White-haired and stooped, he confides the lyrics like they're some big secret: "you know, girls just wanna have fun." The group laughs at him, but if Arthur is not mistaken, the men take Cyndi's advice into serious consideration: perhaps their female companions want smiles and accidental touches and oldies and booze more than they want devotion. Devotion is heavy.
It is not Arthur's most successful pop music intervention. Once he saw a woman rushing down the sidewalk in high heels, skirt straining against her thighs, sweat beading in the corners of her frowning mouth. He grabbed her arm and said, "you can't hurry love." The next day he saw her waiting for the bus. After watching a young man take five shots in rapid succession at the local bar, Arthur sidled up to him and whispered, "happiness is a warm gun." You can guess what happened later that evening.
Arthur considers himself to be life's disc jockey, a benevolent voice who helps you recognize your own soundtrack.
Went to the Freakin' Frog last night for a drink. Went again today to toast to the memory of Seamus Heaney. Probably going again tomorrow, since we befriended a waiter and the owner and they're going to let us come to their cask party at a steep discount. Adventures ensue.