Black Market Indy

Black Market IndyI had a cat for eight years. His name was Indiana Jones. He’s gone now… damn little screen pusher was always trying to get outside. Anywho, every once in a while I’ll throw on a record and stumble across one of his hairs. If you look closely at the pic, what looks like a deep scratch near the top is actually a black, white and gray Indy hair. Presumably, the last time I listened to this, or any “Indy album” was between the years, 1998 and 2006, or as I refer to them as, The Indy Years. Kind of like The Wonder Years, but you know, with cats.

So today, I raise two glasses. The first, a whiskey neat to pay homage to the late, great Joe Strummer. The second, a tiny glass of milk to my old friend, Indiana Jones.

Thanks for the memories, guys.

2 thoughts on “Black Market Indy

  1. Some years ago I left my records (in their vertical shelves) with my sister, hubby and two cats. Over the next decade I periodically encountered LPs with neat puncture marks in the spines. So while honouring your honouring, I tend (in my own twisted memories) to go more towards burnt toast than the other kind. Cheers.

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