Johnny Cash Trumps Grumpiness

Typical of Bag End, I can only guess at what’s going on downstairs.  I was reading for 1950s History, poring over Nightmare in Red as if watching a Soap Opera (I am convinced that the Red Scare and The Days of Our Lives are equally ridiculous), when the music began.

It took me a while to recognize the song, but eventually, through the foot-stomping and clapping, I picked up the notes of “Folsom Prison Blues,” played amateurly on someone’s acoustic guitar.  Yes, friends, there is a party downstairs.  There is homemade curry.  There is folk music.

Somehow, even though I’ll have a mountain of reading to do tomorrow, even though they’re not exactly my friends, even though they’re positively drunk, I cannot bring myself to go tell them to keep it down.  Not when they’re singing Johnny Cash.

They’re singing 4 Non Blondes now.  I’m officially going down there to join.  Talk to you tomorrow.

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