America’s “Horse with No Name” has perhaps the only triple negative in pop music history.
I will soon be making my once-a-year pea soup in the crock pot my mother gave me 35 years ago.
I am thinking about lost friends who were once dear to me. One in particular.
I am thinking I need a shave.
I am thinking about a job I just lost because I worked too well.
I decorated my domicile with ancient Christmas decorations. If it lifts one distressed spirit in these distressed American times, then I will smile, but of course, I will never know the result of my effort. That’s the whole point.
I gave my two favorite baristas, a brother and sister, a copy of a Christmas story that I thought might provide levity when they have a break from serving angry, embittered Trump supporters.
I really love Nat King Cole’s voice.
I love writing Christmas tales. I love the originality of this literary endeavor, which of course is not original at all. I don’t know any other writers writing adult Christmas tales. We need them more than ever.
I truly loathe Quentin T films. I say that because I have to listen to one of them as I write this. Everything he ever wrote for film that I’ve seen was phony or willfully derivative. What kind of legacy is that? He got rich doing so. He’s never made one film that enriched the human condition. Or explored the dark side of it in authentic fashion. Sure…hit men quote the Old Testament while making a hit.
I want to explore a secret estuary soon.
I keep hoping someone will surprise me this holiday season.