There was a time when the slow, mournful, almost painful empty church building moaning of Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies would've made me leave everything behind to marry her and make ugly half-Canadian/half-southern children together, especially under the influence of nice strychniney acid that was slow flowing and not too hallucinogenic but would make you think and think and think and think and scratch at your thumb joints because they were really fucking achey, and then she made perfect sense to me. I saw them live one time, years and years ago, back when my wife bought me the "Misguided Angel" 12-inch single because that was kinda my song and shit, and after seeing them, Margo Timmins just seemed like a woman who would drive a brand new silver Volvo stationwagon to Whole Foods to buy a 19 things, including three different types of Chai, for $93. But at one time, what we had together, when she moaned her way into my heart and I didn't know she looked like a renegade eugenics professor crossbred Sarah Jessica Parker with an MFA Creative Writing candidate, those were good times inside my drug-addled brain.
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