Andy, Stewart, Sting

… the post in which I make Tense envious (though, since she’s in the home stretch of Blogathon, she may not notice until tomorrow)….

We’re leaving for Boston around 2:30 this afternoon.  I’m not sure what Mr. Chili has in mind, but I know we’re planning on dinner in the city.  It’ll probably be someplace casual, though; we were thinking of getting an early seating at Morton’s, but I don’t think that our outfits will be suitable to that venue.  My vote is for Bertucci’s.  We don’t have one within easy striking distance, and I really love their caramelized onion pizzas, but we could just as easily end up someplace native to Boston.

The show starts at 7:00.  I’m going to try to smuggle my camera in so I can post pictures with teeny tiny little band members on them (let’s just say we’re not in the front rows, and there’s only so much zoom my little camera can manage).  Until then, I leave you with this.  Happy Sunday, All!

Now, if I told you that you suffer from delusions, you’d pay your analyst to reach the same conclusions

It’s dark all day and it glows all night; factory smoke and acetylene light 

 Our so-called leaders speak, with words they try to jail ya.  They subjugate the meek, but it’s the rhetoric of failure

Poets, priests and politicians have words to thank for their positions; words that scream for your submission.  No one’s jamming their transmissions (this seems to be a theme for Sting, no?)

Woke up in my clothes again this morning, don’t know exactly who I am

Please don’t ask us why, beneath the sheltering sky, we have this strange obsession.  You have the means in your possession

You don’t ever want to see me again, and your brother’s gonna kill me and he’s six feet ten

Many miles away, there’s a shadow on the door of a cottage on the shore of a dark Scottish lake

There’s a skeleton chokin’ on a crust of bread

In this theatre that I call my soul, I always play the starring role

Fifty million years ago you walked upon the planet so, lord of all that you could see, just a little bit like me

I’ll send an SOS to the world

Tied to to the chair and the bomb is ticking, this situation was not of your picking

By pretending they’re a different world from me, I shelve my responsibility

Wet bus stop, she’s waiting, his car is warm and dry

Do I have to tell the story of a thousand rainy days since we first met?  It’s a big enough umbrella, but it’s always me who ends up getting wet.