"Smell that, Lucas?"
"What, Dad?"
"The air. Notice something?"
"No."
"The air's just a little bit sweeter today. Diana Krall's in town."
"Oh God."
"Hush, Julie."
"The real Diana Krall, Dad?"
"Yes, son, the very one. She's playing a concert tonight, and Dad can't go."
"Is she staying with us?"
"Oh, if only."
"This is indoctrination, you know. He's only three!"
"Hush, woman. Don't come between a father and his son."
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Now now Rod. Behave!
Rub it in time. I was there. And like that episode on Seinfeld, everything was 'real and fabulous'.
LATER THAT NIGHT:
When we dined after midnight, Krall and me alone in that outdoor grotto balcony overlooking the tranquil moonlit misty lagoon, and shared champagne toasts as the wafting wisp of jasmine taunted our noses, I menitioned you. And as Diana looked up from her crystal flute, her bangs carressing her eyelids, sparkling no less than the champagne, held by her gloved had that accented the pearl satin strapless gown that saluted her creamy skin and flawless teeth, I said: Rod sends his best' and she said, "Rod who?". Sad.
Rawlins,
Elvis Costello asked me to tell you, "You're dead."
I'm sorry your wife doesn't share your interest in Diana Krall and/or her music. On the other hand, I could go with you. LOL
RAWLINS!!!!
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