Me and my two feet, my new feet, in sneakers, no boot, no cast and no crutches.
On the train to Grand Central Station, New York City. We don’t care about the grey slubs and slabs of ice rimming the river.
We don’t care about the Super Bowl madness engorging midtown, a crowd where the words stadium and lap dance are enunciated loudly along with impressive beer burps.
We’re going to make a night of it, in a club where the hair of the patrons is greyer than the ice on the Hudson, all convened to hear the oldie but extremely goodie Vanilla Fudge, aka “the Fudge.”
They don’t look like they used to, but neither do we. Psychedelia crossed with blue-eyed soul, and on foot! Happy day.