Yesterday, a copy arrived of ‘Mike Nichols: A Life’ by Mark Harris.  Mark Harris is Tony Kushner’s husband, I discovered.

I’ve been looking forward to this biography since I first got wind of it.  The last thing I read was ‘A Very Stable Genius’.   Enough doom.

I was introduced to Mike Nichols by my friend Tony (not Kushner…) in high school in the early Sixties by way of the LP (‘vinyl’…) recording ‘An Evening with Mike Nichols and Elaine May’.

Interestingly enough, at about the same time, Tony also introduced me via vinyl* to the original Broadway production of Edward Albee’s ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, which would of course eventually become the first film Mike Nichols directed.

(*Phonograph record audio recordings of plays, I might as well be talking about papyrus.)

The last time I saw this Tony, years ago, after not having seen him for years, I mentioned how grateful I was for his many introductions in our teens of ‘matters’ of theater and music.  He seemed… bemused.

I have a real lack of talent for absorbing that people move on.

Here is a link to an excerpt of ‘Mike Nichols: A Life’.


On this occasion, allow me to cherry-pick Pete Townshend’s tune “1921”:

“Got a feeling ’21
Is going to be a good year
Especially if you and me
See it in together
I had no reason to be over-optimistic
But somehow, when you smiled
I could brave bad weather”

 

Here’s a New Year’s card I whipped up I-can’t-remember-how-long-ago.

Once upon a time, when I was a practicing… well, practicing anything, I started ‘mining’ photographs and prints by macro-photographing tiny areas of them to generate graphics for screen printing — which I was in fact practicing at the time.

I’d photographed this sundial image from a dictionary, one of those microscopic illustrations next to the definition.  A device requiring sunlight representing the approach to New Year’s Eve midnight: I thought that was awfully clever…

I succeeded in finding an example of my ‘technique’ that I’d posted previously, entitled ‘F_ck Me!’.  Dated 12/17/2016, curiosity enough, its message is accidentally apropos at the present juncture in the American political morass.

Happy Christmas and a premature (but so sincere) Happy New Year!

You and I both know I’m incapable of going full-Thumper, but in the wake of the previous post, I’ve decided to either make good on my ongoing threat to shutter, or alternatively, abandon gloom.

The second option pictured is also attractive…

The eleventh anniversary of Domani Dave occurred last month.

I like ‘11’.  It’s not that metric ’10’ decimal prissiness, and it’s not a dozen ’12’ cookies, months-in-the-year, either.  A nice off-balance number.

The present post is actually before your eyes entirely so that I can claim at the last possible moment, anal retentively, that I have not missed posting a single month throughout those eleven years.

Here is my most recent ‘portrait’, taken to immortalize my sustained twelve-week COVID lockdown hair.  I turned 70 January 20, 2017, the day Donald Trump was inaugurated POTUS.

It’s been a tough four years.

Also included, your Domani Dave host at his fifth birthday party, January 20, 1952.  I recently extracted this image from a small clutch of prints I spirited away from the family trove.  Fain deny you have never seen a more precious child.

It’s been a tough 69 years.

I have a long history of being conflicted about Hollywood’s long history of using a Southern accent as shorthand for ‘stupid’.

The practice continued just this past week with a bouncy little video online entitled ‘This Song is Dedicated to the Last Undecided Voter’, modeled on the final 2020 Presidential ‘debate’.

You don’t have to watch the whole thing, as the titular last undecided voter appears about 25 seconds in, with requisite dimwitted drawl.

I myself spotted the liability of a Southern accent as early as high school and began then trying to at least tamp-down my own.  Half a century later, mission accomplished: I’m told that I have an ‘Atlanta accent’.  Not too hot, not too cold…

There are, mind you, beautiful natural Southern accents.  A boss of mine once, a gentleman (truly) from South Carolina, spoke in a sort of precise melody.  Not so much as a single sign of tinkering.

Unfortunately, the ‘other’ reputation of the Southern accent is kept alive by the likes of House of Representatives member from Georgia, Doug Collins.

If you followed the televised impeachment proceedings, you will recall Collins’ carnival barker/cattle auctioneer delivery, a perfectly realized redneck rat-a-tat-tat.

Some decades ago during four years sustained living outside the South, naïf-like I endeavored to be an ‘ambassador’ for ‘It’s not really like that’ in the South.  Shortly upon returning, I realized it was exactly ‘like that’.

Now, today, I realize the entire country is exactly ‘like that’.

Do NOT ask me to describe the terrain along the way through the rabbit hole that brought me to this online ‘review’ of Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye.

Also, please agree that naked cruelty could be the only reason you might suggest that the writing style herein is similar to my own.


Our house is situated on a maybe too public corner, with essentially a glorified courtyard in the front.  There is a point: what’s visible on the house is viewable from the sidewalk.

Our friend Pete L made a fairly extensive run of ‘non-traditional’ political yard signs.  For security, we flipped our copy, bending that poke-in-the-ground wire part into hooks, and suspended it on the street-facing trellis attached to the porch.

It would take a committed sign stealer to trespass to snatch it.


Our ‘traditional’ Biden/Harris sign is suspended similarly, but in a more-readily, yet still not-easily snatchable spot.  An attempt was made last evening, but craftily-fortified, the sign prevailed.


Our friend Roger B sent us this photo.  This sign would last about three minutes in our neighborhood.  Come to think of it, I might just go snatch it myself for a keepsake…

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but in October 2016, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas, as my old friend Susan once said: ‘Compulsion is a cruel master’.

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