvas strap of the black laptop bag knifed into my shoulder blade with each heavy step.
"Man, you look tired. You gotta stop working."
"I can't."
"Have you lost some weight?"
"That's what I hear."…
My major bitch against American Idol—other than its terminal boringness—is that it gives musicians, and that's musicians with a small "m," the idea that they can get around paying dues and just jump right into stardom. Great. Just what the music biz needs more empty-headed ninnies who have no life experience.
All this was…
Bagheera, surviving the drama, took to our bed with the vapors.
As always, welcome to visitors from The Friday Ark and Carnival of the Cats.
As always, welcome to visitors from The Friday Ark and Carnival of the Cats.
All of you LP buyers need to keep your peepers peeled for the Solid Smoke label's great-sounding late '70s release of the Rock and Roll Trio's Coral sides.