An Tribute to the Men of Music
No, not the women. They get their tribute another day. This is an tribute to the men who touch me with their voices, their instruments… oh that they would touch me with their instruments.
This is an tribute to you, Peter Frampton. I saw you in Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart'’s Club Band when I was nine years old. You were this frail, beautiful boy...fragile with bedroom eyes and pouting lips. I didn't know what bedroom eyes were - but you taught me the meaning of a crush, and what it felt like to cry myself to sleep.
This is an tribute to you, Peter Cetera. I bought your sixteenth album when I was in middle school. You may not remember me, but every night after dinner we took the stage together and acted out every word to every song in the set. You and I were in love, Peter! You taught me about harmony, and gave me a glimpse of what my future held in terms of never quite getting the guy – and then being really dramatic about it.
This is an tribute to you, Michael Hutchence. You sang this song, and you exhaled…or maybe inhaled...but you made this sound with your breath that took mine away. I tried to mimic you on the radio. I eventually learned to make that sound, but not by singing along, but rather, by making out to your song in the backseat of a teenage boy’s car. I don’t want to dwell on the whole hanging-yourself-thing, but I want you to know that sex has never been as hot as it was that night, and I really wish you wouldn’t have left.
This is an tribute to you, Chris Rice. I confess, though your songs make the spirit worship, that I secretly worshipped the lyrical worlds you wove, and in those worlds, we were making babies.
This is an tribute to you, Marvin Gaye. I discovered you late, after you were fashionably sexy. I just wanted to thank you for that song that always makes me take off my clothes. My husband thanks you too.
This is an tribute to you, John Mayer. You have taken a middle-aged woman back to a time when it was perfectly normal to fantasize about singers. Now it’s just perverted. That being the case, “Damn baby, you frustrate me…”
This is an tribute to you, Peter Frampton. I saw you in Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart'’s Club Band when I was nine years old. You were this frail, beautiful boy...fragile with bedroom eyes and pouting lips. I didn't know what bedroom eyes were - but you taught me the meaning of a crush, and what it felt like to cry myself to sleep.
This is an tribute to you, Peter Cetera. I bought your sixteenth album when I was in middle school. You may not remember me, but every night after dinner we took the stage together and acted out every word to every song in the set. You and I were in love, Peter! You taught me about harmony, and gave me a glimpse of what my future held in terms of never quite getting the guy – and then being really dramatic about it.
This is an tribute to you, Michael Hutchence. You sang this song, and you exhaled…or maybe inhaled...but you made this sound with your breath that took mine away. I tried to mimic you on the radio. I eventually learned to make that sound, but not by singing along, but rather, by making out to your song in the backseat of a teenage boy’s car. I don’t want to dwell on the whole hanging-yourself-thing, but I want you to know that sex has never been as hot as it was that night, and I really wish you wouldn’t have left.
This is an tribute to you, Chris Rice. I confess, though your songs make the spirit worship, that I secretly worshipped the lyrical worlds you wove, and in those worlds, we were making babies.
This is an tribute to you, Marvin Gaye. I discovered you late, after you were fashionably sexy. I just wanted to thank you for that song that always makes me take off my clothes. My husband thanks you too.
This is an tribute to you, John Mayer. You have taken a middle-aged woman back to a time when it was perfectly normal to fantasize about singers. Now it’s just perverted. That being the case, “Damn baby, you frustrate me…”
posted by Robin at 1:18 PM
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