“Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.” - William S. Burroughs
The Gods of Los Angeles (no, not the Pharcyde, and no, not the old Menace squad; good guesses, though) decided to gimme a little Isleys this evening in the form of some dude pulling up behind my car at my regular gas station at approx. 5:12 PST, banging the living hell out of this song from his very fancy Toyota factory-stock speakers, hopping out to fill the tank, and never once adjusting the volume while going about his fueling-up business. Almost nobody witnessing it was amused in response to this act. Almost. Three guesses as to which of the gas station patrons was amused.
The Isleys : My Life/Ears After a Long Day :: Warm Hands : My Back After a Long Day.
I work with people for a living, people with lots of problems, and I like my job, but I am asking you all to understand that sometimes after work I am tired. Not like "My sports star, tightly-wound-or-so-I-thought husband is fucking around on me" tired, more like "I need a hug and a cup of tea" tired. So these kinds of generous acts by anonymous Angelenos like my Toyota dude (who may or may not have had olive skin and a shaved head and a last name ending in a vowel, YOU RACIST) are like little presents that make me say Damn, Universe: You've gone and soothed my soul and reminded me of the current musical decade ('70s) once again. The Isleys are the masters of the love-as-a-sailing-expedition metaphor; if we've ever gone on a date and then you parked your car at the end of my street so we could "talk" for a little while, you'll recall that "Voyage to Atlantis" is plainly the makeout jam of the current musical decade ('70s). "For the Love of You," however, has the Ras Kass and Masta Ace cred which makes it more bending-the-block appropriate and which means sooner or later it would end up on this web log.
I'm pretty sure sexytimes were better in the '70s, the current musical decade. They had to be. Grown-ups just don't make luhh-huuvv like they used to, which is why every time I see Kells I say Step aside, young buck. SLOW JAMS IS AN OLD MAN'S GAME. So: fewer Jeeps, please, and fewer closets. Less flying, flirting, bumping, grinding. More drifting on a memory, rays of sun, gentle breezes, paradise within, sheets, candlelight, and especially more handclaps and lots more Yeah/Well well well.
. . .