Dispatches from the Culture War
With little time to spare, what with high school graduation and gobs of family visiting and the graduate having her tonsils removed this morning; and now a welcome flurry of people paying me to write werdz (unlike the Management around this little bloggy vineyard!); plus a couple of gigs later this week with new music to learn. Add in a dose of recalcitrance and innate indolence, and well, this is what you get this week.
It’s graduation week for Röbsdöttïr, which means Memory Lane has been a road far more traveled by.
Who is this kid? I’ll let a slightly altered quote from My Dinner with Andre suffice:
I mean, you know, people hold on to these images: father, mother, husband, wife, again for the same reason: ’cause they seem to provide some firm ground. But there’s no wife there. What does that mean, a wife? A husband? A daughter? A baby holds your hands, and then suddenly, there’s this beautiful young woman waving goodbye, and then she’s gone. Where’s that daughter?
This week’s scheduled post – which is truly a zenith of the form, a paragon of wit and insight, a trenchant gaze at the meaning of words and their inevitable degradation – remains incomplete.
But there’s no need to fear! Nostalgia man is here.
One year ago today, Your Narrator was lying in bed, bemoaning the little flu virus gathered on a recent trip to NY. Things took a different course. Rather than taking time to re-relate this amusing tale, the Narrator refers you to the post Now You Know What I Did Last Summer.
Thirty-one years ago today, that marvelous woman took a big leap of faith and said “I do”. As did I. And we still do.
My Favorite World.
