Those tears they cry have come too late.

Yesterday, I was sitting at the Kitty Cat Klub with Lauren, enjoying a nice and surprisingly well-priced gin and tonic. A instrumental jazz trio consisting of an electric guitarist, a string bassist, and a drummer were playing some soft tunes at a unnecessarily loud level. Lauren and I were chatting, laughing, gossiping. At a lull in the conversation, my ear turned to the music. The melody sounded vaguely familiar; I sorted through my knowledge of Frank Sinatra, Edith Piaf, Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday. Then suddenly, as I traced the pronounced staccato of the bassist's notes, it hit me:

They were playing "Gollum's Song."

As in that wonderful tune written from Smeagol's point of view as he articulates his sense of betrayal at the hands of Sam and Frodo and his willingness to lead them into danger, to a point at which "they can never go home."

The rest of the audience reacted with graceful tact, as I immediately called Erin and filled her in, laughing rather obscenely and repeating over and over: "'Gollum's Song,' Erin! 'GOLLUM'S SONG!'"

It's moments like these that make me love my life.