Hey ya’all! I feel kinda old school this Monday. Why, I have no idea—old eggs maybe?—but a fact’s a fact. And the soundtrack to my rather old-school day today seems to be, well, this:
Yes, complete with applause and a naked chap playing the drums and big ole awesome arm claps and cowboy hats and oiled-up pecs and bleach-blond highlights on men who look kinda like men and kinda like ladies. And, yes, even choral repetition. God, I love it.
I’ve been having weird dreams about my past. In one of them, I was about to marry the boy who lived across the street from me when I was in 5th grade.
In real life, he was notable for the trampoline in his backyard, and, in middle school, after he and his family moved from our block to another block that was still in my school district but less alcohol-friendly—presumably retaining the trampoline—for performing “Nothin But a Good Time” with his buddies to an audience of admiring 7th graders.
