I've got one, but I've got a thought that I'm not sure if I'm expressing, you know.
Sometimes life would be simpler if there was a score like the movies or TV, to help us figure out which episode we’re in. No more “Is this a date?” if when you saw each other, Al Green started to play.(Good thing you shaved your legs.)Maybe a blues for when it’s the end of the month and you’re scouring for change under the couch. Yes, again. Sigh.Work days might go faster under the driving beat of “Money’.The local news, home of “If it bleeds, it leads” should be accompanied by “Boom, Boom, Boom” And I really missed Bruce at the union hall the other day, “My hometown” maybe.

Jesse, I love that entire thing, but the last line is superb. Sums up the whole experience.

I TOTALLY know what you're saying, erika! I mostly notice when the real-life backgroud music IS what would be on the soundtrack, just then.

erika, YESyesyesyes.

Aw, thanks, Deb. I swear I could do a whole "Prom" (or, even better, dances more generally) series. That music is so vivid in my head.

Heh. I should be working on my Long Black Veil story, and starting "Cruel Sister", and this drabble topic is so totally cooking me, I may have to stay with it until it burns itself out.

I liked that one, Jesse. I spent that whole day at the union hall feeling the Springsteen vibe. Kept waiting for the "Big Man" to show up.

I know I shouldn't do this. He's a friend, and we want it to stay that way, although we're too scared to talk about it.

I just...I can't let this song go without dancing. It's not something I can do alone. I need, for a second, to close my eyes, pretend I'm being held by someone else.

Anyone else, really, anyone who wants to be holding me more than they want to hold anyone else, someone who's going to be hard to let go. And it will be our song.

This music makes it hurt too much to be alone.

135 words for the Music challenge.

It’s four hours from Queens to Boston, and we make the trip twice every year, Connecticut growing larger each time.

Dad finds an AM station playing songs from his childhood, and begins singing along. When we lose the station he keeps going:

“Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care . . .”

“I gave my love a cherry without a stone . . .”

“There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea . . .”

Song after song, dredged from his memory and imprinted on four school-aged children in the darkness. Year after year, as the old wagon ages along with the relatives in Queens.

When I’m twelve, we buy a new van, shiny and red. We stop going to New York for holidays.

The new car is a poor replacement for Radio Dad.

This topic kills me.