The Sirens’ call
I set out to go one way, and is usual, at least in my case, the best laid schemes rarely come through. I’ll swear after Monday’s East Loop hike, I was going to retrace my steps. But I didn’t. I had a little BBQ, then as I was heading towards the downtown post office – nothing but spam in the box – I heard that Sirens’ call.
Amy’s on 6th. It was like I had no will power. I couldn’t resist. It was hot, I was tired, I had business to transact.
That mythical music was playing, though, and I couldn’t resist. I thought a couple of pork ribs [two meat plate is the Tuesday special>, some brisket soaked in sauce, figured that would’ve cured me. It didn’t.
It’s silent music, too, one that some people can never hear. But it was piped right on into my central cortex, and I was unable to refrain. Just a quick, little dip of Mexican Vanilla. No big deal?
The problem being, see, that Amy’s? Right next door to a large, independent record store. I’m not sure why it’s called a record store, either. They don’t sell many records, just CD’s, as far as I can tell. So I had to stop as I’ve had this one song stuck in my head for while. I picked a copy of Herbie Hancock’s Future Shock.
It was on sale, and therefore, I could – almost – justify the expense. Somewhere, floating in the back of my mind, there’s an image of dancing pant legs now.
