Lonely Retinue

You're still crazy, baby.... RIP.

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      A few final takes on matters in this regard.

•   A long, long (long!) time ago in my residence days, I was sitting around talking with a few female friends about-- among other things-- being parents. As the discussion went on, I guess it became apparent that I'd be more protective of a daughter than a son. After a while, the group dribbled down to myself and one particular young woman, she insisting (politely and laughingly) that I was going to make life Hell for any daughter of mine when she wanted to start dating. No, of course not, I shrugged, honestly believing myself far more liberal-minded than I probably was. "Oh yeah," she said, developing a smart-alecky look of a darish "I got you now" sensibility about her: "Tell me," she continued, "A boy comes over to pick up your daughter. What's the first thing you ask him?" After smirking back with the recognition that she'd got me with a damned good question, I thought for a minute or so and said that I'd ask him if he liked Ray Charles. My friend sat there looking very puzzled indeed. "Why," I'm reporting she asked, although I'm sure it was closer to a textually-indeterminate "Huh?" I explained it to her (in moreorless these words), that if he didn't like Ray Charles he didn't have any soul and he wouldn't last very long with my daughter and at least I'd know what to expect of this kid. My friend chuckled and said something to the effect of, "That's a good one." You know, all these years later, I can still think back on that exchange (as I often have), and I can still say with some surety that I'd stick by that question. What this means, or does not mean, I leave to you to interpret. I can think of no better question now than I could then.
  
•   My remaining feline is named Trouble. Some years ago my partner (horrid word: how businesslike!) at the time and I realized that we didn't know when he was born, so we agreed to set, however arbitrarily, his birthday as September 23rd (and figuring on 1992 as the year). Why? Well, kinda complicated-- the 23 was a factor-- but it seemed right; it was Ray's birthday. Yeah, yeah. I was younger then and much more sentimental. Trouble is still in perfect health, and he still thinks he's John Wayne.
  
•   My M.A. thesis is possibly (probably?) the only one ever written in Departments of English that takes part of its title from an RC song, and even devotes one of its sections to making connections with the singer. The section, called "Ray Charles and the Hiro-Koué," was probably the only truly novel section of that thesis.

So, there. I guess you could say RC's effected not just my musical tastes but also some of the ways in which I think. Go figure. It's still one of my favourite images in all of literature-- that of a narrator "greedily" transforming himself into a film of Ray Charles against the Montréal sky. There's something positively beautiful about it, something liberatingly apocalyptic. I guess that's the way it'll end in my mind's eye tomorrow evening. Now if only someone in Montréal would do something about it.

      (Yeah, I'm probably idealizing a bit here, but for how often I do that, I think I'm allowed. And I can think of few as deserving of it.)