I heard some lady complaining about the economy. How all she could afford, after all her bills were paid, was formula and diapers. I think the formula is probably giving her diarrhea, which was why she….you know…
I was watching “Chisum” on TV. There’s a line in it that Jesse James killed a man at the age of 12. Sorry, but no twelve year old can be called a “man”.
When I get that tangy silver-tasting feeling of steady-pumping rejection from people I’ve never met, like today, I am taken back to a conversation I had with a really fine local singer/songwriter, half of a duo, who released what is one of the finer local releases I’ve ever heard. She told me that she would on occasion DJ at a local college station. Shortly after her CD was released, she looked to see if they had included it in their rotation. She found the CD with the words “don’t bother” written in black marker. I’m not sure if I’m heartened or even more sullen when I think about it.
I was there in 1990. Go to 3:30:
We were sitting in that end zone. And when Bruce Smith almost took off Cunningham’s head, the noise was incredible. And when he escaped and completed the pass down the field, we all sat in stunned silence for an hour. And even though the Bills won the game and continued what was a charmed season, and even though the team, our team, achieved what we had all prayed for for so long, only to rip our hearts out, that’s the moment that stands out for me.