I have an annual ceremony which began in 1985. I celebrate Memorial Day by playing the worst music I own. Songs like “Policeman” by Chicago and “Him” by Rupert Holmes. Somehow, this gives greater weight to the great, the greatest veterans, who fought for this country and especially for my right to listen to garbage. Let there be mash up!
I remember when days actually felt like 24 hours. Not like today, when they seem like 17 to 18. I’m almost sure it’s a conspiracy, where “the man” is taking away hours at a time while we sleep, so it’s easier to mind control us. I also remember when Sunday mornings seemed more purple. I have a feeling that when you’re famous, none of this matters.
To paraphrase Francis Bacon, or his doppelgänger, “Hope is a good breakfast, but an ill supper.” Apparently he had no idea what constitutes a good meal. Who eats hope? Hope is composed of empty tasteless calories. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say, his tongue was a complete dolt.
In a galaxy far far away, in a future rapidly approaching, yet before the time Han Solo becomes an honest to goodness bounty hunter, there was Baby Solo. SPOILER ALERT: The following story transpires two decades before the latest installment of the 2018 Disney® Star Wars® franchise, Solo™.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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