I warned everyone: no suggestions means I might go rogue. And here we are — though honestly, this isn’t even weird by my standards. I stumbled across this locally released 70s album, complete with an autograph, which feels like finding buried treasure if the treasure also smells faintly of attic insulation. It’s packed with some surprisingly cool cover versions, and I pulled out two: a John Sebastian tune and Roger Whittaker’s New World in the Morning.
Now, confession time — the kind whispered behind a hand like you’re telling state secrets. Growing up, my parents liked Roger Whittaker. And I’ll admit it: New World in the Morning hits me right in the nostalgia. It’s one of those songs that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and suddenly you’re eight years old again, sitting in a living room where the furniture was somehow both brown and orange. John’s version on this album? I really like it. It’s got that warm, lived‑in feel, like someone singing from the porch at sunrise.
Meanwhile, today is shaping up to be a three‑ring circus. The washing machine repairman is supposed to show up — Monday was a bust because his truck broke down, which feels metaphorically on‑brand for my life lately. I’ve also got a guy coming to look at the roof, because apparently the house has decided it wants attention too. And then there’s Princess… she’s acting odd, and I need to call the vet. Please send her all the good thoughts, prayers, cosmic vibrations, whatever you’ve got. We cannot take another loss. Not now. Not again.
Some days the music is the only thing that feels steady. Today might be one of those days.
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