Your desert island seven? I'm thinking, of course, about the seven albums I'd have the unlikely fortune of bringing with me when I'm indefinitely stranded on some tiny beach in the pacific ocean. These really only matter if I can figure out how to power a record player with coconuts, but it's the thought that counts in the end.
Sly and the Family Stone are so completely mellow that I'm surprised their greatest hits compilation cannot hope to fight for a spot on my list. Most of these songs are impossible to enjoy more than once in a few days, though, so that might contribute to whatever sympathetic feeling currently eludes me. The ones you don't hear every other hour on the radio station, however, and Hot Fun In The Summertime, would be sorely missed.
On some other note, it's much easier for me to smoke and type when the cigarette is in my left hand.
I mixed a drink today that I really enjoy, and wonder what to call it. Since I'm not suppose to dip into the restaurant stock I usually go for the well stuff, which is a little harder to account for and much cheaper to resupply. Gin and ginger ale--one part gin and two parts ginger ale, as it seems to be--and a slice of orange squeezed in. Drop in whatever's left of the orange and finish this off when your cup's empty, the meat soaks up the flavors real nice.
Joni Mitchell is on my desert island seven, and her contemporary welsh prodigy, who I've mentioned many times already. Listen to Free Man in Paris and Jem's I Always Knew back to back and tell me that she isn't cut from the same cloth, er, playing in the same groove.
Beatrice is away to Los Angeles for almost a week. Will he be a different man when he returns? Unlikely. He has a blog that I follow, as discretly as possible, but since it's common knowledge I've long spoiled any chance of reading about myself on it. Which is a shame, because if he has any grievances beyond what debts I haven't paid him, I don't know about them. Including whether or not he's been awake on nights when Lovely and I have spent intimate time together in my bed, an arm's length from the one he sometimes snores in.
He complains about other things on this blog, however, and quite honestly it's the steam of those minute frustrations that also makes him unbearable at times. Read his blog, which is fizzling out (no surprise), and you meet a bitter stranger whose infatuations last until they let him down. He started it to comment on life through his glasses, and ultimately discovered he was recording a log of his personal failures, which continue to depress rather than inspire or motivate. I suppose, given the volume that Beatrice perversely fascinates me, that I use this space to complain a little, too. But maybe, if I'm still writing here in a few years, this blog will document those dusty details I have no hope of remembering, instead of the discouraging feelings I didn't chance to change.
It is the middle of July. In just over two months, Beatrice's blog with be a year old.
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