Wading in the Velvet Sea

Naturally, I started out making a valentine for my special lady. Who’s that lady, you might ask? Cheeky, you are. Delving into my private life? Tsk tsk. Very unbecoming. I can see in your eyes that you hope, oh so desperately, that it’s you. And it might be, some day. If only you’d stop with all the phone calls and the emails and the texts. It’s getting a bit much. Yes, I’m looking at you, Nancy Pelosi.

I postponed dropping off the Valentine’s Day card, given the awful weather outside, and did what Ryan would do: watch TV. Dude watches a lot of TV, have you noticed that? And like, talks about it ALL THE TIME. I just tune him out, which is why a lot of out conversations sounds on my end like, “Blah blah blah…and there’s A SECOND ISLAND….blah blah blah…and Peter Petrelli may be a human bomb, but the guy who played Dr. Who is helping him control his empathy abilities…blah blah blah…all I’m saying is, I ain’t kicking Boomer OR Starbuck outta bed, know what I’m saying?” I think I do know what he’s saying, and he’s saying it to a 20-month old boy. That shizzle ain’t right.

I end up settling on the on-demand “Fitness” section. The cardiokickboxing class just isn’t doing a lot for me here, as you can tell by my extended foot and furrowed brow. Then Mom suggests I get off the couch to get maximum cardiovascular benefit. I’ve only recently mastered standing up without gravity opening a can of whup ass on my personage, but sure, Mom, why not? What could go wrong?

Ooooh, yea, I’m feeling the burn. And I’m feeling the rhythm of the night. Though I have to wonder what would happen to cardio classes at the gym if they took out the normal 4/4 “thumpa thumpa” music and dropped in something in like, 6/8 time, just to see the look of confusion on a seas of Caucasian faces. Just mix up your generic “thumpa thumpa” remix of a song that had no business being remade in the first place (I’m looking at you, QED, and your dance remix of Def Leppard’s “Love Bites”) and just throw in some Thelonious Monk. Just for kicks.

Speaking of kicks, how about an impression? I’ve been working on this one for a while.

“It’s poetry in motion/When she turned her eyes to me/As deep as any ocean/As sweet as any harmony/Mmm - but she blinded me with science…”

Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re too kind. And for my next song…

Hey, wait a sec…you. Yea, you? Not feeling the Thomas Dolby impression? I worked on this for weeks! Not even a smile? Know what? That’s fine. OK by me. Can’t please everyone, I know. The curse of the artist and all. That’s OK. Moving on…

Oh, who am I kidding? How can I move on? That was the culmination of everything I’ve ever worked for! All those late nights, all those rehearsals, all those Red Bulls consumed as I perfected my act, and one person had to go and ruin it! Man, I picked a bad week to stop smoking.

Dad could tell I was down in the dumps, so he bundled me up and took me outside. To say this wasn’t a vast improvement is an understatement. You can see I’m still sulking after Music Snob McGillicutty rained on my parade a few minutes ago. Plus, in case you can’t tell, it’s snowing like mad. How is this fun? Dad seemed to think I needed to commune with the snow in order to better appreciate it. I best put up a game face before going to the zoo, lest he put me in the tiger cage in order that I better commune with the animals.

Aaaand here’s me communing. Now I’m miserable and I can’t feel my butt. Moreover, I don’t know where my legs have gone. If I ever get back inside the house, I’m looking into the real estate market in Santa Fe. I’m fine not being a hearty soul. Right now my soul wants cocoa and the number for a good lawyer.

Oh, again, we’re moving leaps and bounds towards Funville. Good gravy. I normally groove on this swing, y’all. Just wanna make that clear. It’s just that, when I like to get my swing on, there’s like, sunshine, and leaves on the trees, and hos lounging around the wading pool. Ya feel me? Cuz if you are, I can’t tell, as the first stages of frostbite have claimed my extremities.

Well, I’ve managed to lick my fingers back to warmth (yea, oral fixation, coming through in the clutch, and they said you'd never amount to any good in this world), which is good, because I need them to be at 100% for my flamenco guitar recital later this month at Carnegie Hall. I’ll need to devote the rest of my waning hours to perfecting my rendition of “Freebird”, so I hope for your sake that Ryan gets his parking spot in working order in the near future.

In the meantime, peace and love to all you non-Pelosis in the hizzouse. Smooches and clean diapers to you all…