I'm not sure if it's the turkey or the getting up at o'darkthirty to prepare it that makes me sleepy on Thanksgiving afternoon. And by sleepy I mean prone to hallucinations. Ooooh yes, it's gonna be that kind of post. Get a drink, I'll wait right here. Ready?
I made the mistake of watching the first episode of The Glass Virgin and reading a hilarious review of it at the same time last night. Like, hilarious the way Television Without Pity reviews were before they had a spat with Aaron Sorkin and were bought by Bravo. I still have a warm spot in my heart for Jessica and the adventures of the Mulder and Scully Action Figures (he frequently stared into the distance trying to unravel some riddle while she filed her nails; I totally sympathized with her). Which brings us to Brendan Coyle playing an Irish accented Spanish dude. Okay, it really doesn't but the hallucinations are messing with my ability to segue smoothly.
The scene is this: I passed out on the couch after dinner and I think I fell asleep. Then again, maybe not. Then again again, if I didn't what I'm about to recount just might convince you that I'm a loon. Then again again again, if you've been reading for any length of time you're probably convinced of that anyway so I'll stop babbling and just get on with it.
As I was sleeping I felt something sit down on my feet. The dog curls up with me frequently so I just tried to pull my legs out till I heard a muttered, "Mierda!" German Shorthairs are smart dogs but the jury is still out on their ability to speak Spanish. Then it occured to me that "mierda" sounds like the Italian "merda," a swear word and my Mommybot: Wash Your Mouth Out With Soap program kicked in. I opened my eyes and instead of my cuddle bug dog found a brooding dark haired man who looked vaguely familiar. I reached for my glasses. Definitely not the dog.
"Uh, can I help you?" I asked.
He sighed dramatically.
"Can I get you something?" My Mommybot: Soothe The Sullen Child program started to loop. He shook his head.
"No, ma'am. I just needed to be with someone who'd understand."
He nodded. "You know, the Rolling Stone thing."
I racked my tiny pea brain for a connection between a 19th Century groom and a rock magazine but the pea was still in a tryptophan haze. Then it hit me.
"You're here about the new 100 Greatest Guitarists list?"
He nodded. "On what planet is Eddie Van Halen a better guitar player than Stevie Ray Vaughan?"
I sat up fully awake and aflame and a lot of other astuff. "Oh my LORD and don't get me started on the fact that Joan Jett didn't even MAKE the freaking list! And where is Mother Maybelle Carter? And Rick Nielsen?"
"And Robert Johnson is at seventy-one. SEVENTY-ONE! Eric Clapton wouldn't have a career if it wasn't for Johnson."
"Exactly!" I shouted. He pulled back, a little afrightened. Then he smiled charmingly.
"I knew you'd understand."
The dog came wandering in at that moment to investigate. When I looked back to where my visitor was sitting he was gone. I shook my head: the pea was still rattling around so I hadn't lost it entirely. Well, maybe. Rolling Stone has, though. Joan Jett has the proof.