How To Become A Music Critic

A Herbsaint bender ain’t bad, per se, but this one was. I felt like I was paying for something I did in my past and I deserved it. That’s why&how come that rueful thick green bottle was in my kitchen, counter-side, for 7days and nights.
I was shacked up at the Fox Den, laying down with a squat glass full of the yellow stuff  and cigarette ash on my cargo shorts when the door blast open. She stood there, 6’1 and ba-boom to the floor. She wore black heels, a knee-length, knit black skirt and a black female-tux top. Her hair was done up in a serious bun, two blonde curls struck down her forehead like fists. She came into the place swinging her buxom around.
Her lips were blood red&full. Everything about her said that she was not fucking around.
“But…,” I started to say as she towered over me.
She threw up her hand and dropped a bag of CDs down on me.  They bounced off my crotch and I was ashamed and turned on.  Then she turned around and walked back out. I loved watching her go. I heard her heels crank down the stairs and she was gone.

That’s how I became a  music critic.

Even though you’re wearin’ those
up-town high heels
I can tell from your giant step
you been walkin’ through the cotton fields
-Old Crow Medicine Show, Down Home Girl