A little over a year ago, my friend Louise’s sister Dona died. My brother and I worked with Louise at Hardee’s. We all went to high school together. Suffice it to say, Dona’s death was way too young.
Chaz’s latest choreography will begin with me playing horn—probably something quite Kaddish-like, yet!—while lying flat on my back on the floor. I assured Chaz that this can be done, and tonight I thought I’d better make sure about that.
After a long day at work, a run, and small dinner party that went late, I was exhausted. I’d had a great day full of life, and exhaustion replaced sadness for those no longer alive.
A musical toast to an almost-Dad-in-law.
Is it wrong to have fun writing a kaddish? This is a kaddish of Thanksgiving for failed relationships, and a toast to an almost-Dad-in-law. I can hear the ice clinking in our glasses even now.
I’ve been thinking about Tina lately because earlier this week I got together with her boss from back in the day, Shelly Orr Priebe.
On wanting to be an astronaut—and Johnny Cash—when I grow up.
Everybody knows about the tzaddik’s cars. They were fairly famous. His vehicles impersonated him. They imprinted on him. Everybody remembers particular stories about his cars. Only I don’t know all of the stories. And that really bugs me. I guess what I really want is to know everything. Collect everything. Every shred of memory. I […]
Tonight I played about a third faster than usual, with simple, unhistrionic rhythm. No frills–just the thrill of playing a very clean, well lubricated horn.
A delighted, jubilant kaddish using a cleaned, oiled, adjusted, polished horn.