In my dream it's a soul thing -- it ain't no groove thing, it ain't no country twang, it's a simple refrain. The blues can come out to play -- jazz can even leave her number -- but it's a soul thing that's creeping in my bedroom and consuming my fantasies. It's a late night visit from the ghosts of future-past, images of Ray and Elvis and Van Morrison and Joe Cocker -- only this one's young and hot, and he's singing and dancing, never stopping to properly introduce himself as some boy from down south named Taylor.

He's on my TV, and then he's really on my TV, up on the shelves dancing and spinning, heading around my room, circling my bed, jumping up and down, seducing me with his energy. It's a puppy dog thing, it's a silver-haired thing, it's a hell of a day, or is it still night? Maybe he's just like somebody's drunken daddy on stage at a wedding, like that old crush of mine suggested -- a way-down-dark fantasy in itself -- but man, he sure can sing. He's calling me Georgia, he's calling me easy, and God knows I am, for him, and then we're taking it to the streets, or at least down to the plush red carpeting.

But then, hey!, he's pulling something out and I'm ready for it. I'm starry-eyed and turning on my lovelight and then there it is -- his big ol'...harmonica.

Our permanent collection of exotica