My beslippered foot is tapping the floor (that's an approximation to dance). I listen to Billie Holiday: "Don't explain". Then I put on Nina Simone's version of the same song. I think to myself: "They don't make music like that anymore, do they?"
Yes, I am that person. You'd better pour me a shot of whiskey now, son.
It only gets worse. I wear a robe the style of which dignifies Michael Douglas in Wonder boys. This morning, the literary magazine Pirkka landed on the doormat. I leaf through recipies & special offers. Keith Jarrett's The Köln Concert and gruesome middle age. It's only a question of time before I'll extol realism in politics; plain, human decency, "nice" culture and "virtuoso" musicians.