Hello. And I mean that sincerely.

It's Sunday night.

I should comb out my hair so it'll be more or less dry when I'm ready to lay my head on the ol' pillow (which is about now, to tell you the truth). Thought I'd post something first, though. So hi.

I found out that my silver pattern is called Stradivari. I also found a small card/tag attached to the flyer describing the storage file thingie it's in--- a drawing of a woman with an actual piece of pink feather for a feather in the cap (or is it a boa?), and my mother's name, written by her mother, thereon. Then I found a small card of Xmas bells addressed to my mother and father from "Mother." Pretty sure that's also Bertha, v. Merl. Fountain pen. Used "Nick" for my dad.

All this to say it may not be such an easy thing to do after all.

Started out in the shower singing the spy-and-me lyrics to John Denver's "Annie's Song":

You fill up my senses
Like a mouthful of horseshit
Like the smell of some horseshit
Like the feel of horseshit
Like the sound of some horseshit
As it's hitting the pavement...

Etc. But then next thing I know I'm singing the real words, such as I can remember them. And then, t'boot, as if to say "if I can be THAT sincere, ... ," I find myself conditioning to a straight-faced rendition of "The Rose."

Jonathan Richman likes "The Rose." Once when I saw him he started to sing it and, when the (inevitable) groans started up, he stopped, said something like "Then you don't deserve to hear it," and moved on. Not laughing a bit, or even twinkley-eyeing us. I hadn't been a groaner on that particular occasion, but I could easily have been. There have been times in my life at which it'd have been compulsive.

So I'm all dead-panning, in the shower, and thinking on sincerity, and how it's a reward of age. The ability to let go of multiple levels of ironic awareness and critical thought of critical thought. At least for a few minutes, now and then. And for longer if the circumstances are right.

Then I was thinking about some people I know in their 20s, and one in particular, who is not stupid, and how you can't say "When you act that way, you advertise the very internal agony you're terrified to let out." At least it's advertised it to us old farts.

If any of you have thoughts on sincerity, on taking things seriously, that you'd like to type back at me, that'd be cool.

Hello. And I mean that sincerely.

It's Sunday night.

I should comb out my hair so it'll be more or less dry when I'm ready to lay my head on the ol' pillow (which is about now, to tell you the truth). Thought I'd post something first, though. So hi.

I found out that my silver pattern is called Stradivari. I also found a small card/tag attached to the flyer describing the storage file thingie it's in--- a drawing of a woman with an actual piece of pink feather for a feather in the cap (or is it a boa?), and my mother's name, written by her mother, thereon. Then I found a small card of Xmas bells addressed to my mother and father from "Mother." Pretty sure that's also Bertha, v. Merl. Fountain pen. Used "Nick" for my dad.

All this to say it may not be such an easy thing to do after all.

Started out in the shower singing the spy-and-me lyrics to John Denver's "Annie's Song":

You fill up my senses
Like a mouthful of horseshit
Like the smell of some horseshit
Like the feel of horseshit
Like the sound of some horseshit
As it's hitting the pavement...

Etc. But then next thing I know I'm singing the real words, such as I can remember them. And then, t'boot, as if to say "if I can be THAT sincere, ... ," I find myself conditioning to a straight-faced rendition of "The Rose."

Jonathan Richman likes "The Rose." Once when I saw him he started to sing it and, when the (inevitable) groans started up, he stopped, said something like "Then you don't deserve to hear it," and moved on. Not laughing a bit, or even twinkley-eyeing us. I hadn't been a groaner on that particular occasion, but I could easily have been. There have been times in my life at which it'd have been compulsive.

So I'm all dead-panning, in the shower, and thinking on sincerity, and how it's a reward of age. The ability to let go of multiple levels of ironic awareness and critical thought of critical thought. At least for a few minutes, now and then. And for longer if the circumstances are right.

Then I was thinking about some people I know in their 20s, and one in particular, who is not stupid, and how you can't say "When you act that way, you advertise the very internal agony you're terrified to let out." At least it's advertised it to us old farts.

If any of you have thoughts on sincerity, on taking things seriously, that you'd like to type back at me, that'd be cool.