Sunday, June 19, 2016
All the Sluts and the Saints
For no good reason other than it was released forty years ago today, let's spend a few minutes with Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band and their curious semi-hit, "Cherchez la Femme."
Actually, other good reasons to think of this little number are several. With its trippy, dreamy Tropical buzz, it's a perfect summer diversion on what is, at least here in Our Nation's Capital, a perfect summer afternoon. On top of that, it really has to number very high on the doubtless not terribly long list of mid-seventies, retro-disco, Latin-tinged, existential salutes to the unsuccessful love-life of a former Mr. Mariah Carey, which has to count for something. If not, we can at least concentrate on the dulcet tones of Miss Cory Daye, one of the era's more underappreciated thrushes, and one who is still hard at work for a small but loyal fan base today.
As for me, thanks to taking not one but two much-needed mental-health days at the end of the week, I'm not feeling underappreciated in the slightest. I've done loads of laundry, rid out a closet, taken a carload of things to a very selective local consignment shop, and cooked up a storm (Ramadan does make one go through groceries at an alarming pace, especially when it comes to the heartier comestibles).
The consignment visit was the first of what are planned to be several to come. Now that it's clear that no one but no one in the next generation has any interest at all in the cupboards full of vaguely family-related miscellanea I've held onto over the years, and that on top of that the resale value of Victorian and Edwardian bits and pieces is essentially nil, I'm simply going to start offloading. The greater part of what's to go is still in storage at the moment, so what I'm focusing on now is making room to sooner or later bring everything back from the warehouse and give it a good sorting through.
The simple fact is that one doesn't really need an enormous pressed-glass punch bowl and three-dozen assorted punch cups, nor any one of the various framed items that have been hauled from pillar to post over the past three decades without ever once actually being hung up (and we're not exactly minimalists on that front, believe me), or for that matter (although it's not gone yet, as it's half in storage) the now nearly legendary Nile-green silver lustre luncheon set. What doesn't sell I'm just going to take to the thrift shop, along with heaps of CDs and DVDs and the last of my now entirely ridiculously oversized former wardrobe. I would, as Mother Muscato was wont to observe of unwelcome guests, prefer all of its space to its company.
But that's to come. This afternoon, once I've whipped up a big batch of roasted-vegetable soup, I'm going to stretch out on the chaise on our terrace with a terrier on my lap. I've found a book cheerier than those I'd been contemplating earlier this week, and with a Buzzardian soundtrack lilting in the distance, I plan to while away the last hours of this unexpected long weekend in utter lethargy. I can only wish you the same...