it was a gas

Music Box

We were driving south on Broadway and Blondie was on the radio. Once I had love/and it was a gas with that famous, hollow ku-ka-choom, ku-ka-choom, ku-ka-choom backbeat come to find out/ had a heart of glass. We listened for a while, mrs. august meditative, and me nervous about all the trucks turning onto the GW bridge that seemed intent on squashing my sedan.

"It's amazing," she said, come to mistrust "how well this holds up." In between "Yeah," I added in my most helpful tone love is so amusing. I had a mental image of workmen reassembling CBGB's in Vegas please don't push me aside.

We've both felt nostalgic for the seventies lately if I fear I'm losing you Bob Newhart, her parents' art, the Swedish modern look,... it's just, no good, you teasing Steve Martin like you do.

I think we've both listened to the song mostly at times when we got its sadness. But now we are married, and not (for the moment, and for a long time to come, I hope) given to sadness about relationships, and so mostly we feel its beat, its energy, its persistent newness.

Tearing down CBGB's is okay with me seemed like the real thing. Building it in plastic in Vegas is not only to find. It's all nostalgia mucho mistrust and no energy love's gone behind. It's like trying to make a museum to love.

I think I'll go buy a really big suit.

whoo -- oo – oo, waa-oh