Some say love, it is a river.

Went to Mrs. Cwabs' cabaret last night and turned pages for the pianist in order to avoid paying admission (Mrs. Cwabs had said it was a horrible experience for her, and I didn't want to compensate that behavior monetarily). The show was a mixed bag--about four people who could sing, about four people who could hit the right notes but couldn't really sing, and about six who struck out every time when it came to looking for the right pitch.

Afterwards, we went to Pearl's Oyster House, where they were out of everything we ordered save red beans and rice. Seriously, how does an "Oyster House" run out of oysters? Or crab? Or pickles? Oysters and Crab have to be flown in, but you can get pickles at the grocery store--and it's not like they didn't have folks standing around with their opposable thumbs jammed into various orifices. We left after two beers and a substitute appetizer--the food server came to our tables with red beans after we'd cancelled them when they told us half of what we ordered wasn't available.

This morning is father's day, and I got a nice breakfast out of it--Mrs. Cwabs is off to the hippie church where they pay her to sing on the occasional Sunday. The special music for father's day, the day when bowing to the patriarchical structure of most churches doesn't seem quite so out-of-place? "The Rose."

Our fictionalized dialogue:
ME: You're singing a song about drug addiction in as the special in church? Wow, that is a hippie church!
HER: It's not about drug addiction, it's a beautiful song about love being a flower.
ME: Whatever, hippie.