Wednesday, October 04, 2006


I wrote this a long time ago. And it still rings true sometimes...

On a clear day, a pitcher and a half should do. Per person. A crowded room, or a tavern as the patrons might call it. Music those born after 1980 perhaps may well not recognize is a comforting environment. The smoke from Marlboro lights, Goldflake kings, Wills Navycut doesn't itch the throat much as the diesel being burnt on the highway. It could be simply a Friday night glee Or even just the relief of it. The music blares but you don't mind it. Perhaps it's the taste of the dwelling, or maybe you're just tending towards mellow bliss. Either ways you seemingly enjoy it. There's Floyd, Clapton, with a hint of Floyd and Tull thrown in; a dancing in the dark, and some college hangover!?

It's nonetheless the ratio I'm in favour of. On a not so rough estimate, it would be 52 to 6. Male to the fairer species. A school of thought would undoubtedly react to further divisibility issues, but for purposes of imagery I'd stature it suffices. The best part of course being the obscurity of it all. The song changes to 'Careless Whispers'. Around each corner you find someone mouthing the song, tragically. Conceivably, broken hearts aplenty. Though I look around when 'with our without you' plays after a while a few takers for a personal favourite. Lets not then again get predisposed to a theory. As the songs steal away time, the quotient becomes heavier further. When the drizzling outside encourages a refuge. Or a plea.


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