Usually, if I’m in front of a mic, it’s because I’m performing stand-up in a theater somewhere, a benefit, or a corporate booking. I can’t see myself ever doing nightclubs again. The unpaid bar tabs alone make that too awkward.
It was sometime in the late 70s that I first heard the astrological term, ‘Mercury in retrograde,’—probably from newspaper horoscopes that warned to hold off signing contracts, travel, or operate heavy equipment as chaos would ensue.
In a move that feels like sadly letting go of a beloved, elderly pet, it appears it’s time to send our old farm truck to that big garage in the sky...or more likely, a nearby junkyard.
After tuning into a radio station featuring ‘Hits From Yesterday and Today!’ during a particularly long drive, I was struck by the fact that I could sing along (hence the baying dogs along the way) to nearly every tune.
How is that possible?
Watching the third nor’easter in two weeks pummel residents up and down the coast of New England made me shiver slightly with the sudden realization that it was our own 25th anniversary of the ‘Blizzard of ‘93.’
In a move that feels like sadly rehoming a beloved, elderly pet, it appears it’s time to send our old farm truck to that big garage in the sky...or more likely, a nearby junkyard.
I (and perhaps many of you) don’t really consider myself a writer.
While I realize that it’s each generation’s turn to point their collective wagging finger at the generations behind them in despair and, yes, even ridicule, I do take offense when a broad brush is applied to them all.
It was rather grey and raw the early morning of Valentine’s Day, and as I pushed the wheelbarrow back from the manure pile (mountain) back into the barn, something caught my eye on the aisle floor, wedged in between two hay bales.
Frankly, I’m still agog.
Just so you know, the word agog is one I only carefully extract from its literary box to describe all things made unremarkable by the world weary ‘awesome.’
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