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Thursday, October 13, 2016

The Writer's Life 10/13 - Babes

Five women have accused Trump of groping them. Let it be 500. I still believe he is more fit to be president than Hillary and, in terms of policy, I am way to the right of HRC on just about every issue. It's an easy choice for me.

I know hockey news is small stuff, but this is cool. In his NHL debut last night, Toronto Maple Leafs forward Auston Matthews scored four goals, the first rookie ever to have done so in the modern era. Of course, the Leafs still lost in OT. That's the way it's been going for them for a long time. Maybe this kid can lead them back to glory.

A Jordanian immigrant learning to fly a twin-engine plane argued with his instructor. The craft went down on a street in Connecticut. The immigrant was killed, the instructor, an Albanian immigrant and owner of a flight academy in Hartford, survived, burned severely. In an article in today's NY Post, a federal official said of the trainee: "He is believed to have had mental problems." How in the world is someone like that allowed near a plane, let alone at the controls? WTF?

Congratulations to Bob Dylan, who has won the Nobel Prize for Literature. It's an odd choice, but a good one. He has been a great writer. Scores of artists have recorded his songs. He has had a long career despite an odd voice that is now a grating rasp, and an unkempt persona. He has been called The Voice of a Generation, a tag that made him uncomfortable. He has always remained down to earth. Although he will not acknowledge it, he is a genius. I'll highlight an excerpt from one song, It Ain't Me, Babe, which the Turtles turned into a bouncy Top Ten pop tune, gutting it of its raw power. Whenever I listen closely to the Dylan version, I get an ache in my gut at the despair and futility of the final verse:
"Go melt back in the night
Everything inside is made of stone
There's nothing in here moving
An' anyway I'm not alone
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall
To gather flowers constantly
An' to come each time you call
A lover for your life an' nothing more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe"

My thanks to the kind folks who bought books today, and to the gentleman who donated a batch. They included three in Russian, which sold, a host of cook books, and a surprise -- a deck of large playing cards that have the naked photo of big-breasted women on each. I'll save it for a gentleman that collects regular decks. Of course, I'll first warn him of the naughty nature.
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