Any Norah Jones fans out there??
Ode to a Voice
Late last night my woman and I got into a game of “which famous person would you most like to sleep with?”, and naturally I said Katherine Hepburn. I guess it must have stung a little, because she quickly (and just a little too gleefully I thought), started pointing out the various logistical problems I was letting myself in for, as Katherine has been a corpse for some time now. But honestly, I wasn’t really as worried as you might think, because I had lied, secretly that is; you know, just to throw her off the scent.
The truth, which clearly I could never confess to her, is that I would gladly eat a plate of hair with a side of dirt for even the chance to have a fling with the voice of Norah Jones (and I don’t even really like dirt.) For a fact, the entire woman is one amazing creature, but I’m not fooling anyone: no way could I handle the complete package without suffering some kind or another of debilitating emotional / brain overload disorder. And besides, I’m thinkin’ hey, why be greedy, right?
And in the fall, when the trees grow drowsy, and the world begins to once again put itself to bed, we’d devote four to six afternoons a month (depending on our schedules, and the weather, and stuff like that), to long sauntering, explorations of one-another; you know, down along the River-Walk. And we would tell each other secrets—and LAUGH??—oh, how we would laugh! And all the little children would taunt, and throw soda cans and duck food at me, because of course nobody would be able to hear her intoxicating tones but me, so they would think I was just another crazy old fart, walking around whispering and giggling to himself.
But I wouldn't care, because really, when you’re drenched in the smoldering quiet that is Norah’s voice, does anything else matter? Exactly.
Ode to a Voice
Late last night my woman and I got into a game of “which famous person would you most like to sleep with?”, and naturally I said Katherine Hepburn. I guess it must have stung a little, because she quickly (and just a little too gleefully I thought), started pointing out the various logistical problems I was letting myself in for, as Katherine has been a corpse for some time now. But honestly, I wasn’t really as worried as you might think, because I had lied, secretly that is; you know, just to throw her off the scent.
The truth, which clearly I could never confess to her, is that I would gladly eat a plate of hair with a side of dirt for even the chance to have a fling with the voice of Norah Jones (and I don’t even really like dirt.) For a fact, the entire woman is one amazing creature, but I’m not fooling anyone: no way could I handle the complete package without suffering some kind or another of debilitating emotional / brain overload disorder. And besides, I’m thinkin’ hey, why be greedy, right?
And in the fall, when the trees grow drowsy, and the world begins to once again put itself to bed, we’d devote four to six afternoons a month (depending on our schedules, and the weather, and stuff like that), to long sauntering, explorations of one-another; you know, down along the River-Walk. And we would tell each other secrets—and LAUGH??—oh, how we would laugh! And all the little children would taunt, and throw soda cans and duck food at me, because of course nobody would be able to hear her intoxicating tones but me, so they would think I was just another crazy old fart, walking around whispering and giggling to himself.
But I wouldn't care, because really, when you’re drenched in the smoldering quiet that is Norah’s voice, does anything else matter? Exactly.
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