We lost Dave yesterday to the big C. I didn't even know he was sick. Catching some of his gigs in Greenwich Village back in the '60's are among my more treasured memories. Treat yourselves to a listen.
Note to my contemporaries (wake-up call to smell-the-roses department): We're used to having lost some of our best songsters to drugs and booze. Now we're starting to lose 'em to natural causes.
Confessions, continued
Kevin, guess I over-reacted to the whiny leftie bit, but I must say, your post brought forth a great call-to-arms from Frank, guillotines notwithstanding. It sure is fun sometimes to feel like a pissed-off student again.
Since Frank set the tone for confession, I might as well step in line. Yes, Kevin, I'm afraid its true. I went from the great street marches--the real deal with the snarling police dogs and the hysterical, expectorating townspeople--to the whores' writing desks--not P&G, mind you, but might as well have been. Too bad Rageboy wasn't around to set us straight and shame us into our senses. But we'll take a revolutionary whenever he happens to pop up, even if our jock straps are halfway up the wall.
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