Friday Soul means the weekend is within sniffing distance. I’m a
creature of habit—borderline professionally so. Certain days demand certain posts
(Friday Soul being sacred ground), just like my mornings follow a script so
predictable it could be syndicated.
At 4:45 a.m., the coffee pot fires up like a starter pistol.
Somehow my sleeping brain hears it and says, “Alright, champ, let’s go suffer
productively.” Next thing I know, my feet hit the floor.
I attempt some stretching—which is less “graceful yoga” and more
“rusty robot trying not to fall apart.” Shoulders creak, neck protests, dignity
questionable.
Enter Super Cooper, the Wonder Dog, who may or may not emerge from
under the bed like a furry cryptid (long story for another exposé). I
get dressed, pour coffee into the travel mug like it’s life-support fluid, grab
his collar, and out we go.
We are lit up like a Christmas tree—because I’m fairly certain
those early-morning drivers would love to add “human hood ornament” to their
morning commute highlights.
We stick to our standard one-hour loop, because heaven forbid we
introduce chaos. Weekends? Oh, we really let loose—we walk on campus. That’s
right. Living on the edge.
Toward the end of the walk, we pass a thrift store with a security
camera that chirps, “Hi,
you are being recorded.” Every. Single. Morning. At this point, I
assume there’s a highlight reel somewhere titled “Man Walks Dog: An Intimate Study of His
Backside.”
Once a week, I’ll grab the free local paper and sit on the library
bench like a retiree who accidentally wandered into my own life early. I read
about the town’s latest financial “situation.” It’s not reassuring to know the
people in charge are just as confused as the rest of us—fantastic B.S. all
around.
Back home, I handle breakfast duties for Super Cooper and his
feline overlords (let’s be honest about the hierarchy). Then it’s shower time, where hot water bravely
attempts (heroically, but with mixed results) to reverse decades of poor
posture and questionable decisions.
Finally, upstairs to wrap up the blog post. I usually stay a week
ahead—unless technology decides to remind me who’s really in charge (looking at
you, last weekend). So yes, we’re currently in catch-up mode, population: me.
Alright, enough about my wildly thrilling, edge-of-your-seat
existence—let’s get to the real reason we’re here…
The tunes.
I picked this up in Colorado Springs in March and all I can say is I’ve got a nose for these things. Sometimes
you just know—and
this one practically waved at me and said, “Hey dummy, buy me. You’ll thank me
later.”
And I did. Oh, I did, and wow… did it deliver.
The tracks are smooth. Not just smooth—dangerously smooth. The kind of
smooth that sneaks up on you and suddenly you’re nodding your head like you’ve
got somewhere important to be.
1967? Absolute monster year! And this record? Criminally
underexposed. Somehow flew under the radar—which feels like a personal insult
now. The A-side has everything—horns that punch just right, a bass line that
refuses to behave, guitar that knows exactly when to step in, and vocals so
good they should come with a warning label. Background vocals? Just casually
perfect, hanging in like they own real estate there.
Flip it over, and the B-side changes gears—slower, cooler, more
deliberate. Same top-tier production, but now everything takes its time. The
background vocals step forward like, “Yeah, we’ve been waiting for this
moment.”
Flawless. Both sides.
I don’t remember exactly what happened the first time I dropped the
needle—but I’m fairly confident it involved some ill-advised dancing,
questionable rhythm, and a complete loss of self-awareness. The kind of dancing that would end friendships
if witnessed.
Not my finest visual moment.
But hey—it was my party…
…and this 45 absolutely stole the show.
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