My husband woke me this morning with a Valentine greeting and a box of chocolates on my pillow. It was a great way to start the day. In years past he bought me big hearts with multiple layers of the chocolates that he knows I crave. It’s probably safe to call me a chocolaholic, I certainly love the stuff. This year I’m on Weight Watchers, I’m sure that caused him a moment of consternation, but he choose well. The box is big enough, but there are only ten chocolates (yes, I counted them). That’s enough to not feel deprived and more than I would (or should) eat in one sitting.
It’s funny how this couple thing works. I’m sure there were people taking bets on the day we got married, our parents and siblings leading the pack. We are opposites in many ways, but we are not polar opposites–I prefer to think of us as complimentary opposites. He forces me to look at the world in a different wonderful way.
My thoughts tend to be as far out there as a thought can go, Reggie is the straight and not so wide. He’s rarely narrow in his beliefs just typical and normal. I guess my friends are like me because I didn’t know I was strange until I met him. It makes sense, why would I choose friends to which I couldn’t relate.
The love of my life and I are so different. Here’s an example; A few years back we went to a concert for two musical groups that were popular when we were in our twenties. By the way, you haven’t partied until you’ve jammed with a bunch of fifty and sixty year olds trying to recaptured their youth. Things got hot and a bunch of old girls started jumping (as much as somebody’s grandma can jump) on stage. We were sitting in the second row from the stage and we saw a tall slim man dressed in all black stop at the foot of it. From a standing still position he jumped straight up on the stage.
“Wow,” we both said in unison. “That guy must really be. . .”
“Strong,” Reggie said.
“A vampire,” I said.
We both looked at each other. I can imagine what he was thinking, but I was fairly certain I’d just seen a real blood sucking vampire joining the Isley Brothers onstage. Who else could fly straight up five feet off the ground?
Reggie just smiled, shook his head at me and went back to grooving. I kept my eye on that vampire until he disappeared in a crowd of women that were being ushered off the stage. And I do mean disappeared.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetheart.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
THE BIG CHILL
I was never much of a head, not even in college when I ran with a group known for their illegal consumption. It had nothing to do with my father and brother being in law enforcement, the seeds of which led me to the department of corrections and a first professional job as a Probation Officer. No, I just happen to have DNA that didn’t mix well with drugs and not at all with alcohol. As my Weight Watchers leader is fond of saying, “sugar is my drug of choice.” But there is one time each year, even now, when I think about putting a match to it–as we used to say. It’s during the showing of THE BIG CHILL.
I absolutely love that movie and I always have. Maybe it’s because the people, the friends, in that movie would have been at the University of Michigan while I was there; or maybe it’s the sound track and the wonderful writing has to have a lot to do with it. The writing is so special that, years ago, I wrote Lawrence Kasdan to tell him how much I related to his characters. I’ve always believe in giving flowers to somebody when they can smell them. I thought it would be meaningful to him to know that me, a black woman, with very little in common with his characters, could relate. I’m pleased to report that he wrote me back and, over the years, he has been willing to read several of my screenplays. I still list him as my favorite screenwriter whenever such a confession is required.
The movie is on now. The opening montage with I Heard It Through The Grapevine playing as the friends learn of Alex’s death and Kevin Coster is cut out of the greatest movie he ever would’ve been in and I’m thinking, ‘I wonder what would it feel like now, at my age, to put a match to one?’
I bet you thought this blog was going to be about the winter storms. Ha!
I absolutely love that movie and I always have. Maybe it’s because the people, the friends, in that movie would have been at the University of Michigan while I was there; or maybe it’s the sound track and the wonderful writing has to have a lot to do with it. The writing is so special that, years ago, I wrote Lawrence Kasdan to tell him how much I related to his characters. I’ve always believe in giving flowers to somebody when they can smell them. I thought it would be meaningful to him to know that me, a black woman, with very little in common with his characters, could relate. I’m pleased to report that he wrote me back and, over the years, he has been willing to read several of my screenplays. I still list him as my favorite screenwriter whenever such a confession is required.
The movie is on now. The opening montage with I Heard It Through The Grapevine playing as the friends learn of Alex’s death and Kevin Coster is cut out of the greatest movie he ever would’ve been in and I’m thinking, ‘I wonder what would it feel like now, at my age, to put a match to one?’
I bet you thought this blog was going to be about the winter storms. Ha!
Monday, January 22, 2007
It happened a week after MLK day
Something happened to my daughter that I hoped she would have been able to avoid. Like so many young people, she has friends all of the country. The group I’m writing about were high school friends who ventured out into the world for degrees and careers and they’ve made me and their parents proud. Of my daughter’s three distinct groups of friends, this one is the most diverse; there’s not two of them with the exact same racial or nationality combination.
A few of them ended up relocating to the same general area, about 300 miles away. They brought in newcomers.
“You’re going to love Rex (not his real name),” they told her.
“Nicest guy you ever want to meet.”
We always want our old friends to like our new friends.
The time came to visit, three hundred miles down the road. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
Did somebody forget to tell good ole Rex that my daughter is black, okay, African American? It really might not have come up with this group of young people.
“It was really strange,” she told me. “He wouldn’t even look at me. I tried 3 different times over four days and he just didn’t want to talk.”
Been there, my child, felt that, and I’ve got the extra layer of skin to prove it.
“Maybe he was just having a really bad weekend, but he seemed okay with everybody else,” she speculated–which is exactly what we do over and over again when we’re young, before we grow the extra layer of skin.
“Maybe,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to tell her my many “Rex” stories. There were the Rex friends, job interviews, stores, and even “great” restaurants that didn’t want my business.
I wanted her to enjoy the memories of her trip a little longer. Let’s not tell her about this entry.
A few of them ended up relocating to the same general area, about 300 miles away. They brought in newcomers.
“You’re going to love Rex (not his real name),” they told her.
“Nicest guy you ever want to meet.”
We always want our old friends to like our new friends.
The time came to visit, three hundred miles down the road. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
Did somebody forget to tell good ole Rex that my daughter is black, okay, African American? It really might not have come up with this group of young people.
“It was really strange,” she told me. “He wouldn’t even look at me. I tried 3 different times over four days and he just didn’t want to talk.”
Been there, my child, felt that, and I’ve got the extra layer of skin to prove it.
“Maybe he was just having a really bad weekend, but he seemed okay with everybody else,” she speculated–which is exactly what we do over and over again when we’re young, before we grow the extra layer of skin.
“Maybe,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to tell her my many “Rex” stories. There were the Rex friends, job interviews, stores, and even “great” restaurants that didn’t want my business.
I wanted her to enjoy the memories of her trip a little longer. Let’s not tell her about this entry.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Here's some old blogs from another location that I thought would work well here:
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Holiday thoughts
The woman on the L.A. Weight Loss commercial says, “This is me at size 14, this is me at size 4!” You can almost hear the boos and hisses when she says the number 14. Do you know what happens when a size 14 tries to lose weight? Well, I know what happens. If she’s young, and she would just about have to be to be upset about a size 14, she’ll lose down to about a size 10. Her body is programed to think feast or famine and, when she stops dieting, it compensates by storing extra weight for the next famine. She’ll enjoy her size 10 for about a month and a half. After that she’ll start regaining her weight until she’s a size 16. This process can go on indefinitely. I’ve been there and I know a lot of other woman who’ve been there too. That’s just my 2 cents for now.
My house is a mess. Okay, it’s certainly not the first time and it won’t be the last. The reason I’m bringing it up now is because all three of my children are home for the holidays. I love having them, I truly do. I’ll go to the mat with any mother that believes she loves her kids more than I love mine. That said, they’re all into physical fitness. Good for them, I’m not. They each have been strapping on Ipods and cute running sets and out the door they go. My question is, isn’t house work exercise? Couldn’t they be using all that energy to clean up the messes they are making? Am I missing something here?
My house is a mess. Okay, it’s certainly not the first time and it won’t be the last. The reason I’m bringing it up now is because all three of my children are home for the holidays. I love having them, I truly do. I’ll go to the mat with any mother that believes she loves her kids more than I love mine. That said, they’re all into physical fitness. Good for them, I’m not. They each have been strapping on Ipods and cute running sets and out the door they go. My question is, isn’t house work exercise? Couldn’t they be using all that energy to clean up the messes they are making? Am I missing something here?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
I’m waiting for the smell to kick in.
I’ve read that smell invokes stronger memories than any other sense. I believe this is true and I think it’s a good thing because it’s the only sense that still works well.
Actually that’s not true, my sight is better now than when I was in my twenties. I was born with a cataract on my left eye. I never thought too much about it until it got cloudy, when I was in my early forties, and I had it removed. A small piece was left inside and a week after the first surgery, my doctor had to go back and remove the small piece. For that week I came as close to perfect vision as I’ll ever have in this life. It was wonderful; I felt like I had bionic eyes. I did some serious looking that week–maybe even some reckless eyeballing. I even heard that bionic sound effect that Steve Austin used to hear whenever he focused on anything, but that’s another blog. The second surgery left me with improved vision, but not quite as good as the first surgery. Since I’m near-sighted, I can now read small print without my glasses, which really impresses all the previous non glasses wearers who have to amplify now.
Anyway, I digress. The reason I’m talking about smell today is because we’ve put up our Christmas tree. A lot has changed over the years when it comes to holidays, but I still require a live tree. It’s about a third as large as the trees we had when the kids were young, but that’s just fine with me. In fact, it was my idea to downsize. I love the lights and ornaments and everything related to Christmas, but nothing pleases me more than the smell of fresh pine. That smell mixed with the smell of a turkey dinner baking, the faint scent of Old Spice men’s cologne, and the unique scent of a new plastic doll is the smell of Christmas for me. That combination could transport me back to age 5or 6 sitting on my daddy’s lap playing with my new doll on Christmas morning.
I can’t wait for the tree to start smelling like Christmas.
Actually that’s not true, my sight is better now than when I was in my twenties. I was born with a cataract on my left eye. I never thought too much about it until it got cloudy, when I was in my early forties, and I had it removed. A small piece was left inside and a week after the first surgery, my doctor had to go back and remove the small piece. For that week I came as close to perfect vision as I’ll ever have in this life. It was wonderful; I felt like I had bionic eyes. I did some serious looking that week–maybe even some reckless eyeballing. I even heard that bionic sound effect that Steve Austin used to hear whenever he focused on anything, but that’s another blog. The second surgery left me with improved vision, but not quite as good as the first surgery. Since I’m near-sighted, I can now read small print without my glasses, which really impresses all the previous non glasses wearers who have to amplify now.
Anyway, I digress. The reason I’m talking about smell today is because we’ve put up our Christmas tree. A lot has changed over the years when it comes to holidays, but I still require a live tree. It’s about a third as large as the trees we had when the kids were young, but that’s just fine with me. In fact, it was my idea to downsize. I love the lights and ornaments and everything related to Christmas, but nothing pleases me more than the smell of fresh pine. That smell mixed with the smell of a turkey dinner baking, the faint scent of Old Spice men’s cologne, and the unique scent of a new plastic doll is the smell of Christmas for me. That combination could transport me back to age 5or 6 sitting on my daddy’s lap playing with my new doll on Christmas morning.
I can’t wait for the tree to start smelling like Christmas.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
go ahead let your hair down
I’m sure you had no way of knowing this, but I’ve been looking for a new theme song. I’ve had many theme songs over the years and, unless you had the misfortune to have been one of my roommates in the early seventies and heard me playing Roberta Flack’s Do What You’ve Gotten Do ad nauseam, you’ve probably never hear me singing one of them. Every so often the music in me will go on hiatus but I don’t notice it until months go by and that depression sets in that haunts a soul without music. If I can remember that it’s the lack of music, and not life itself, I can recover fast. I pull out a bunch of old albums and sit in the dark listening until I’m filled with happiness again. I do mean albums too, not tapes or CDs or whatever else is current and shiny.
I’m telling you all of this because I heard a song that I believe qualifies as my next theme song. It's not a jaunty as one of my earliest song, Windy, but I changed the word to Jackie. If you can remember where you were when you learned that President Kennedy had been shot, then you probably remember this song. “Who’s walkin’ down the streets of the city." Don't judge me, I was very young when the song came out! But truth be told, I wasn't one to smile at every person I met even then, that was Windy, not me.
A few nights back I saw this cute little thing being introduced on one of the late night talk shows. Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention to her because I didn’t expect to know her music, I’m not up on current tunes. But this young woman started singing and I recognized a refrain that I’d heard recently and liked. The exact same thing happened last night on yet another show but this time I noted her name, Corinne Bailey Rae. After the show ended I looked her up online.
If the internet had been around when I was younger I would have been the palest child coming back after summer vacation. I just love that I can get immediate answers to the stuff I used to write down to investigate during my once weekly library visits. Yes, I’ve always been curious, it just wasn’t immediately satisfied in the past.
I bought the CD today. The name of the song is Put Your Records On, what could be more fitting?
I need to spend some time learning the words to my new theme song now. I’ll leave you with a few parting words that are in the lyrics...
I hope you get your dreams, just go ahead let your hair down.
I’m telling you all of this because I heard a song that I believe qualifies as my next theme song. It's not a jaunty as one of my earliest song, Windy, but I changed the word to Jackie. If you can remember where you were when you learned that President Kennedy had been shot, then you probably remember this song. “Who’s walkin’ down the streets of the city." Don't judge me, I was very young when the song came out! But truth be told, I wasn't one to smile at every person I met even then, that was Windy, not me.
A few nights back I saw this cute little thing being introduced on one of the late night talk shows. Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention to her because I didn’t expect to know her music, I’m not up on current tunes. But this young woman started singing and I recognized a refrain that I’d heard recently and liked. The exact same thing happened last night on yet another show but this time I noted her name, Corinne Bailey Rae. After the show ended I looked her up online.
If the internet had been around when I was younger I would have been the palest child coming back after summer vacation. I just love that I can get immediate answers to the stuff I used to write down to investigate during my once weekly library visits. Yes, I’ve always been curious, it just wasn’t immediately satisfied in the past.
I bought the CD today. The name of the song is Put Your Records On, what could be more fitting?
I need to spend some time learning the words to my new theme song now. I’ll leave you with a few parting words that are in the lyrics...
I hope you get your dreams, just go ahead let your hair down.
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