Earlier today, with no forewarning, I was blindsided by a 1978 TV clip of Donnie and Marie. As in Osmond. As in Devil, get behind me!/Jayzus take me now! They were performing, as a corn-fed TV-variety-show number, “Reelin’ in the Years,” the disarming 1973 hit by Steely Dan. The great Steely Dan. That now defunct, …
Been fiddling with this poem for a while. I still consider it far from done, and looking over it again just now, again made further changes. The proverbial work in progress, start, stop, start, stop, repeat. I like very much where it’s headed, though I wonder with it if I’ll ever feel quite like I …
So, OK, 2021. It’s gone just now, and good riddance, I say, to fantastically bad rubbish. But why all this contrariness, you ask, so new into 2022? I mean it’s not like 2021 was 2020, or anything, y’know? Like hell it wasn’t. Right out of the gate, my mother, my blessed angel of a mother, …
My angel mother died three nights ago. She was at last peaceful, drifting out of several days of semi-consciousness following a steady decline from what was by then a rapidly spiraling dementia, compounded in her final days by a COVID-19 infection that may well have produced a stroke. Jeanne Patricia Eaton Rabey, gone now, permanently …
I want to thank the great number of you for the outpouring of support and kind wishes over the loss two days ago of one of my best, my dearest and truest of friends, who just so happened to be an old, blind cat named Banjo. He was indeed better people than most people you …
Yesterday, something not at all unexpected, but in no way less foul, was revealed, and which today, in source after source, even on GOP-blinded Fox News, has been confirmed, in one detail after another. Today the “President,” your president, perhaps, somebody’s President anyway, not mine, not a chance, was revealed, again and again, through his …
Some people celebrate birthdays, cake, friends coming together, drunken foolishness, whatever. Me, I have reckonings. So, trade ya …
Dylan on a Sheridan Square bench in the West Village, New York, N.Y., Jan. 22, 1965. Photo by Fred. W. McDarrah/Getty Images, as also with the one below. My adoration of Bob Dylan 1965-66 is akin to what rowdy religious types have for crucifixions and blue-eyed saviors, upward-mobility reincarnations and a heaven tripping over itself …
Facts. These are all FACTS. Not fake news. Not hyperbole. Not partisan yammering. FACTS.
For more people than not, the expression “broken record” likely carries no literal meaning at this point. That generation is a couple past. Hell, even my own old-guy turntable has a broken lid and the stylus is duller now than even my late-night senses. So a new metaphor is likely in order here. See, I …