Gadzooks.

Don Ho is dead.

I'm not what you would call a fan, but I did admire the man. He loved his home and his music and his audience, and there's alot to be said for that. He also knew exactly who he was, and from that provided me with one of my favorite commercials of all time. Take the parentheticals that follow here as piano music being played by Don.

(Bum-de-dum-do, bum-de-de-dum-de-do) "Tiiiiiny bubbles, in the wine . . . "

Offstage voice: "The Champagne's not Korbel!!"

Don pauses, muggs offstage, then (Bum-de-dum-do, bum-de-de-dum-de-do) "Great big bubbles, in the wine, huge, fat, artificially induced bubbles, in the wine . . . "

Not that Korbel is really all that good as champagne goes. If it were really that good, as champagnes go, they wouldn't need to advertise it. But it was a sweet little commercial, which is a rare enough thing as it is, and Don mugged the camera adorably, and besides all that I was having a bad year at the time, and this little moment of bliss was a welcome respite.

I would say Godspeed, but what, frankly, would that mean to someone who lived in Hawaii? Here's to your next paradise.

Abyssinia, Kurt

“The child of a suicide will naturally think of death, the big one, as a logical solution to any problem.” --Kurt Vonnegut

Godspeed, Kurt. There's a place for us; somewhere, a place for us.

The Blog You Will Not Read

People don't read poetry. This is the conclusion I have reached. Any blog in which I include poetry-- and always my own, natch, I am a narcissistic bastard, after all-- I get zero comments on. But I just wrote this, and it's the first poem I have ever written while partaking in The Gig For All Seasons, as well as the first poem I have written in quite a while, so I'm posting it anyways, even though it's poetry, and you will look at the funny little lines, cringe in horror, and see what schlock that freaky Canadian movie guy is slinging out this week.

THE SELF SAYS NO

I live in a bright green world
of spring, bright blue skies and puffy white clouds
and roads that go on forever
roads that I drive with precise abandon.
Not because I can.
But because some day I won't.
The same way we all know Death's face is white. (Or red.)
Because we know that total silence
and complete dark are painfully possible things.
We live and we eat and we laugh and we breathe
because somewhere in the night
the self says no.



And I mean I just wrote it, too. Like two hours ago. Maybe three.