Cold. This foul eve must have been suckled at the breast of a cruel enchantress. Mark and I poked around town putting up posters for the Head of the Lakes concert, and we successfully inundated Duluth with 17 of the suckers. As we left the Club Saratoga down in Canal Park, Mark mused about the distracting girl on stage.
“Now was it just me, or was that girl not wearing a top?”
“She was topless, indeed. I don’t even think she was wearing tassels.”
I expected such a sight, for I’ve been to the ‘Toga for Saturday afternoon jazz sessions, and have noted the strange number of mirrors and poles on stage. But don’t shake your fist in the air and reach for your Earth Liberation Front L’il Helper Arson Kit. It was clearly a gentleman’s club, full of guys in monocles and top hats, sipping at glasses of gin and slapping each other on the back saying, “Jolly good show eh, old chap?” Some were even munching introspectedly on cigars, contemplating quantum theories and how the hell they got that girl’s lower undergarments to shimmer like an undulating salmon.
I hope she doesn’t go outside dressed like that. As Chris Fahey said, the turkey is always done when it gets this cold.