"If we’re going to get up at 5 tomorrow to catch the train to my brother’s, we need to be in bed in two hours to get any kind of sleep."
Milady: "Screw that. Let’s just stay up all night and sleep on the train."
"We will be exceedingly grumpy then, and we may kill each other before we even get to Penn Station."
"Oh, I’m grumping already, so take your grand plan and ram it up your poop chute."
"This is my middle finger."
My niece and nephew, 5 and 6, have discovered John Prine. We were driving out to the Richmond Spiders bball game (Spiders dominated) when my brother put in Prine’s In Spite of Ourselves cd.
This whole album tears-in-your-beer-can country dynamite. I gave it to my brother as a present at some point—I always give CDs to this brother, though at 27 my grasp on what’s good is becoming increasingly tenuous. I’ve been resorting to safe secure Tom Petty and Wilco albums.
But this was a CD from my "Man, you’re lucky to have a bro who cares as much about music as I do" years. This is real red meat. And to hear these kids at five and six, dining on the red meat of American music already—I couldn’t be prouder. Of myself. I am King Uncle.
Nor could I be more pysched in continuing quest to create the John & Nicole wedding reception dance Mix of the Gods.
Anyway, all this week I’m writing this on my brother’s computer, which is about as advanced as Strongbad’s. So entries may be short, commenting may be nillitory.
