RIP, Kris Kristofferson

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad
So I had one more for dessert
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

I'd smoked my brain the night before
On cigarettes and songs that I'd been pickin'
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Cussin' at a can that he was kickin'
Then I crossed the empty street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken
And it took me back to somethin'
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way

On a Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' short of dyin'
Half as lonesome as the sound
As a sleepin' city sidewalk
Sunday mornin' comin' down

In the park, I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl who he was swingin'
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the song that they were singin'
Then I headed back for home
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'
And it echoed through the canyons
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday

On a Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there's something in a Sunday
Makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' short of dyin'
Half as lonesome as the sound
As a sleepin' city sidewalk
Sunday mornin' comin' down

For reference

Zac Crain, RIP. What a writer. What a loss.

“He laughs, staccato, huh huh huh, like the engine of a lawn mower trying to catch.”

Pretty fun

Modern AI recreations of historic characters

Hell Weed

Smilax (or bindweed or greenbrier, among many other names). It covers everything, and its roots reach down to hell. But, once a year for about a week, it puts out pretty purple flowers. So it’s got that going for it. Which is nice.

Audere est Facere

Micro.blogger Tottenham Hotspur fans (if any, besides @frjon and me), might take some heart from this article in the Evening Standard. COYS ⚽

It’s so fun to grow plants (in this case, Cosmos), from seed! Fun for the bees, too.

O Liverwurst, Where Art Thou?

Sad memorial in the NYT. I loved liverwurst on rye with mustard and red onion slices from the late ’70s Stanford Coffee House. I still wonder why people crossed to the other side of the street after I’d enjoyed one.

At Zabar’s, 1970 - Credit: Michael Gold/Getty Image

A Thought

Extraordinary people in arts, business, etc., can be so focused that their relationships suffer. Maybe that’s the price of excellence. But those who nurture relationships also pay a cost. They may be less successful at making money or art. Might that be a price of deeper connections?

Cahokia Jazz

Loved the audiobook of Francis Spufford’s amazing novel, read by Andy Ingalls. It’s a great listen, and Ingalls is an excellent reader. But I recommend also getting a print copy for the great maps, family trees, etc. (Check your library!) Dynamite as a pair.