A Pro Found My Jelly Telly

One night shift, long, long ago, the supermarket was booming a crinkled tune courtesy Philbert Collins. I'd been exposed to said dead score many a time during my childhood and, as a swaddled babe abandoned in the Arctic wastes, I playfully welcomed this pseudo-soul-rending-popsicle-diddy directly into the pudgy, iridescent warmth of my soul. No filters, eh? No protective, discerning filtering capacity at that fleshy age. I knew this song like the back of my blotchy, yellow-pink palms, ain't no lie.

So's I'm listenin' without listenin' (one mustn't 'pay attention'). And then I'm hearing some wack lyric-- as if for the first time-- and-and-and-




and that's it.





It was satori. Old school satori. Traditional, like.

Call it what you will –shear brilliance, major bummer, sheer bliss, bangarang– the list goes 'thracka-doom-BOOM.' The insight: the lyrics weren't comprised only of candy-popping melodies, but words as well. Real words. Like 'love.' And 'you.' And 'stuff.'

And what about my tardy musical fickle nickle? Why late affections for Bobby D? Let alone the Eno-callibered David Byrne? I was preoccupied. I didn't want all the good things at once. And so forth.


I can hear a younger Liza berating a younger me.




"You don't even know the Talking Heads?"