My mother wasn’t just displaying her generally anal nature with those explicit instructions. “It’s his first album-the one right after he left Genesis, with him asleep at the wheel.” “No, I haven’t-but I like your idea a whole lot better than Dad’s.” When we were in the pub the other day, I heard ‘Solsbury Hill,’ and I don’t think you have reviewed that album.” “Yes, I have something you might find more to your liking. “You should thank me-your lifelong losing streak is still intact. “Just my luck to have an ungrateful daughter.” There’s John Wesley Harding, Blood on the Tracks. “Ok, I think Bob has a wide selection to choose from. And even then you wouldn’t like the result.” “Fuck, dad, you’d have to put me up at the Ritz for a whole year to get me to do Blonde on Blonde. “Well, I think it’s the least you can do in exchange for me letting you stay in the cottage instead of sweltering on the Riviera.” It’s high time you got off your high horse and did Blonde on Blonde.” My mother had a mouthful of pasta at that moment so good old dad mercilessly capitalized on the opportunity. I’m in one of those phases where I look at my list and say “meh” to everything. It sounded like he had an agenda lurking beneath that question, but I let it pass. “So what are you cooking up for ?” my father asked. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the comings and goings of the altrockchick. Last week, my partner and I made the brief stroll from our one-bedroom guest cottage with a Barbie-sized kitchenette and a double mattress that fills up most of the bedroom to have dinner with my parents in their two-teeny-bedroom-one-teeny-parlor-one-humongous-kitchen-and-dining-area home in Cork County.
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