A reference to ‘the Sixties’ here on DD from time to time is a little unavoidable.  Click here for a not-altogether-bad post which, among other things, points out that the mythical ‘decade’ was actually the years 1964 through 1972.

While I do not wish to leave any hint that I previously thought otherwise, I do believe that the appearance of the Sixties-est human being on the planet on the cover of the most recent issue of the AARP magazine has signaled the fact that now ‘the Sixties’ are positively, absolutely, undeniably — and reliably — dead.

Requiem Aeternam dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis.


So, here we are on the day of the eve of the Academy Awards presentation.

Since childhood, I have slavishly followed the Oscars, though I cannot say at what point I resigned myself to their emptiness.  Robert Altman’s being passed over for his direction of ‘Gosford Park’, for example, but why on earth choose just one?

I had lunch earlier this month with my nephew Edwin who runs his own thriving video production company.  He is a huge, but not unhinged, movie buff.  I like to think that I had something to do with that.

Our lunchtime topic was, as always, the movies, and on that day the upcoming AA’s.  Along the way, I voiced my suspicion of Oscars for ‘Cinematography’ sometimes owing mostly to ‘Production Design’.  Yes, it was that kind of dialog, god help us.

Along those same lines, I have always been a little impatient with photographs which are essentially just records of other artists’ beautiful things.  Be that as it may, this morning I ran across this photo I snapped who-knows-when of a tear sheet and a pair of eyeglass cases, all three found lying on the bed.

At a loss to suggest there has been an actual point to this post, I’ll close saying I’m rooting for the ninefold Oscar-nominated ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’, which if you have not seen it, may Patrick Stewart turn you to stone.

Click to Enlarge

Click to Enlarge

The idea I mentioned post-before-last is this one, come to Valentine fruition today, in spite of my bitching about being busy of late.

I present to you love-themed works by Corita Kent.


You likely won’t recognize Corita Kent unless you were alive and aware in the Sixties, or maybe I’m selling you short.  Click here and here to read about her.

My major in college was Graphic Design, and I was very fond of Kent’s work.  My professors in those days felt I had a real shot at becoming an actual designer, but it didn’t happen.  One of those aphorisms I pointed you to yesterday rings a bell: ‘We work for praise, and dawdle once we have it’.

Nevertheless, I have maintained a lifelong enthusiasm for design, and can spot a type font and call it by name to this day.  (Whoopee.)  As a Corita fan while in school, and even though I had not the first farthing to spend on such at the time, I bought one of her original works entitled ‘The Heart of the White’.

Very ‘Nun-esque’, black-and-white and severe, but at least includes the word ‘heart’.  Happy Valentine’s Day!

Click to Enlarge

Click to Enlarge


I have conducted most of my life under the cracked Willy Wonka-ism ‘so much time and so little to do’, so I ought to feel ridiculous saying I’ve been very busy lately.  (My project, until it shows serious signs of success, is best left unnamed.)

I haven’t read any of the blogs I follow, which fills me with guilt, and I don’t seem to be able to cordon off time and focus in the same spot to write anything original here.  It’s sad…

The tendril-prone nature of the internet seems explanation enough for why I ran across the quote in the title of this filler post.

One thought this pithy would seem enough, but there are ‘several’ more in two volumes entitled The Neurotic’s Notebook and The Second Neurotic’s Notebook by Mignon McLaughlin.

Here is a page [ http://neglectedbooks.com/?p=734 ] about Ms. McLaughlin, which begins:

‘A book of aphorisms is among the most perishable of publications. It’s too small to command any attention on the bookshelf, too atomic in composition to be considered as a complete work, too light to carry any critical weight.  The Complete Neurotic’s Notebook, published in 1981, collects McLaughlin’s 1963 book and its 1966 successor, The Second Neurotic’s Notebook, in one volume – of average size because the text is in large print – yet of the three books I can locate just 25 used copies in total available for sale online. Leaves pressed into books survive better than that.’

This is surely a serious shame, but the following ‘Wiki’ page has come to the rescue.  Thumb through them; there’s so much time and so little to do.


I was going to try to write something else today, but frankly, I just don’t have the energy.  Further proof of that energy-lack, abundant in my recent posts.

Fortunately, I just this minute received an email from our friend Martin in L.A., copied here, saving the day.

“You know …. I don’t think I want to live in a world where celebrities feel this comfortable talking about their lady gardens.”


‘Lady Garden’.  I’m crazy about a new term, and I haven’t gotten one of this caliber since being gifted (you know who you are) ‘Nature’s Bachelors’.


Just returned from a local spot called The National, where our friends Bill and Lynn met us for lunch.  It’s my birthday and here is a birthday selfie.

I am sixty-eight today.  I am not morose, but slightly sobered by this.  Yet, left to wonder why sixty-seven had no such effect on me.

So far, none of you have come forward spontaneously with birthday wishes, in spite of my having given you memory joggers in past posts.  Let’s try again:

I share a birthday with Aristotle Onassis and they inaugurate the President of the United States on this day every four years.

I still love you, but can I make this any easier?


Somewhere along the line, I’m bound to have mentioned that I am not a religious person.  I am, however, a fairly superstitious one.  Go figure.

Soft consensus seems to be that the recently announced taking on of marriage equality cases by the U.S. Supreme Court will have a happy outcome this year.

I shan’t add to any collective jinx gathering out there by hoping thataway.

Problem is, I’m not sure, coming up on four decades together, that Stephen and I ought to get married.  We watched the movie Gone Girl the other evening, and seems marriage does peculiar things to people.  We may stick to being roomies.

Either way, [S P O I L E R] that box cutter in the tool drawer is history.

Last post, I mentioned my seasonal NPR musical Christmas present – John Rutter’s ‘When Icicles Hang’ – now today, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but this animation with John Rutter’s ‘Angel’s Carol’ on Vimeo.  Never heard of John Rutter, now two encounters.  Synchronicity, it makes me nervous.

Offering it here, atonement for my evil remark about Johnny Mathis last time?

Well, it’s worth a try.  Please click on the picture below.  Thanks!


I heard Randy Newman’s late-Eighties ditty ‘It’s Money that Matters’ the other day, and a line in it reminded me of ‘He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself’, so I’ve decided to borrow it for my Christmas post title.

And, on a recent Sunday, I saw an interview with Mandy Patinkin.  Responding to a question about favorite songwriters, he included Randy Newman.  He said ‘These songwriters tell stories’, and I felt a bit validated.  My ‘About’ here on the blog says ‘I am my mother’s son, essentially incapable of answering a question without a narrative’, and Stephen ‘warns’ me about that from time to time.

As to Christmas ‘songs’, last year Public Radio gifted me ‘Seek Him that Maketh the Seven Stars’, a 7 minute choral piece by Jonathan Dove.  This year, my NPR musical present has been ‘Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind’, from ‘When Icicles Hang’, by John Rutter.

Investigate amongst yourselves.

For years in my childhood, listening to the song ‘Winter Wonderland’, I wondered why anyone would want to build a snowman ‘then pretend that he is parched and brown’.  I don’t know where along the way I discovered it was ‘Parson Brown’.  Anyway, I’ve included the song here, and hoping you won’t think too badly of a comment on one of our LGBT own.

Is the queerest thing you’ll hear this Christmas season Johnny’s delivery of ‘pretend that he’s a circus clown’ about two and a half minutes into the song?

Merry to all!  Thanks!

A freak thing happened to me this past week.  On the spot, I assumed it was the first and only, but turns out it was actually the second.  Or, at least the second, which is the ‘this-makes-me-nervous’ part.

I was driving with the radio on, announcer saying that upcoming was Samuel Barber’s ‘Adagio for Stings’, not on strings, but performed by a woodwind quintet.  My cellphone rang in my pants pocket, and traffic at a standstill, I answered it.  On the other end of the phone in NY, my friend Will W said, “The next time you call me, I’d like Samuel Barber’s ‘Adagio for Strings’ playing in the background, but performed by a woodwind quintet, please.”

Instant twilight zone, until he said that apparently I had ‘butt-dialed’ him – in this case, to be totally accurate, ‘thigh-dialed’.  What I do not comprehend in any form is how an iPhone, with no physical buttons on the face of it, dials a phone number by itself from your pocket.

Will said this phenomenon is not uncommon, and proceeded to tell me that I had actually pocket-dialed him once before.  The previous time, he said, there was no music, but huffing and puffing, so he gathered that I was out walking, or at least he HOPED that’s what I was doing.  I told him that to the best of my knowledge, I hadn’t ever done THAT with my phone in my pocket.

I do know for a fact that the next time I’m engaged in THAT, the phone won’t be in my pocket or anywhere nearby.  I don’t do THAT on the telephone even if the conversation begins with ‘What are you wearing?’

give dave a break

Type 'Turn On, Tune In, Time Out' in the 'Search' field (just below) for a list of links to ten posts that might (maybe) lead you to believe that I can write a better post than the current one.
March 2015
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