Mom Says:
How can we describe the atmosphere of the little tavern in southern France, with its sudden infusion of a singer from southern Spain and musicians from Jamaica performing a song from the United States? Imagine, then, a small grey and white cat with a big personality, standing on his hind legs on a small, round table, singing:
Son nom était Lola.
Elle était girl
avec les plumes jaunes dans ses cheveux
et une coupure de robe en bas à là.
(Her name was Lola.
She was a girl
with yellow plumes in her hair
and a cut robe over there.)
And then imagine how the sound of tiny steel drums played by Jamaican kitteez, with even tinier little dreadlocks, fill the room in an unaccustomed way, accompanied by the sandy shake of maracas (very, very small maracas), gradually fills the room in a little way, with the assured voice of the kittee (the voice bigger than the kittee himself) inserts itself into the larger sound of the tavern’s conversation, gradually wedging a larger and larger space for itself.
Then turn to see who those musicians are, who that kittee is.
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