It’s sunset and elephants are strolling around a pen by the stage. The
falling sun lights up an aspen tree. A wind blows its leaves
into a twirl so the aspen looks like a fish jumping through the last
golden beams of light. Will Lucinda be our beautiful tree fish
tonight?

Big fat Lucinda, old and used, comes out, smiles at nobody, picks up
the guitar in a hurry, and sings. The noise she makes is so
beautiful nobody knows anything about her looks any more. Big fat old
Lucinda sings like a searchlight and takes your thoughts away
because she is singing with this big beautiful voice and there isn’t
room for anything else inside your head.

It’s a while before you notice the sideman on the guitar may have
touched that thing before. It needs some minutes to get him because
big fat Lucinda with her scruffy half-silver hair is still taking all
you’ve got. You might wonder how many stage hands were needed to buckle up
those black leather pants which restrain her big fat ass if you
weren’t so busy figuring out a plan to get a job as her cook.

What does she sound like when she talks in the kitchen? Does she ever
bust out with her boyfriend hating “Are You Down” when she’s eating her
scrambled eggs?

You’ll take the chef job as long as she keeps the guy with the guitar
out of the kitchen. Let’s not talk about marriage. You couldn’t screw
her. You just want to cook for her.

When she says “Thank you,” after “Drunken Angel” she means “I don’t
give a shit.”

She has only 3 guys on stage with her. The bassist has spiked hair,
the drummer thinks he’s a cowboy, and the skinny guitar guy hasn’t
eaten in a week because hungry isn’t something which comes to him
often.

Suddenly she’s on “Are You Down”, her rejection hymn to one of
her asshole boyfriends. The guitar guy who has been playing nearly in
the Duane Allman class instantly gets mud on his finghers. Is he the
boyfriend she’s ripping?

“Nothing will make me take you back,” the voicelight beams. “Are you
down, babe, down with that?”

Get out of the kitchen mother-fucker. I’m coming through with
scrambled eggs just like they make them at the Turnberry Hotel in
Scotland.

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“Take care of each other,” she says at the end of the concert. What?
Now she likes the audience?

Fuck that. I just want her to eat my Turnberry eggs.