Sometimes it snows in April. No, not the Prince song, it really does. I had to drive down to a meeting in Marshfield (35 miles south of Boston) this morning, and I couldn't see twenty feet ahead because of these big, wet snowflakes. The first and only moment since I've been home that I missed Miami. (Of course, when it's 100 and sticky there in July, I'm sure I'll pine for the snow.)
Meanwhile, back in cyberville, a couple of quickies:
Downbeat has posted and old first-person by Wayne Shorter. Anything I've ever seen from Wayne, either in print of the few interviews I've seen. (If you get a chance, check out the Joni Mitchell documentary he's on- Wayne is the kicker on an already great special. And there's Joni and Don Alias footage.) They're always this amazingly, well, loopy. And I mean that literally, not as in "nuts" loopy. He never answers a question in a straight line.
I loved the opener of Garrison Keilor's column in Salon today:
"Columnists should not write about politics. Take it from me, it's a bad idea. You pick up your bright sword to harass the heathen Republican and your prose style goes limp, your verbs droop, and words such as "comprehensive" and "funding" creep in and you become thin-lipped and hissy, like Miss Whipple in study hall telling the boys in the back of the room to shape up or be sorry. Well, they aren't going to shape up. What will shape them up is the day of reckoning and it's not here yet."
The rest isn't bad either. Sometimes we need to be reminded that this too, shall pass.
So scram, already, go do something beautiful. (Well, unless it's snowing where you are.) We'll still be here when you get back...
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