When the Whip Comes Down, Stones song classique about working It on the mean streets, was emanating from that Middling City rock & roll station that embraces not only their steadfast playlist con brio but attendant rock philosophies - machismo, and blue-collarism, for example.
97 Rock, in common parlance, was blaring a bit as Yours Truly was wending about the MC's downtown en route to a Dorothy visit - that quippalicious femme fatale who chops hairs collectively for a living. YT stomped and stomped some more along the Pergo© floor to de-snow and rounded the corner to note that everyone in the floofparlour had disengaged from conversation and was looking up directly - or in mirrors - to see just what in h.e.l.l. was calamitying around the corner. Voi-freakin-là! Moi!

sidebar: (the haircut script)
YT: Hi, Dorothy, it's Nancy.
D: Hi, Nancy.
YT: I woke up today and I hate my hair, can you squeeze me in.
D: Yeah, sure, no problem Nancy, how is 1 p.m.?
YT: Yay! See you then, thanks!

As I listened to Mick's emphatic embrace of the song's phrases I was struck that as a frontman he must like so believe in these repetitive words, as an actor might with a part, to pull off the whole damned presentation. Refrains. Hand gestures. Hip thursts. More refraining.
This all, YT went on to further conclude, is a fine musical thesis to carry into any rock performance or karaoke session. Karaoke might be on agenda soon with some pals who take the big K real seriouslike.
What kills a karaoke presentation worse than just not believing in the lyrics (as Mick must or any other primo frontman/gal), or worser yetter, one's own veracity/profusion/rock&rollness?
Breaking down into a fit of laughter.
That's what.
In a midwestern town YT had a barroom in her grips during a tune. But suddenly the spell was broken, I began to hate the selection and then chortled through the second half of the song, leaving the elevated stage in a somewhat-authentic cloud of disgrace.
I did just regale Kennedy last night with my most triumphant karaoke tale.
I was in Japan, in a private karaoke room with a group.
Table, banquette seating. Killer hi-fi (any ol' joint in Japan has such), killer amenities for such a gathering (read drinks).
YT brought down the high-rise with a sparkling and searing rendition of ABBA's Dancing Queen.
FF to another, later Japan karaoke incident. And I do mean incident.
I had scoped out during the day while making images a few bars.
Later, after some official business, grabbed two artists and made our way to this bar, which I later dubbed Danger Bar as it was festooned with DANGER ZONE plastic tape (in English, assuredly a prized, kitsch touch).
We three sang into the cordless mic for hours and hours, at one point YT getting on top of the bar and strutting along to an early Madonna tune.
Well, when it was time to leave we were saddled with the heftiest of bills.
Not understanding that this particular joint charged per song.
So we scraped together the Y(en) and split.

Moral: know when Art and freedom of expression are just that.

Free, expressed Love.

For Your edification, the annual Valentine-related blogpost about Valentine.
We have all heard that this gushy, red-infused day is named for two martyrs and is celebrated a day before the ancient pagan holiday of Lupercal.
Lupercal was celebrated by shepherds, word has it, who ran naked through streets, whacking the crap out of anyone on the streets with shaggy horns.
Another entry about Lupercal mentions human sacrifice that gave way to the sacrifice of two male goats and a dog and the rubbing of blood on young, selected Luperci's faces.
To this I say a big Yikes and thank goodness that nowadays it is all overwroughtly about cards, chocolate, flowers.
At a post office today talking to a non-postal employee, discussed the day.
He bought his Love some chocolate-covered molasses treats.
For my near and dear I tossed together my annual Red Dinner, a Bacchanalian of sorts with all-red foods, red drinks, guests in crimson.
This all transpired this past Saturday night and the floor still has a few wine-red spots, party tattoos, if You will.
Happiest of Lupercal/Valentine wishes to You.
May you run naked in Your mind through warm streets, pelted by chocolate kisses, Your path strewn with red rose petals.
Today the Middling City is frigid, began the day in a chaotic manner I'd best forget.
Onwards to happy, Lupercal times.

Red Red Wine, and Love.
As Neil, that great harbinger of all things passionate, might intone.