Not Burt Bacharach.
Burt Bacharach was a gracious host, even though he was a huge liar. It was September and he still had his Christmas decorations up. He claimed that he had his people put them up early, but the accumulated dust on the nativity scene and the withered Christmas tree said otherwise. When he detected my skepticism he offered profuse apologies, and concluded, “Every day is Christmas at the Bacharach’s.” His voice was calm, yet urgent. It was comforting.
One day after the State Of The Union, or #SOTU on Twitter®, I have come to the conclusion that our current president, Donald Trump, has matured. He can now drink a glass of water with one hand, and he can read off a teleprompter at a third grade level. Kudos.
This is not me. It is Robert Young from 1957. Our resemblance to each other is eerie.
My name is Carl Young, not to be confused by the realtor extraordinaire from the southwest suburbs with the same name. No worries, it happens all the time. In college, one weirdo asked if I was related to some famous psychiatrist. I walked on. If anything, a lot of people seem to think I look like a young Robert Young. It leads me to wonder, will I look like the old Robert Young as I get older?
A friend of mine hates mash ups. The whole idea and shebang of taking two shitty tunes and making another shitty tune out of it, or ruining two good songs and transforming it into a shitty tune, pisses him off to no end. So much so, he is incapable of stifling his grief out loud.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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