I’ve derided this genre for too long. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
So consider this a love letter from your faraway child.
Next Wednesday is just a Wednesday. No one has written any songs for Wednesday.
But for now, all I can think about is how out of place my Christmas trees looked when my neighbors have a cactus naturally growing in their front yard. And I will envy all y’all yanks up there.
And as the saxophonist stood to our applause, I silently thanked Mr. Moore for teaching me the language of time, imbuing this Saturday night with more meaning than it could otherwise have had.
I rate this millennial trend three out of five stars.
“Oh,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Your mouth will start to tingle and go numb after a few sips. Don’t panic, that’s just a harmless side effect.”
By the end of the night, the musician had burned himself out, Ed was snoozing on a table in the back, and a thirteen-year-old girl who’d somehow snuck in was able to snag a selfie with “the Michigan Boys.”
Terminal A is actually still a part of the old Soviet Union, and has been under construction since before planes were a thing. Want food? One option: The Earl of Sandwich.