This week’s installment is a day late, but for a good reason with the MLK holiday on Monday.  I hope everyone found a suitable way to observe the day. This installment is a funny one–Sam Stephenson and Django Haskins, both incredibly smart and talented–scholarly Renaissance men, in my estimation.  I fully expected stories of musical memories so outlandish and worldly that it would make me feel like the girl wearing sparkly blue eyeshadow, smacking gum and working at the Dairy Queen, and yet we have talk of Prince…

Hubby Steve and I went to see the Black Crowes last week—Steve and the band have been tight since the late 80s and I came into the fold a few years later.  We all stood around backstage, looking at each other, and somebody said, “How in the hell did this happen?”  We’re all forty.  Or older.  I don’t feel forty.  I don’t even think I feel thirty.  People my age don’t drive around in their car listening to Superchunk, singing at the top of their lungs.  But wait…those…

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