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There was a cute little red-haired girl I went to high school with, sweet, soft-spoken, always smiling (if not always happy). I had a small crush on her for a time, of course. We sang together in Madrigals and chorus; she had a fabulous voice.
And she still does. I have one of her CDs, and was listening to it on my iPod while walking around today in the warmth and the sun. I mention it now because it brings me up short whenever I hear her sing
Anyway, I wanted to plug her music, which I haven't done here yet. You can listen to a little of it (and buy the rest) on her website—strong chick jazz with thunking piano, all her.
(I surprised her at a show in Ann Arbor a couple years ago, after not seeing her for thirteen years; she mentions me here, in paragraph 5. Made me happy.)
And she still does. I have one of her CDs, and was listening to it on my iPod while walking around today in the warmth and the sun. I mention it now because it brings me up short whenever I hear her sing
I'm still stuckI blink, and have to realign my whole image of Kristi. Every time. Everybody has a whole life, all their own. Most of it we're never gonna know about, and some of it is going to be shocking. This tiny girl, who sat with me when Gulf War 1 started, who gave me a detailed summary of East of Eden over a long dinner, can sing about an ex-girlfriend like that? Wow. (And I wonder what she'd think if she knew about my life as a pornographer.)
With the memory of your thumb in my mouth,
And your big black rubber dick.
Anyway, I wanted to plug her music, which I haven't done here yet. You can listen to a little of it (and buy the rest) on her website—strong chick jazz with thunking piano, all her.
(I surprised her at a show in Ann Arbor a couple years ago, after not seeing her for thirteen years; she mentions me here, in paragraph 5. Made me happy.)
