This is my message to you (ooh ooh)

I was in the shower this morning, singing Three Little Birds, and (obviously, listening to my own vocal stylings) wondered if a good female cover of the song was available. Something like the low-tempo Wonderwall cover Cat Power did. A quick scan reveals the rasta anthem is most revisited by... children's music. Disney has a few, Alvin and the Chipmunks have gone there, and a fascinating performer named Captain Papillion has done a version for an album called Kid Pirates! Let Us Be About Adventure and UnPlundering. If you're not familiar with Cap'n P, I'm going to suggest you take a look at the rest of the tracks on your own dime and time.

It's gone from "unpleasant" cold to "deadly" cold.

Various random alcohol consumption over the weekend. Professional party in a community center, leaders of tomorrow t-rashed and guarded by a single security man throwing out the dance floor vomiters.

Last night R and I decided to make mussels after a lonely grocery store run, steaming them to submission in buttery white wine and cream. Somehow, after some beer but before dessert, R got into his head that we should get trashed at the locals. Once he gets an idea, he can't be dissuaded. Baleful looks after examining the exterior thermometer went unnoticed. You can only, apparently, spend so many hours inside in bed or eating boozy seafood.

At the first one, I was reasonably sure R would get stabbed without supervision; he had put on some random football gear to help him blend in. The manager introduced herself over the country band working its own soundboard, she was wearing a tube dress involving a subtle pink leopard. We watched people illegally advance money to hit the slots and dance to the band in slow weaving ways, heckling "PLAY SOME TROOPER" between each song. R bought me some pornographic pictures from a bathroom vending machine.

The next bar was what most college students believe is the first bar, kitschy slumming. Everything festooned in Mexican fiesta paper, a little Bon Jovi spinning on the player. It is, though, the kind of bar with an owner. Some bars have proprietors, but others have keepers who are lovers of watering holes, whose lifelong dream was to own the bar. The Sam Malones. My favorite bars in the world are well owned, decorated with care and parties past. The drinks were cheap and Big Buck Hunter a draw, but everyone nearby was soon revealed to be white collar and no one called for more Trooper.

The next bar was closed, we went home.