Sung to the tune of I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables. (Sorry for the extra verse.)
I dreamed a dream of future clear,
Of boyhood plans and vague ambitions.
This thing that I would call “career,”
With cowboy hats and lunar missions.
But then there came the bills to pay,
And dreams were something one did sleeping.
My goals for life I’d put away
Deep in my brain, for safer keeping.
My harshest critics roll their eyes,
Betraying lowered expectation.
And so it comes as no surprise
That I would join in their negation.
The life that I have been denied,
I see so many others living.
Times I thought I’m satisfied
I can count upon one hand.
But then this woman, near my age,
Without a job, with modest dressing,
She sings a song, and she’s the rage,
The night she shows the world her blessing.
On hearing this, the time has come
To face that I’m my only critic.
I must cheer for my own team
Before I kill
The dream I dreamed.
Lest you haven’t yet seen the video, here’s a link. (They’ve disabled embedding.)
Currently, the TV networks are getting their face time with Chesley Sullenberger, the pilot of the US Airways plane that made an emergency landing in the Hudson River January 15. America can’t get enough of him, and that’s a noble instinct. Continue reading
I couldn’t help using the “Finish This Tweet” meme to my own advantage. What I spent the better part of two days not being afraid of — as best I could — was a colonoscopy. Before you ask, it was routine; the occasion was my 50th birthday, put off until after my 51st but not before my health care coverage ended from my cubicle job I quit two weeks ago.
I owed you an explanation today. I’d like to expand the idea of this post to dealing with fear of the unknown, especially of your insides when you get to a certain age, and why it’s worth fighting through. I’d also love to revisit the whole idea of this fun Twitter game, which was wildly successful for me this time, and benefited only a little from an implied imprimatur from Laura Fitton (see previous post).
The fact is, I’m still a little out of it from the anaesthesia. (Not so much that I couldn’t spell anaesthesia!)
A photo after the break… Continue reading
Maybe it’s the pouch.
Catholicism is my discredited old friend; atheism is my credible new friend. When one talks trash about the other, I don’t listen.
I can’t believe how tiny that blacktop playground is, where I once watched from the corner as girls played hopscotch and boys played kickball. While I continued to attend Catholic school until three days into my third year at Archbishop Stepinac High School in White Plains, NY, the beginning of the end came during preparation for confirmation, in the third grade at Holy Name of Mary School in Croton-on-Hudson.
Placing the name to a movie star’s face proves a challenge. Internet to the rescue. Is that such a good habit, though?
My wife and I were channel flipping at the TV last night, and we came across what looked like a made-for-TV movie about Noah’s ark. I could identify John Voight as Noah and Mary Steenbergen as his wife. They were looking over the rail of the deck down at another small boat filled with Middle Eastern-looking trinkets, piloted by a bearded peddler, played by an actor with a very familiar face.