...
Earlier, I was trying manfully to get through some injunction against meditation by a couple of twits, and I wondered why I bothered to even try to investigate when it's this idiotic, and as this was crossing my mind a great tiredness lapped over me like a wave, washed me right up on my bed. I barely had time to register that I was falling asleep. The yammering over here started to pierce my consciousness a few times, but, truly, my brain just flipped off like a light switch, and it's damn odd how that happens only when sleeping is not even part of my plan.
Anyway, I woke up thinking about Nicky Lee... my PRCA bull rider boyfriend from a couple thousand years ago. He walked into the bar, one arm in a cast from his knuckles clear up over his shoulder that was set out from his body at a right angle. He'd just gotten out of the hospital, where they'd informed him he'd won the bull riding event a week before. Even when they win, often the dismount is not pretty. Nicky Lee had been gored in his right side and trampled on his left arm. Still, he wanted to celebrate, dance and sing, dangle his beer from the fingers sticking out at the end of his cast, teach me two-step and hole up with me in a fancy hotel for a few days.
This song is him to a T. No. Really. I don't know if Alan Jackson was ever up for all that, but Nicky Lee was, and how. Perfect antidote to hearing a couple of idiots talking about shit they don't understand.
always and any time....
