An eager Samoan no show put Mr. Whiskers on the spot and he drew us a little closer, but maybe that was just our natural reaction to the packet house. It was love all over each other again. Touching you while you're touching me. Fernando soared with three touching pieces. Oh Opus! 32, 32, 35, 17, 6, 9 hike! Oh, the joy of youth, while it lasts. Nobody younger than a baby here tonight. (Check again tomorrow – let's hope that form this we do not again hear "Dad, you messed up.")
An eight mile high sing along invoked thoughts of normalcy until the toaster went supernova. The streetlamps were twisted and the sidewalks were cracked. A single moment means so much! Nobody knows what it is all about, but that's all right. Lets get caked!
Back to the touch stuff, Bruce asked if it was all right for us too. Peter, Paul, Mary, Edger, Allen, and Poe all agreed … make love, not cruel war.
Mike went parking and had a Marriott. Look out Bruce! Did Mike leave the road for you, Mrs. seductive Niles? He does great your wagons, but I hear that he has a tired puppy. Is this as lovely as the pictures make it seem? Maybe if you don't mind broken things.
It was a male and female night. Even Ziplocs, copiers, tires, hammers, and sponges took part. The cottonwoods understood, as did the man on the street. Dream of flying? Better call the next of kin. The event ended in the cremation of pale whimpering Sam McGee. It's time to turn Japanese.
While open mike may be younger than a baby, it definitely has a soul at the Essanay.