Randy, Randy, Randy

I got stoned and lay on the couch and listened to music, after Mark had made his exit for bed, last night. I turned off all the lights and loaded up the fire with wood. All I wanted was the dulcet tones of Randy Crawford, as I lay back and was bathed in the golden glow of the flickering flames. But no, not one Randy Crawford cd amongst Mark & Luke's collection. Not one? What the? I thought.

I must buy them a box set of Ms Crawford for a house warming present for when they move.

I tried Mavis Staples, Bette Lavette, The Temptations, Vicka and Linda Bull, Olita Adams, Lisa Stansfield, Renee Geyer, hell, I even gave the new Labelle cd a spin, but no, nothing was going to do. You know, when you have your heart set on something and it just has to be that. There is nobody who makes a good substitute for Randy. There is something smooth and gentle about her style and her lyrics that I never tire of. She's the one artist I can listen to over and over and over again.

I ended up, begrudgingly, settling for Cafe del Mar.

I must remember never to travel without an emergency pack of Randy Crawford.