I washed my hands in muddy waters…. figuratively.

16 01 2010

In an effort to continue my educaton, audibly not literally, I’ve made some investments in the area of my iTunes library.  My driving will now be punctuated with less drum solos on the steering wheel and more air guitars and dirty blues faces.*

Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

Nothing makes me wish for a porch and a guitar picking friend more than a little Robert Johnson, or a sweat box of a bar than Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf.  It instantly brings a need to lay on the grass or to smoke cigarettes on a bridge overlooking the tracks.

Perhaps best of all this music doesn’t require the crazy, arms flailing dance of the Raconteurs or Vampire Weekend, but rather a slow shuffling shimmy.  I sense that getting dressed in the morning will become a less breathtaking event and that fewer minutes will be wasted putting on the face.

I’m stepping over to the other side, m’friends, so if the bells stop jingling, just grab the cord and pull me back under the curtain.

I washed my hands in muddy water
Washed my hands, but they didn’t come clean
Tried to do what my daddy told me
But I must have washed my hands in a muddy stream.

*(eyes closed, lips pursed – in case you were wondering)

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