Achieving the Impossible . . . ish

My first order of bidness this morning is to thank the lovely Q for the brand spanking new header we got going on here at Sorryless. I asked her for something clean and cool, and she delivered . . righteously.

Imma dish up a foodie post after a rather prolonged dry spell. Yeah, it seems me and Linds B were really just a one trick pony express when it came to foodie posts, but seeing as how it was the legendary Cubano we were shaking loose . . hells yes we’re good with that. Mariano Rivera milked his one pitch arsenal of a cut fastball to Cooperstown, so it’s plenty understandable that peeps still mention our Cubano posts.

And now that I’ve matriculated your appetite into a certain school of thought, lemme just temper your excitement some by letting you know that I’m reviewing a fast food burger. More specifically, the Impossible Whopper that Burger King began rolling out this past spring.

Mi abuelo spoke his plant based logic with yuca and platanos, partnering ’em up with lechon and arroz con gandules, and whiskey. Plenty of whiskey. As far as he was concerned, the idea of tucking plants into a burger would’ve been akin to kissing Fidel Castro’s ring.

I probably had Alberto in mind when I was chilling to the old town propers of Celia Cruz, Benny More, Joseito Fernandez and company on Sunday morning. I partnered up my Cafe Bustelo with plenty of leche and azucar, seeing as how I have Habana on speed dial when it comes to my java tooth. And then I made pancakes for the girl and me. I dressed hers in cinnamon and mine with a couple spicy eggs with the top down.


After checking on the Miami score and finding my Dolphins in the hole by a score of 7-3 to the Washington Dumpster Fireballs, I invented a few curse words and then told the girl I was contemplating the Impossible Whopper.

“You in?” I asked.

“I guess?” Was her reply.

“Coo as schoo! Imma get us a bunch of those onion rings that have no onions in ’em too. Maybe we can do a science experiment!”

“Small . . . not a bunch. Thank you,”

“Okay mom,” I said, grabbing my keys and high fiving Mr Speaker on the way out.

I hopped in the car and threw on some Black Keys. And then I started thinking about my favorite Burger King moments. It wasn’t easy, since I’m simpatico with Vincent Vega in that I’m more Arches than Crown when I dabble in the recreational facility of minute burgers.

Alas, I was able to rummage a scant few memories out of the way back (bun pun intended) and I ended up with a top three list.

1- Me and Ellen Bauer hitting a Burger King drive thru after seeing Risky Business. After which she took all her Tom Cruise flash-dance fever out on me in the backseat of her old man’s Riviera. Making me a Tom Cruise fan for life.
2- Going to Flatbush with the old man to hit some balls at the batting cages. We’d picked up some Burger King on the way. And then I dropped our shakes on the way in and then the old man jumped his fucking height while saying motherfucker in a couple different languages. And then I was on the ground laughing my ass off.
3- Me and the boys hitting Five Towns on the way back from an Islanders game after watching Wayne Gretzky play hockey. Joey wanted to break his fucking knee caps, and so he wasn’t cool with my opinion that we’d just witnessed the greatest player to ever take the ice.

So yeah, Burger King ain’t my jam. But riding shotgun with a professional vegetarian supplied me with the plenty mucho to some gusto. After which the Impossible became a Mission worth figuring out. With or without Tom Cruise. Who, oh by the way, made the Mission Impossible movies worth it, all by his crazy lonesome. But that’s another post for another time.

Mission Accomplished

I rolled up and parked, because I ain’t familiar with fast food menus so I always need to win my knowledge from the inside. After which I ordered up two Impossibles, two small onion rings and a ten piece chicken nuggets. The nuggets were insurance in the event the Impossible sucked balls. Of course, I was still gonna eat my insurance, because it’s a scientific fact that fast food turns into concrete if not consumed within thirty minutes.

Back home, I shuffled up the deck and we toasted our Impossibles to those highest of hopes Old Blue Eyes once crooned on. Diving into our first bites, we vanquished our respective midday growls sans cutlery or pride. And then we tallied up the score with  mathematics (her thing) and silly reasoning (mine). And we arrived at the same verdict.


It was a hot minute of ayt. Passing grade but nothing more than that.

She thought it a minor league version of the major league remedies she can cook up with nary a moo in the making. Good but not great. Fine but not fabulous. Possible, with no need for the exclamatory Im. And I was thankful for having ordered up those nuggets, because from the first bite of my Who-Burger, I knew what my taste buds were buying. And damn if mi abuelito wasn’t right about sticking to the real thing.

I miss that OG.









Pan Con Mantequilla

Some quick shots for a slow starting Monday, if you will . . .

  • Would it kill the MLB to start these playoff games at 7 pm EST to give us Yanks on the east side of town a decent shot of seeing a full game? I mean, I’m glad I missed the Astros loosening themselves from the clutches of Poe, but still . . .
  • The Dolphins went for a two point play and got a Tua point play instead.  We might not win a game this season unless Bowling Green is on the schedule.
  • To call Trump the worst President ever is to assume he is Presidential.
  • Fox News heaving personal attacks at Carl Cameron is a new low for the Fatherland Network. Cameron accused Fox News of being a propaganda machine for the President, so rather than respectfully disagree, Fox News got personal. Maybe they just want to impress their Big Daddy Blowhard by showing how low they can go, seeing as how he dumped Fox News for One America News Network.
  • I’m thinking no more Trump mentions in my Heroes episodes. Why give him any relevancy at all?
  • You want a Sorryless Impossible Burger review? Cause Imma have one for y’all shortly.
  • My son went to see the Joker movie over the weekend and admitted he was nervous sitting in the theater, because it felt like the kind of movie where some nut-bag goes on a shooting spree. There is an overwhelming sadness to adopting this kind of madness.
  • So when the world is busy making no sense at all, a nice Sunday afternoon walk with the girl puts everything back together again.
  • I only use my red Strawberry Fields Central park mug on Sunday mornings.
  • My kids gifted me a recliner for my birthday. Which means I have achieved old guy status.
  • My sexy beautiful pals Linds B and Ali gifted me a bottle of caramel smoky goodness called Larceny for my birthday. Which means the old dog still has some bite to his bark.
  • I’m not the least bit excited about a Walking Dead movie. But Zombie Land 2? I’m down with that business.
  • I cry when watching opera, I laugh when watching C-Span and I ponder life’s great mysteries when watching Flipping Vegas.
  • Be shameless in your passions is what I say.

Heroes Of The Week! (Yin/Yang Edition)



It’s been a meh week for the boss here at Sorryless, what with the requisite aches and pains associated with another birthday kicking my ass. I was able to get back yesterday with my first run of the week, but alas . . the news kept coming and I had bupkis pie. So this week will be somewhat abbreviated as a result.

Imma go with a Cool vs Uncool theme this week and I’m even breaking out my red and blue highlighter for the proceedings. Star Wars Rules: Blue is bueno and red is not so bueno.

The Cleveland Browns went Hollywood with big names and bigger attitudes. They anointed themselves championship contenders before winning a damned thing, and so it ain’t shocking that peeps are drawing a bulls-eye on them now. And if they don’t watch it, they’ll become just the latest team to talk a better game than they ever played. 

The Washington *Montreal Expos* Nationals were 19-31 on May 23rd and the Beltway was calling for the head of manager Davy Martinez. But these dead men walking turned it around and made October, and then they beat Milwaukee in a winner take all wild card game for the honor of being summarily dismissed by the mighty Los Angeles Dodgers. And then Wednesday night happened, with the Nationals spitting in the face of all their past playoff failures. And it’s why more books are written about baseball than any other sport. 

Bedfellows Of Interest- You’re more likely to build consensus among first graders at a pizza party than to get our elected representatives to come together on basically anything. So it was interesting to see this polarity find equanimity (say that one time fast) on the NBA vs China imbroglio. Ted Cruz and Alexandria Ocasio Cortez co-signed a letter to the league, urging them to cease operations in China until the country ends its boycott against the NBA and the Houston Rockets over a pro-Hong Kong tweet by Houston Rockets GM Daryl Morey. Eight lawmakers signed off on a letter expressing concern that the NBA’s decision to self censor itself sets a dubious precedent. For a moment anyways, that kids table in Washington was busy making sense. 

Say Anything . . Please?- The NBA and its players are a league that has prided itself in taking on social issues, which makes their radio silence dismaying. Of course, it’s not so simple to cut off ten percent of your revenue (which is what China means to the league’s bottom line). But hey, if they are about being woke . . they wouldn’t exactly go broke by speaking up  in this instance. They didn’t have to defend Morey’s support of Hong Kong protesters, but they could have taken a stand for free speech and canceled their scheduled game between the Lakers and Nets. But they played their game in Shanghai . . . quietly, and now I really don’t care what LeBron and Kyrie and the rest of those guys say about free speech once they return to the states . . because it’s kind of too late. 

Sick Puppy- Twenty two year old Brandon Fleury used thirteen different Instagram accounts to stalk the family members of the Parkland shootings. Using aliases such as Nikolas Cruz and serial killer Ted Bundy, Fleury harassed and threatened these people while also posting messages such as this one. 

“With the power of my AR-15, I take your loved ones away from you PERMANENTLY.”

This creepy little asshole was convicted of interstate cyber-stalking and interstate transmission of a threat to kidnap.He faces a maximum of twenty years in prison, which doesn’t seem long enough. 

Thank goodness we still find peeps like Carlos Correa, who manage to fight the madness of gun violence with soulful deeds. The Houston Astros shortstop recently donated $10,000 to the family of a Texas Sheriff’s Deputy who was shot and killed during a traffic stop last month.

Sandeep Dhaliwal was a ten year veteran of the Harris County Sheriff’s Office, and its first Sikh deputy. Dhaliwal was walking back to his vehicle to run a background check on the occupants of a vehicle he had stopped when Robert Solis, 47, removed himself and approached the deputy from behind, shooting him in the head. Solis had been wanted on a parole violation and now faces capital murder charges.

Dhaliwal left behind three children and a wife, not to mention a community that was devastated by his loss. Here was a guy who was the embodiment of an American dream, having become the first sworn officer in Harris County to wear a turban. He was taken down in yet the latest horrible example of what America has become.

So Carlos Correa decided that he could write some small and positive meaning into how this latest tragedy will be remembered. And it wasn’t just money that he gave to this young family. It was the smiles he elicited when he met with them. It was the hugs he received when he talked about feeling a kinship with Dhaliwal after he learned that the deputy had gone to Puerto Rico- Correa’s birthplace- in 2017 to help in the recovery efforts after Hurricane Maria.

The author James Baldwin believed that we can change our prevailing reality in millimeters. His idea was that if we might attain the hardest earned goodness in miniature, it still counts for everything. It’s in the smallest things, the quietest moments that you change the day someone walks through, the thoughts someone possesses.

That’s how you change the world



From Hair To Eternity

I haven’t stepped foot in a hair salon since George W was arm wrestling Dick Cheney for the remote control in the Oval Office.

Cost Cutters doesn’t count. I visited the place once about ten years ago, despite the fact I was stone cold sober at the time. I was rewarded with a fast food haircut for my piss poor judgement and my daughter started cutting my hair after that. She’s one of those people who can basically do anything really well, even if she’s never done it before, and cutting hair was no different.

I used to go to Regis when I had a regular stylist. Her name was Judi and from the first time she cut my hair, I knew she was the one. The girl had my hair down to a science, and we would rendezvous every couple months in the early morning before the mall opened.

A hairstylist like Judi comes along once in a lifetime, and so when she moved away I knew my hair would never find another pair of hands that fit like hers. I got with her friend at the salon a few times after that, but it was painfully obvious that her cut just didn’t do it for me. And so I moved on.

It was sometime after this that my follicles came under attack by a rambunctious band of guerrillas that were being funded by stress and hula hooping hormones. Dames and hypothyroidism were filching my once thick mane, pushing my inner Pterelaus to what I assumed would be comb-over status before too long.

I became very introspective, thinking back to all the times when I had taken my hair for granted. Like the time I bleached it in high school and it came out Greg Brady orange. Or when I tried straightening it because, get this . . I didn’t like wavy hair. There was my Pat Riley period, where I took to slicking back my hair. And caps . . all those fucking ball caps I wore when I should have been showing off all the hair I had!

And just as I was becoming resigned to the idea of going bald, a funny thing happened. I didn’t go bald. This was “The Comeback” in which I staved off follicle elimination with biotin and less dramatic romantic entanglements; the latter proving itself every bit as useful a remedy as its B complex compadre.  The bathroom sink no longer felt like a Japanese horror flick. My hair was thinner, sure . . but it was still my hair.

And then one day I shaved my head, for the hell of it. All the angst I’d experienced in regards to going bald, and there I was, doing it to myself. The worst part was not knowing what my naked cranium was going to look like. The conversation I had with myself whilst shaving went something like this . . .

Oh what the FUCK did I do!

Hey! This ain’t so bad . . . it’s pretty okay!

This better be okay or Imma hole up in a cabin in the woods for a year! 

Oh shit, is this? 


I imagined it would be smooth sailing once the top was down, but I found myself shaving my head every couple days thanks to the dark roots that would show up loudly. And talk about irony, to be complaining about my hair . . . when I didn’t have any! I did the Kojak for a couple years before going back. I started cutting my own hair after this because now I had a proven contingency plan in place in the event I ever pull a Picasso whilst clipping.

Which brings me to the Halloween costume party I’ll be attending as Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu. So yeah . . it means Imma shave my head again. For the hell of it, again. In spite of the angst this will result in as I wonder if it will return to me, again.

Occam called. He wants his razor back.

(Special gracias to Q for the tune)






Matters Of Little Consequence

December 31, 2009: 

“So you’re really doing this . .” Jen said, shaking her head.

“Jen, what exactly do I have to lose in this transaction? She’s obviously in a professional relationship with her husband that has provided her with much swag but precious little sway. I’m a temporary excursion, her much deserved reward for sticking to the matrimonial script,”

“And when it doesn’t last?”

“What lasts, Jen? When we stop blinding ourselves to the realities, what lasts? Marriage behaves like a cranky Supreme Court verdict on love and romance, with plenty of loopholes in the decision . . ”

“Such as?”

“Such as ’till death do us part'”.

“How is that a loophole?”

“Because we predictably assume it to mean mortal death, without considering death on a more philosophical level. There’s the death of romance, of hope, of trust . . .”

“I never realized how intelligent your penis was!” Jen laughed as she sipped at her martini.

“Laugh all you want, but I cracked the code and I’m not looking back,”I said as we toasted to the differences of opinion that provided the solvency to our friendship.

“You go Indiana Jones,” She winked as Red approached.

“What are you two conspiring on?” Red asked as she gestured for me to hand over my martini glass for a sip.

“You are creepy, reading minds like that . .”I said as I watched her lips settle into negotiations with my adult swim.

“Excuse me while I double down,” Jen said, removing herself from the confab.

“I’m a witch. Didn’t you know?” Red winked as she handed me back my martini.

“That explains the artwork,” I laughed.

“Come here, I wanna show you something,”

She led me to a hallway replete with photographs and artwork and pointed to a signed copy of David Bowie’s Young Americans album and then proceeded to tell me how it was gifted to her by a biker she dated when she was going to school in Philadelphia. I was so transfixed by her story that I forgot why I’d come to the party in the first place, and then she reminded me by leaning in for a kiss.

“Ah . . holy shit?” I said when we came up for air.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re surprised,” She said.

“No, I just thought I’d ask you out for that drink . . after which we’d get to this,”

She leaned in for another kiss before taking another sip of my martini and then returning to the party.

“Call me,”

That call turned into drinks and those drinks turned into a five year affair that navigated some stormy times in the early going. But we figured out the math and became the kind of bad romance that didn’t ask questions. And it worked until it didn’t, and that became that.

For years, I tried pushing the Dame out of my thoughts for fear I might come to the conclusion that we had vandalized some kind of epic forever after love story. But there really was no alternate ending to our story. We were trespassers, true believers of a mighty thing whose promises were cosmically challenged from our first hello; like a tarnished pair of tapers whose wick spoke wonderfully foreign languages to our tortured souls inside the all too brief embrace of forever.

The combustible effort to the final chapter of a love story we penned in short used to defeat me. It used to make me think I was an utter failure at unlocking the secrets to the heart. But time shows you differently when your shoes are earnest and your steps abide, and so I look back from here and consider myself the better for the women I’ve loved. Well, excepting for a short lived re-union with Maria and a bizarre tryst with a girl named Rachel that led to a Cuban Missile Crisis standoff where she actually held my Drinks Well With Others blog hostage for a short time.

The truth of the matter is that the women of my life have always been the greatest part of me. They were always the better half of a clueless romeo who never had a rap, and whose only real plan of action when it came to curls and curves was to provoke a laughter that might settle my wayward soul for a spell.

Those days of satire and gin martinis with the Dame feel as if they happened inside another lifetime, as if it was all a fever dream.

In the dream we’re having dinner in the Italian restaurant we found very much by accident. It’s where we had our very best date ever, which ended with the owner of the place gifting us a wine jug the Dame had been fawning over. And it’s also where we had our very worst date ever; the one that let me know it was all coming to an end.

This is our tie breaking feast and we’re having a time of it, with big fat glasses of red wine and Sinatra tap dancing along the walls and a summer breeze that is tickling our deepest wishes into a sublime flavor. And the dying sun is clashing with an opinionated moon and they’re birthing the most wonderfully handsome children. The dusk feels as if is breathing eyelashes onto a cantilever and the words we share feel as if they’ve never been uttered by another living soul. There is no beginning and there is no end to this magical place, but only the here and now. 

“I love you,” She says sweetly between sips of her wine.  

And then she lifts herself up from the table and retrieves a snub nosed Ruger from her purse and gives me the Solozzo special with two shots to the head before collecting her glass of wine and lighting up a smoke on her way out the door.

All things considered, the dream could’ve been worse.


Heroes Of The Week! (800lb Gorilla Edition)


This week’s heroes is going in a slightly different direction. Don’t blame me, it was corporate’s idea. They’re pushing for expanded lines in lieu of a compromised inventory of worthwhile news. And I can’t says I blame their shell game, seeing as how Congress has been using the model to great success forever.

So this week, without the empirical . . Imma go satirical. But only with the zeros, since the heroes in my list are too good to mess with. And no . .  Trump ain’t invited, because as we are all aware, when you add satire to the satirical, you get insanity. And the world ain’t need more crazy.

And now the news . . .

Nathaniel Collier is honing his skills as a future politician by selling beer for seventy times the ticket price. The bogus beer man charged two fans $724 dollars for a couple pints at Hard Rock Stadium last Sunday during the Dolphins scheduled loss against the Chargers. Collier was arrested on charges of grand theft, using a skimming device and attending a Dolphins game. The fan took the incident in stride, “It was still a bargain compared to what I paid for the tickets,”.

When I write these posts up, I’m always on the lookout for something I’ve never felt before. And Chloe Dorsey paid me in full with her superwoman exploits at a state park. The Georgia woman was out for a run when she spotted a deer that was stuck in a metal fence. So she bent the bars to release it . . because of course she can! After running a few hundred feet, the deer got stuck in another fence. And Imma include the video, because it speaks to the fight we need to keep on pushing and the love that fuels the try.

Last Saturday, an unidentified woman climbed over a safety barrier at the African lion exhibit inside the Bronx Zoo and began taunting one of the lions. In the video, the unidentified woman appears totally ignorant as to the job description of the king of the jungle. “I love Lion King as much as the next guy, but people have to realize it’s not real life, for fuck sake!” Said the perplexed lion. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit since I moved to New York, but that takes the cake,”

The St. Louis Blues sure know how to close. First they delivered up the franchise’s first Stanley Cup last June, and this past Monday they moved the ice onto Laila Anderson’s ring finger. The club made their super-fan a special part of their title run last spring as she battled HLH, a rare auto-immune disease. And so the victors spoiled their special lady with a 10.6 carat championship ring as a way of saying thanks. This Laila really brought the guys to their knees.

Atlantic City Mayor Frank Gilliam Jr. has resigned after pleading guilty to stealing more than $87,000 from a youth basketball program he co-opted . . co-founded. U.S. Attorney Craig Carpenito says Gilliam used donations made to AC Starz to fund a lavish lifestyle that included, “designer clothing, expensive trips and vacations,”. Gilliam’s lawyer insisted that his client never attended an NBA game with the funds, saying “he felt that would be ironically reprehensible,”. New Jersey governor Phil Murphy was said to be ‘shocked’ by the story, as it appears he was unaware Atlantic City had a mayor.

In September 2018, Amber Guyger shot Botham Jean dead when she mistook him for an intruder. Guyger had entered the wrong apartment, after which the Dallas police officer used deadly force on the twenty six year old accountant who was born in St Lucia and worked for PricewaterhouseCoopers.

On Wednesday, Guyger was sentenced to ten years in prison for Jean’s murder; a sentence the victim’s mother found difficult to accept, saying that her son’s life “was worth more than ten years,” The sentiments were completely understandable, coming from a mother who had lost her pride and joy in such a senseless way.

Eighteen year old Brandt Jean’s response was extraordinarily different, and it provided both a poignant final chapter to a tragic story as well as questions as to how much time Guyger might serve in prison.

When delivering his impact statement to the court on Wednesday, the brother of Botham Jean chose forgiveness.

“I wasn’t going to ever say this in front of my family or anyone, but I don’t even want you to go to jail,’’ said Brandt Jean, who, at 18, is 10 years younger than Botham would have been now. “I want the best for you.’’

He then asked the judge for permission to approach Guyger, after which the two engaged in a prolonged embrace. The gesture brought sobs from those in attendance and provided the kind of lesson you just don’t see much of in this world. Here was an eighteen year old kid who didn’t lash out in anger, who didn’t embark on a vitriolic rant directed at the individual who murdered his older brother. Instead he chose what has become the path of most resistance in these modern times: Compassion. And if it can happen inside this most extraordinarily tragic circumstance, it makes you wonder.

What’s the world’s excuse for not trying?








Speaking Of

  • The new season of Walking Dead begins this Sunday, and I’m sort of at that juncture in the marriage where I can retake the vows or have an affair.
  • So of course, me being me . . I’m having an affair with the latest season of American Horror Story. And so far, so very strange with 1984, but I’m cool with it seeing as how it’s a vacation in the ’80’s.
  • The ’80’s is where Trump was building hotels and not walls. Seems that a few years ago, he was talking up an alligator filled moat to go along with his wall . . which was MY idea. Only difference is a moat wouldn’t have required a wall. Putz.
  • Too many putzes with drivers licenses. I honked at this dude who was trailing an Amish buggy rather than passing it (buggies have slow moving vehicle triangles which allow you to pass). Annoyed, he waved me around him, shortly after which he turned into his driveway. Right turn signals work wonders, if you use ’em.
  • Okay, I’m always in a hurry. Which is why I go self checkout at the grocery store. Checkout lines are teeming with delays and the ten items or less lane is a big fat lie. But it’s not like I ain’t down with social dishing. As with the nerdy high school girl manning the deli counter who brought the snark. We engaged in some entertaining banter as she did up my order. Personality wins the day.
  • But peeps who shout into their phone while it’s on speaker make me wanna lose it. Bluetooth was invented because the world doesn’t want to hear about Aunt Lucy’s gallstones.
  • Which she probably got from eating at McDonald’s. Of course, she won’t admit it was McDonald’s fault because she probably insists she never eats there. Like the half a trillion people it’s served . . . most of whom never, ever go there.
  • Why is it that as soon as an individual is legally permitted to rent a car, they no longer fess up to eating at McDonald’s?
  • Not my sister, though. She doesn’t give a blessed fuck who knows about it, even if her rationale for certain of her . . umm . . nutritional choices is a tad bit skewed. And Imma give you a for instance from the other night when me and sis stopped off at a convenience store before my birthday dinner.

Sister: They don’t have diet ginger ale, what the fuck?
Me: Get the good stuff . . go crazy.
Sister: Nah, I don’t drink my calories.
Me: Here’s a thought, get regular ginger ale, because we’re eating fried chicken tonight.
Sister: Here’s a thought, walk home.

  • And if you’re wrong, don’t play it like you’re right. The way the Raiders are doing when they defend Vontaze Burfict for being a thug. The linebacker was suspended for the season after his latest dirty hit and Raiders players were shocked(!), claiming Vontaze is just misunderstood. Just another example of professional athletes whining that we should believe what they say rather than what our eyes tell us.
  • And my eyes are telling me this is my favorite Halloween costume of the season, and I know it’s early, but . . .
  • And if you want scary good, my Nashville hot fried chicken birthday dinner with my kids, niece and sister- followed with ghost stories by candlelight? Good as it gets.
  • Speaking of good as it gets, the girl went to the Global Citizen Festival in NYC last weekend She shutterbugged me their peach vantage point right up by the stage and snippeted me a tune here and there from various of the powerhouse lineup. And all was right with the world as Freddie held court and my little girl sang to Queen inside a glorious evening.
  • I promised myself I’d never post the cover to this song, but Imma break the rules.
  • Not like it’s the first time . . .