The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Thursday, November 13, 2003  

Sometimes You’re Just Not Going to Get It

I sometimes wonder how often other bloggers work private jokes into their posts. You know, references that only their friends, family, or fellow bloggers will understand. I admit that I do it quite often, even when the text of such posts read in a manner that makes them completely comprehensible to the average reader, i.e., a reader who has never met me, let alone spent four, five, or six years, let alone nine (!), with me in a summer beach-house share.

Earlier today, however, I heard an old song that brought back some great summertime memories dating back seven or eight years, and it spurred me to post a portion of the song’s lyrics with the full knowledge that no more than a very small handful of my regular and intermittent readers will read them with a smile, their countenances brimming with reminiscences of better, or less stressful, times from years past.

For the rest of you, please indulge me, and enjoy.

Dark lady laughed and danced, and lit the candles one by one. (Clap! Clap!)
Danced to her gypsy music `till her brew was gone.
Dark lady played black magic `till the clock struck on the twelve.
(Clap! Clap!)
She told me more about me than I knew myself.

For best results, a tambourine or similar accoutrement is recommended.

(This post is dedicated to F.S., M.M., B.L., C.C.P., and the late J.F.)

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