Nothing… except who cares? I mean, does anybody really need to hear ‘Feelings’ again in their lifetime? It’s like parsley, okay? Take it away, nobody’s going to know the difference.
Frank, to you ‘Feelings’ may be goddamn filet mignon, but to me, it’s parsley. It’s *less* than parsley.
Oh. Well, they weren’t exactly crying their eyes out on New Year’s Eve.
I know one thing. While Frank Baker was home putting his kids to sleep last night, little brother Jack was out dusting off his dreams for a few minutes. I was there. I saw it in your face. You’re full of shit. You’re a fake. Every time you walk into some shitty daiquiri hut, you’re selling yourself on the cheap. Hey, I know all about that. I’d find myself at the end of the night with some creep and tell myself it didn’t matter. And you kid yourself that you’ve got this empty place inside where you can put it all. But you do it long enough and all you are is empty.
At least my brother’s not my pimp. You know, I had you pegged for a loser the first time I saw you, but I was wrong. You’re worse. You’re a coward.
Listen, you’re not going soft on me, are you? I mean, you’re not going to start dreaming about me and waking up all sweaty and looking at me like I’m some sort of princess when I burp?
Singing ‘Feelings’ knee-deep in paper orchids and plastic tiki lamps is not exactly my idea of a fun evening.
Listen, I didn’t expect you to rush out and buy me a corsage this morning, you know. Your high school ring is safe.
l stayed at the Hartford one time. You should see the rooms. All satin and velvet. And the bed… royal blue, trimmed in lace clean as snow. Hard to believe a room like that don’t change your life. But it don’t. The bed may be magic, but the mirror isn’t. Still wake up the same old Susie.
Listen. The reason I came by last night. I’m thinking about leaving the act. I met this guy over New Year’s, at the hotel. He liked my voice. He thinks I can sell cat food just by singing about it. Crazy, huh? I mean, it’s nothing big. Mostly local stuff, probably.
