A house is not a motel.

And a motel room or five is not a bar . . . unless, of course, it is.

One of my favorite events of the year just ocurred. The first Thursday after graduation brings Bill Cooke in his regal pomp less all the fratboy minions. Thus no "Brown Eyed Girl," "Margaritaville," and others of that ilk. Instead we got the super secret weapon Bobby S. on keyboards busting out some personal faves from 12 Songs and Tupelo Honey. Jimmy B was smoking the groove all night long even when he hammed it up Marshall Grant-style on "Jackson." But I certainly appreciated the "I Want You Back" secret riff and the Joe Cocker deconstruction of Alex Chilton's great Box Tops classic, "The Letter." What can I say about the Damminator? He proves you don't need a Neil Peart-sized kit to be badass; even better his drums were mismatched colors: gold, brown and silver mottle, and metallic purple. As he says, "it's all about getting the right combination of tones. Nothing else." I lived the 1970s once and never need to hear another bloated Buddy Rich drum solo again in my life. But if you go right hand stick and left hand gonzo bongo, you get to play all day long and I will bow down.

Bill Cooke was Bill Cooke. Grey hair, granny glasses and a sweet sweet tone on either acoustic or electric. Too bad we never got any blues numbers.

A certain WCBI weather personality seriously shook her money maker. All I can add is that her partner is one "Fortunate Son"! There was more female pulchritude than usual there. I especially admired from afar the young honey in the simple brown shirt dress with the killer "gold" faux sanddollar earrings. She apparently really likes Cameron's Children's Moments. Thanks for the memories.

Well we didn't get "Time Loves a Hero" or "Ohio" or for that matter anything from Forever Changes—sigh, but then tomorrow is another day and the South's gonna do it again!~