Dear God: I don't ask you for much. I've learned to accept things I cannot change and to stop asking for sports cars I can't afford the insurance on. I've learned to accept that I'll always be 5'9 and that you feel I don't need/deserve one final growth spurt hurrah, and thats okay. But recently, while surfing the net, rife with penile lengthening offers, pyramid schemes, Brittany Spears' exposed hoo-ha, I came across a glimmer of hope I feel you can turn into a radiant shower of sparkling rays of fabulousness not seen since the rise of Liberace.
I read that a Talking Heads reunion might be afoot. What does this mean to you? Probably not much. But what does this mean to me? Lots. For you see, I have seen David Byrne solo numerous times, and it was good. I have seen the Tom Tom Club and it was, well, for having hit the AARP age, the Talking Heads' rhythm section is still keeping better time than most Caucasians. And Jerry Harrison produced a great deal of records in the nineties that sold a great deal of records, but didn't say a whole lot.
People need to, no I NEED TO, see the Heads shake their collective money makers before I die. Anything less would be cruel and unusual. Mr. Byrne and company still have what it takes to make their CBGB/Mud Club borne gospel believable. They're graying and the bassist might not be quite the sexy librarian she once was. Now looking more like a grandmother who plays the bass really well. But nonetheless, do what you can to put them on stage at Coachella.
Thank you and peace out.
Luke
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