“Maybe it’s the scallions. Maybe she’s Italian.” – Michael Franks.
You have a word for all the things your date does. Madlibs for the deliriously in love. Every sentence filled in with optimism and affection. You’re joyful and triumphant. Your date: intuitive, sensual, sexy, smart, super fantastic. There was no fracking to find it. It was extracted from the goodness of real life. Above ground. Grounded even. Flaws sewn into 24 carat-lined pockets, because even those are too beautiful to throw away. Dig deep into them. Use your words. Tell your friends. Hell. Throw it all on the table. There’s a triple score jus’ waiting to happen.[Michael Franks, “Eggplant” The Art of Tea, 1975]
Song for the Soundtrack of Your No Date Tonight
Badness. Drawn to it like ants on an a stray piece of counter top fruitcake. Swarming madly around something sweet on the surface. Underneath it’s artificial and bad for you. Damn near cancerous. The bitter never tastes sweet, even with a spoonful of sugar, but you’re back at the trough for another facefull. Rehydrating your mistakes before you take them for a dance in the desert. Vast and arid. You tango under the stars with saguaros. Lean in for a little love and you’re met with a thousand tiny pricks.[Billy Bragg, “Love Gets Dangerous” Brewing Up with Billy Bragg, 1984]