Getting it on with T. Rex

Wednesday night I dreamt about my first wife for the first time in decades. When we met in high school she looked a lot like Marc Bolan, more pop-erly known as T.Rex. I still remember her, rocking on our striped yellow two-seater sofa-bed in our apartment  with a view of a tiny suburban pond,  abutting a mall.  Bricks and boards, records and books, Harmon Kardon amplifier and receiver and stylish Danish speakers that kicked ass, Electric Warrior spinning on the Dual turntable.

She still lives in Winnipeg. I haven’t seen her since her mother’s funeral, the only people I knew there were Peter’s parents. She looked competent and as animated as ever, the catering by Rae & Jerry’s. My mother was dead too, and my Dad too frail to go.

She and I saw T.Rex both times they played in Winnipeg, opening for Three Dog Night in the old Arena (we left after we heard Jeremiah was a Bull Frog) and on a double bill with Blue Oyster Cult in the old Bison gym; both venues, like Marc Bolan, and my first wife long gone.  I was reminded by a new JCP Penny ad, using Bang a Gong in the background, with the heard line, “get it on,” while the folded sweaters were shelved, watching Grey’s Anatomy. I still have both of my favourite T.Rex vinyl albums, still playable, and the CD updates.




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