The Blues in F

Leaves turning.

Ponies shedding.

Seems… too early.

But as soon as the sun goes down the air takes on a certain chill, the way a false lover’s smile fades when you turn your back and she thinks you don’t notice.

Summer.

Like love, long on the anticipation and short on the duration.

It’s the time of year when getting out of bed takes longer.

Old injuries ache.

Broken knuckles. Broken ribs. Broken heart.

The pain is still there.

It just doesn’t hurt anymore...

Picked up a bottle of tequila yesterday.

After extensive testing determined it to be fit for human consumption.

It sambas softly down your throat like Lauren Bacal floating across the silver screen in To Have or to Have Not, and you don’t even have to know how to whistle...

See, there are two ways to beat the blues -- and neither one works.

Trying to soothe the blues with hooch is like giving an aspirin to a guy who’s been gored in the guts by a bull.

Trying to forget an old ill-fated love by diving into a new ill-fated love is like fighting fire with fire.

The smart money is on water.

The blues.

Slow.

The ideal music for a man’s melancholy reflection, as well as for a woman’s clothing removal.

“In the Evenin,” by Yusef Lateef. He blows oboe on that one.

Blows it real well, too.

Plays like it hurts.

sj