Tag: Margaret Glaspy

They had been shot at. They had avoided countless booby traps. They had been served tiny delicate cups of the most aromatic and poisonous espresso. All of these events were framed as interrupted cribbage games. Maybe they played too much. The phlebotomist ruminated on this as they locked up their two-wheel drive all-terrain motorbikes across the street from Kirov Park. The Transnistrian passports had been excruciatingly expensive, but the ergonomist insisted it was justified, for complicated political reasons. The pieces rattled against the cribbage board and the very dangerous little notebook in the messenger bag as they strolled through the trail, looking for a man holding two empty water bottles.

The topologist carefully unfolded the graph depicting prime number frequencies. Across the scrub, the baker was returning from the Unimog, having concluded the search, and from the looks of their empty hands, unsuccessfully. They must have left it in the cab back in Calabar. Wonderful. Together, they considered the placement of the carved stone monoliths before them, their geometric arrangement random to the average visitor, but a clear reflection of order to the ancient people of Alok Ikom, and apparently, also related to the graph before them, with cataclysmic mathematical consequences.

Glaspy’s voice is a broad crooked smile, unique in its shape and well-suited for this particular set of laconic jangle.

It was a quiet night. Somehow, three songs with states in the title ended up in the second hour, so I bumped them all to the top for a mini-tour.

The evenings grow brisk as the music gets wilder. Tonight zipped by, thanks to Generoso and Lily, and Robin in Atlanta, for staying up late. Also, a reminder that I'll be out the following two Tuesdays, returning to the air on October 2.

A variety of sounds and moods from this duo. Yes, that is a winky emoticon in the album title.