Sunday Funday . . .

I'm still sorta mourning the death of Prince (and fighting the annoyance with those who feel it is relevant to his music, legacy, and talents to chase why/how he died). That said - this is just about the music . . . what it should be about. I've been a HUGE Price fan since the mid-80s. He, musically, could do no wrong for me. These folks can't either.


Sunday Funday . . .

Your song of the summer (early). AND - unlike the last few years - this is one isn't rapey or misogynistic or both or worse. You're welcome.


Awning . . .

When we looked at our house there were a few things that I noticed . . . the hardwood floors, the beautiful light fixture in the front living room, the small lawn that would, mercifully, not take much time to mow, the several thousand square feet we would probably never really want or need.

What I didn't, really, notice? Awnings. Yep. Quaint on Parisian cafes, important in Florida subdivisions, and not all that common in the heartland in recent decades. But we have them. Many of them. I didn't have any actual "impression" of them. They were just sorta there. We talked, at move in, about what to do with them (here's what you need to know about how I live my life - my strong advocacy was that we do exactly, literally nothing).

So we did, well, nothing. And then we sped through the first year of life in the warm, friendly, happy confines of Sleepy Challah. And then there was a windstorm and stuff got nutty and this huge, second story awning - closest to the curb - ripped and tore and the frame bent and snapped and it separated from the house and the pieces and fragments just sort of hung from the mountings.

So we talked about what to do with it. And here's what you need to know about how I live my life - my strong advocacy was that we do exactly, literally nothing.

And there it hangs. Sad and clumped - actually knotted around itself - and morose and weak. And I don't notice it nearly often enough. But for some reason, last evening, as I pushed the trash mini-dumpster to the curb, I looked up and saw it. And today - in the 9 AM hour - I'll call about getting it repaired. My days of doing literally, exactly nothing are behind me.


Sunday Funday . . .

People often criticize "covers" of songs because apparently the sincerest form of flattery (imitation) is not all that flattering and/or the presumption that people covering something implies they can do it as well or better is also not, well, flattering.

Then there is Sturgill Simpson. I dare you to take the stance that this is not a significant improvement on the 1988 When In Rome version that we all know and love.

This version of the song, like Helen Hunt inspired Jack Nicholson's character "As Good As It Gets" makes me want to be a better man.