The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68, And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe You laugh, he said you think you're immune, go look at your eyes They're full of moon You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you All those pretty lies, pretty lies When you gonna realize they're only pretty lies Only pretty lies, just pretty lies
He put a quarter in the Wurlitzer, and he pushed Three buttons and the thing began to whirr And a bar maid came by in fishnet stockings and a bow tie And she said drink up now it's gettin' on time to close Richard, you haven't really changed, I said It's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head You got tombs in your eyes, but the songs You punched are dreaming Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet When you gonna get yourself back on your feet? Oh and love can be so sweet, love so sweet
Richard got married to a figure skater And he bought her a dishwasher and a Coffee percolator And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on And all the house lights left up bright I'm gonna blow this damn candle out I don't want Nobody comin' over to my table I got nothing to talk to anybody about All good dreamers pass this way some day Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes Dark cafes Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings And fly away Only a phase, these dark cafe days
Last year you slept peacefully through the appetizer and halfway through dinner. This year you wiggled, whined, and charmed us half to death. Then we went from Napa to Yountville and you put your sturdy little legs to work while we watched you explore.
You told me "I love you" while Daddy went to go get the car. You pointed and said: "What's that?" You smiled. And smiled. And smiled.
I stayed out too late the other night. Adam noted the next morning that I apparently had cereal when I'd gotten home and it was everywhere -- the counter, the floor, the coffeemaker, that last apparently for kicks.
I didn't just drink. I drank. Four White Russians. Count 'em. Anyone who's ever quaffed one with me knows I'm a cheap date.
So I was in fine stumbling form. That is for sure. I had to leave my car at The Albatross and get a ride home.
You would have had your pick, my friend told me as we sat at the bar. You could have picked any guy.
I still have a hard time believing that. But I'm getting closer.
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.