Spitball Army

This evening, after finally locking the doors, we were cleaning up with the store iPod playing in shuffle mode (yes, we use an mp3 player at a CD store…what of it?! 23,191 songs, by the way), when this came on:

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“I was lent this volume by the Earl Amherst, an insignificant blond of my acquaintance, and was grieved to note on the fly leaf an inscription from you.”

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There’s just about nothing better to get one ready for sleep than a hearty, gut-busting laugh.

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Either the cheapest or the most expensive gasoline on the planet!

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Did I say how rabidly anxious I am to see I’m Not There? I am. Anxious. And rabidly so.

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Fogelberg, who was ridiculously successful during a nearly twenty-year period when his hyper-romantic ballads were in constant rotation on radio stations throughout the nation, was frequently derided for being either (a) sappy, (b) wimpy, or (c) sappy and wimpy.

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“There is a lot of sameness” in stores, Mr. Morris said.

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The last two months have been barren of much new and exciting music, unless your idea of new and exciting music includes the kind of ultra-commercial product that tends to win Grammy Awards these days. There seems to be plenty of that – no, thank you. What I’m hungry for is music with ideas. Imagine my happy surprise, then, to find out that today heralds the release of a brand new album from musician/producer Daniel Lanois.

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I’LL BUY YOUR HOUSE TODAY CASH!!

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Mother, that man there wants to take your picture. Let’s dance!!

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