Because one must (almost) always laugh. I am grateful to Tom Lehrer for this.
Art is an insignificant attempt at reproducing what God does every moment. – George Harrison
I first saw this report on 60 Minutes in December – the entire transcript with video clips is here. It tells the story of Francesco Lotoro, an Italian man who has dedicated his energy to discovering the music written by prisoners of Nazi death camps and bringing it to life. What a blessing he is, as is his wife.
Aided by his wife, Grazia, who works at the local post office to support the family, Lotoro has collected and catalogued more than 8,000 pieces of music, including symphonies, operas, folk songs, and Gypsy tunes scribbled on everything from food wrapping to telegrams, even potato sacks.
The couple have established a foundation to archive the music and their work in their native Barletta, in the Puglia region of Italy. When/if I am lucky enough to return to Italy, I will visit Barletta and the Lotoros’ foundation.
My figure is definitely less than Greek.
You have to love this. If you don’t, go away.
Happy New Year from Dean, Frank and the Ding-a-Lings. Which begs the question…were the Ding-a-Lings a different group from the Golddiggers? Did they precede them/morph into them? I remember Dean and the Golddiggers from my childhood, but I have no recollection of these Ding-a-Lings. Ah well – glad to have discovered this, for ’tis delightful:
The Sacred. Glorious:
The Silly. Fun and also kind of glorious:
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
He would have been 104 today. Here’s a piece I wrote for his 100th.
Today is the anniversary of my brother’s death. Of course, I miss him and all the more so when something happens that I would love to discuss with him, or when a movie or TV show is on that I know he would love. This has certainly been the case with Ken Burns’ wonderful Country Music series on PBS. Alan loved country, and he would have adored this series. I thought of him during each episode, and imagined how great it would have been for him to call me up – as he used to – and chat with me about it.
In tribute to my brother, I offer you, dear readers, a song I hadn’t known before watching the series. (I will bet Alan knew it, though.) Get out your Kleenex.