It's pinging me as slightly more pop than the others, but it's a great title.
Yes, this was part of the reason I waffled while offering it, but I think the lyrics are Bree and JP-y. And the original version by Muldaur is probably more funky than pop. What's pop about it is that it manages to be so catchy, but I think the catchiness feels more incidental than intentional. That's bordering on crit and probably meaningless to anyone who isn't in my brain (and my apologies, the place is a mess), so I'll stop, now.
meaningless to anyone who isn't in my brain (and my apologies, the place is a mess)
You should see mine, babe.
Oh! I have a little gifty to send you!
Unrelated to the chaos in my head, of course.
See, I will always associate it with Jane Fonda as Iris the hooker in one of my alltime favourite movies, "Steelyard Blues".
So for me, it's a cult song. Plus the whole JGB band connection. Plus the perfect suitability for the JP and Bree thing. Plus I loves it, I does.
Oh, I do, too. It's just more on my mental "'70s hits" playlist than on my rock one.
Gifty?
Just a little one. I may actually get to the post office tomorrow, too.
Oh yeah, baby -- it's still Monday, and I've got the new drabble topic!
Challenge #93 (thank-yous for shitty gifts) is now closed.
Challenge #94 is one that was actually suggested by Connie many many months ago (I bookmarked it and then forgot about it, and then a few nights ago I was going through my bookmarks and found it): the view outside your bedroom window -- or contemplations on why you don't have a bedroom window.
"Restless" - the Patrick Ormand short backstory, for blind submission to the MWA anthology - is done.
Reader? Anyone? Please?
please don't let this suck
Drabble: the view outside your bedroom window
I woke to heat, an angry, shuddering blast of it through the screen. Nudging Stephen awake, I sat up, still half dreaming, and raised my face to the window.
Across the sleeping street in the dark gray hours before dawn, the small shop was a Technicolor shock of light. Flames licked across the face of the building, devouring its carefully lettered signs and scorching the once white brick. Another tongue of flame burst from the roof, reaching for the branches of the elm that shaded the parking lot.
Beneath the sheet, Stephen’s arm curled around me. We watched it burn.
Yeah. Way more dramatic than I would think from the topic.
