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Pickle Me This

August 10, 2009

Not my bag

I hate jazz. I’ve never liked it, there was a time when I pretended I did and tried to learn to like it behind the scenes, but I never managed. I gave up pretences and decided to just hate it hands down the day a jazz-loving former co-worker walked into the staff lounge where someone else had put a bit of The Great Satan on the stereo, and co-worker waggled his head in a be-bop style, looked confused and said, “Hey, I thought this was my bag.” Which summed it all up for me, and that was the end. My beloved Tabatha Southey illustrates her jazz-hating experiences in this week’s column.

One thought on “Not my bag”

  1. BabelBabe says:

    believe I love her. And you by extension. Thank you for validating my hatred of jazz. YAWN. No excuse me as I go clean and dance wildly to Cheap Trick and Rhianna.

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