That Theoretical Taste For Scotch

I've been listening to cuts of Lee Wiley. Lee, in her early forties, in the early Fifties. B has mentioned so often how exciting it would have been as a Manhattanite then. Of course, we're talking plenty of moolah, n'est ce pas? Then, those watering holes and clubs, those floorshows and smoky closing hours, that smell of perfumed hair, that laughter of success -- then, it would all make sense.

Sometimes the surprise of this, this nagging 'narrative'. The impact of this. The tambre of Lee Wiley and the felt touch of her hand.

Bach

Hundreds of years old and relevant to nothing in speech, these partitas.

The End of Reason, The Start of Incivility

I want short entries, lean entries.

This one stinks of pessimism, doesn't it? What's got me ragging isn't a shortage of coffee, but the abundance of political overload.

My political season was getting overfull sometime late in 2000. By the time of the Supreme Court settlement before inauguration day, I was out cold.

Limit the political season to a straightforward 5 weeks.

I'm paralyzed with reinforced hyper decision.

Later, Freunden!