the boy who makes my coffee at Metro looks just like my father did when he was our age.
black shaggy hair
and those tight t-frame sweatshirts
form fitting jeans
and facial stubble-sometimes a mustache.
it took me back when i saw him today.
i had never realized.
but jordyn was there to be a witness so we both exclaimed
"woah. that guy looks like (my) (your) father when he was younger".
(oh but stop your damn complaning-your still young enough to pass this old blood test)
transfer to stumbling upon the most glorious record shop in sacramento
there were piles of classic and obscure records all over the floor,
bursting from the seams
of this dusty old building
i'm in love
sort of rapture
old Miles, Ella, Billie, Bill Withers, Led Zep, Motown, 1940's comps, etc etc
I want i want i want
but I could not find the Mingus
(and so the hunt must go on!)
i will go back there friday with time and 100 dollars and
fucking scour the place
and leave with a pile of madness
and so many things
to discover and study.
all i want to do is study music.
music. and i don't mean the fucking technical shit.
i don't care about the rudiments, the notes exactly, the time signatures-
no no no.
i want to hear the throat stretch,
the skin of it.