Summer's Song Is Sung

Summer is nearly at its farthest reach, about to topple over....

The Bard has been standing on ladders, reaching far with a paint brush, thus the thoughts of over reaching and toppling.

The Bard likes to label each summer with a song for the season. Last year it was "Summertime" sung by Sam Cooke. This year it is "Airstream Driver" by Gomez.

The Bard also believes it is proper to finish the summer with an excursion to see a live band. It must be a very warm evening and the performance must be energetic, otherwise the money is wasted and the drinks are pointless. Last year the Bard saw the Young Dubliners on a perfect evening.

It was highly entertaining, although the tall and underweight blonde with bleached and butched hair jabbing me in the back with her bony knees was a bit annoying. Otherwise, everyone was very kind and generous to the Bard. As everyone knows the Bard can get a bit outgoing on a perfect evening, but this did not seem to be off-putting to anyone, and even got him invited back up to socialize with the band afterwards, which didn't really work out because he was ping-ponging around, talking to a rodeo queen, the bartender and a girl ordering one of those sickening sweet inventions that they like to ask the bartender to make, then sip and say, "See, didn't I tell you it was good?" Then point the straw at you as they tell you to taste it, which you don't want to do because you don't even know them or their germs.

The Bard either grimaces, saying "No more for me," or if brave enough hopes that there is sufficient alcohol in the drink to sterilize anything that once was alive.

As of yet the Bard has not had the perfect end of summer. The Bard is getting old age and is painting before the first snow flies.

The Bard thinks that if he could be reincarnated, made young again, he would come back as a Los Lonely Boy. He can think of nothing better than having long black hair, a guitar, a voice, and of all of the Jeans, Agnesses, Jennies, and Marias magnetized by him and his brothers. Ahhh, croon.

Now, if one wanted to curse the Bard to eternal hell they would reincarnate him as The Prince of Wales, or Michael Jackson, or Bono, or that Beckham footballer, or Madonna. But we'll not dwell upon these things.

Hurry, make hay while the sun shines!

image: Billie Holiday