Lonely Boy — The Black Keys.

And with a good song, there is dancing. Where there is dancing, there is unabashed joy. And so it is with this, a sure-fire remedy for a rainy day, a sign of things to come prior to a Halloween weekend.

The date's not bad, it just smells that way.

What if her mouth says "Thanks, I had a great time," but everything in her face and uncomfortable laugh seems to scream, "GET ME OUT OF HERE" and "THIS IS NEVER HAPPENING AGAIN" and "I'M SURE GLAD HE PAID FOR MY SUSHI," what then? I don't so much listen to words as much as I sense vibes. And being on the receiving end of a rain check thrice usually merits a night where this sort of anti-connection happens all over itself. Live, learn. Ah, but at least she had pretty eyes. At least there was that.

If dating were as easy as getting good sushi right, this world would be an easier one to live in. Not to mention? Lots more delicious.

Wordless Wednesday.

Gregory Alan Isakov — If I Go, I'm Goin'

A comfortable Sunday song never hurt nobody. I've seen this man perform and talked with him and felt the same sincerity and warmth with which he performs. It sorta makes it even better, you know?

This Saturday sense.

On some Saturdays, when the temperature's made a mad dash toward the cool, and the air conditioning's been shut off for a season, the wood floor feeling so unlike it ever has in a long line of months, fleece pants being worn for the a first time, on some Saturdays (so much like this one), it feels like a long-time-coming fulfilled requirement to still be under these scattered covers, and just this much past noon, too. And there is change in the air to add to this sunshine streaming in, these chilled toes, this day in absolutely no rush to be defined.

Wordless Wednesday.

Wouldn't it be nice?

I can get away with saying I am pretty happy being mostly alone and that I might even go out of my way to remain so, despite the rare near miss of a (gasp!) relationship. I can say this because, to a large extent, I believe it to be true: having existed as one of those single sorts for most of my life, I can say this kind of thing with more authority than most others can even get away with. I'm pretty good at the solitary way. However, on a night like this one, I can see where having someone to come home to, simply to unload on for as long as it takes, might do some good. A whole pile of good.

Driving home from work today, I attempted to come up with a single understanding ear or friend that I might do that sort of thing with, too, and failed each time I thought I had it figured. And so the commute happened, radio shut off, and it was just me against my thoughts. Which, you know, I don't mind all that much. I'm used to them. They tend to make sense. It'd just be nice to have that someone around to tell my troubles to, as they've happened to bubble to the surface. Just once a year. Once a year isn't too much to ask after that sort of a thing.

Or perhaps I just need a dog at my side, once and for all, one that'd have to listen, no matter what.

Time — Paul Jacobsen & The Madison Arm.

And every passing year is just a deeper shade of grey.
And the kid in all the polaroids slowly fades away.

I miss Ruth's Diner.
My Radio Flyer.

Andy Williams: still terrorizing after all these years.

Happiness isn't taking joy in discovering your kid sister is more than a little bit terrorized by a certain Andy Williams album cover because "he won't stop looking at me," propping up said cover near the dinner table in the early 80s and proceeding to enjoy watching her squirm and whine all the way through the meal, dinner after blessed dinner. Oh, no. True happiness, then, is finding album after album of his in the back room of an antique mall on a Saturday afternoon, snapping photos of each, then sending them her way, these twentysomething years later, discovering he still has the same effect on her. Now and only now do I understand true joy. Now my heart is full. 

 

Slippin' Into Darkness.

Maybe today (or this weekend ... or any old time after it, even), you should listen to this mix I pieced together, oh, earlier this year or the year before it. I was doing a mix exchange with a friend of mine and, instead of grabbing at whatever new songs of the moment were being posted in various corners of the internets, I decided I'd make something more thematic, something that came from careful collecting of albums and old-fashioned compact discs over the years. I dove into my shelves and this is what I came up with. And, in the end, there was some white man dance boogie goodness going on. I'd almost be proud of it, too, but it's the music and mood that makes this one; all I did was piece it together. It's some of that old school soul, old sweaty funk, new funk (which is nothing like crappy new jazz, but maybe less sweaty), Blaxploitation kind of goodness. It's like breaking off a piece of Quentin Tarantino soundtrack. May it serve you well, should you choose to take the click-and-listen journey.

The Force is Strong with Me.

I'm not very certain anyone comes to this spot on the web much anymore, what, with all of the other more worthy distractions out there, but I felt like I needed to come here today, if only to share this tidbit to the couple of avid Google Reader checkers out there dying to know whatever tends to land here.

I left my hooded sweatshirt in my friend’s car after lunch yesterday. Since he works a couple floors up, he told me to run out to his minivan (no laughing) and he’d open it for me from there. As I arrived, he opened it, just as he said he would: the whole side door opened up by itself. I stood next to his car and pretended I was opening it with The Force, quickly grabbed my sweatshirt, then proceeding to close it with The Force. Somebody pulled up near the car while it was all happening. 

I didn't stick around to see the looks on their amazed faces, but I’m pretty sure they thought I was magic.

Nature jog.

millcreek canyon, somewhere near dog lake