This article from The New Statesman about Bruce Hornsby is a damn fine way to spend a few minutes learning about everyone’s fourth favorite Bruce. (Springsteen, Banner, McCullough.) Well written and detailed, the piece leaves you with the rarest of things: a lingering smell of the subject in your nose.
To read this article is to smell deeply of Bruce Hornsby. To not be able to remove his scent in the shower. To also fail with a tomato soup bath. It’s just not coming off, so you go see a doctor and the good news is that you don’t actually smell like Bruce Hornsby, but you do have a brain tumor pressing up against the part of your brain that regulates whether or not you think you smell like Bruce Hornsby.
Except, the tumor is easily operable. But, the surgeon shows up drunk. However, the surgeon’s much like Jackie Chan in Drunken Master and surgeons better when he’s shitfaced; he saves your life. Yet, one of the nurses reports him for his insalubrious ways, and the surgeon loses his license and–blaming you–stalks you with a crossbow and shoots you in the head while you’re eating chicken wings at Friday’s. The arrow, coincidentally, hits the part of your brain that regulates whether or not you think you smell like Brice Hornsby..
Please stop this.
Fine. I will say this, though: The New Statesman is apparently a British newspaper, but I can’t figure out which side it’s on, and it uses this sentence as an enticement to click a link:
“The Battle for the Soul of Essex Man – How are Labour going to Win in Places like Harlow?”
I know those are English words, but for the life of me: nothing about it makes sense. Plus: is. Labooooooor is a collective noun. How IS Ye Olde Labour going to win.