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Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
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Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Anne Frank, the Jewish teen diarist who documented her experiences hiding from the Nazis during World War II, would have turned 86 today. Her work inspired me to purchase my first diary. We were soul mates; both of us dark-haired and dark-eyed, yearning to be free, wrapped up in our writing as a form of escape and self-therapy. Like Anne, I will continue to write till my stoney end.
Today I extend a lusty black-and-blue birthday greeting - and a bouquet of the finest dead flowers - to Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards, the man who, for the past 50 years, has embodied the true spirit of rock-n-roll rebellion like no other artist. I love lots of rockers for lots of reasons, but Keith will always be my bad-boy fantasy object. "Oh, that old junkie!" you say? "How can you idolize a heroin-loving, speedball shooting hedonist who's snorted everything from the finest cocaine to his dead dad's ashes?" Well, if that's all you know about the man we fans call Keef, then you don't know diddly about the guy who can out-diddle Bo and just about everyone else when it comes to jamming out distinctive guitar licks. Here's my tribute to the seemingly indestructible Mr. Richards.
Singer/songwriter Bob Dylan just received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor. Bobby wore shades and never cracked a facial muscle as the Prez heaped all kinds of well-deserved praise upon him. That's our poker-faced Bob, the brilliant, eccentric minstrel that I'll adore forever.