I spent three days in Maine this past weekend. I was in the Southwestern tip of the state, in a village called York Harbor, where a good friend got married. I stayed in a turn-of-the-century inn, not far from Kennebunk, slept in a four-poster bed, and ate my fill of lobster. On Saturday morning, as I cast an eye over the clothes I was to wear during the ceremony, I realized I had not packed any cufflinks. No bother — wasn’t that a Brooks Brothers store I passed on my way into town? Yes, I believe it was. Surely they would have a fine pair of cufflinks for me.
I walked out to my convertible, lowered the top, fired up the engine, and pulled out of the Inn’s gravel parking lot. As I merged onto the two-lane road separating the inn from the sea, I reached for my iPod, but it wasn’t there. I knew, however, that there were a few odds and ends in the glovebox I might listen to — mostly two-dollar CDs I picked up during the fire sales that accompanied the death throes of the Tower Records empire. I reached into the compartment and pulled out…Morph the Cat, Donald Fagen‘s latest solo album. Hmm.
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