But soon, soon, it will be 1991.
Feeling--what's the word I'm looking for? Whitesnake-esque. White Lion-esque. Not exactly rocken like Dokken.
Evening has been quiet, contemplative. She's starting to dig a hole in our back yard. Putting things in there. "You are not the czar of ptarmigans," she told me, and I said, "All right then, who is," and she pointed to a tree. Just some random tree. An elk. I mean, an oak. I get those words mixed up. Quail laughed, several hours later in my sleep.
And what's old David Coverdale up to these days?