Set time machine for 2003 and save the date. Image Source

Mystifying tales. Death-defying truths. Swirling innuendo. Let’s face it. Everything we once knew has changed drastically in this post-truth world. When Putin says up; we already know that he really means execute someone or do as I say, current president of the United States, Donald Trump, and when he says down, he means he understands, as in I’m ‘down’ with that, comrade brah. Even our emotions have changed. Sad is anger, something I like to call sangry. Anger is wisdom. Wisdom is now an emotion? To say the least: crazy times.
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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.

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So, you’ve accidentally tapped into the brandy and percocets before breakfast. In short, you’re fucked, cuz baby’s been crying for the last seven minutes. You hear it on the monitor and through the bedroom door. It is the worst, so you divert. Your favorite morning crew, not so funny, as they are disrupted with breaking news. Ugh, how much terrorism can we take?

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It was June, 1979, I had just finished junior year in high school. I was driving around in my parents’ sky blue Delta ‘88, it had an 8-track player in it, and I was cooler than cool could ever be because I got the Knack.

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