The fella we were ostensibly going out to celebrate, fete, and break a symbolic champagne bottle over (like with a ship) (cuz he's going away) couldn't find anything in the book to sing. I think he hit the nail on the head when he said his demeanor in the middle of the (almost all) women picking songs over the 3-ring binders and PBRs could be captured well in a take-off on The Last Supper.
He gave me this:
Imagining his plaintive Chicago is a gift. Probably better than his actually giving a shot at "Strangers in the Night" would have been.
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I happened to see yesterday that I've posted here 1,997 times. 1,998 now. Over, what, six years? I don't suppose I'll make #2000 anything in particular. But seeing that prompted me to do a little clicking back. Clicking back to some of the me who turns out to have been, partly, talking to the me of the future, which is now, whether she was thinking she was doing that or not.
I found a post I liked, about the onion chopping of the dead and not-dead. I still like it. I do find voice here. Mine. I have found it, and I do find it.
Voice is a one of the great metaphors. I say. And to get at yours, you don't have to do anything but open up your trap and let go.
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Beer, by the way, I believe, is overrated. The being drugged part has its appeal. But is it worth it?
Of course it's hard to separate the aftermath of the beer from the aftermaths of the smoke and the distorted loudspeakery. No scientific control.