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Today is the 63rd birthday of Bob Weir , one of the founding members of the Grateful Dead.  For those who don't know, I have become quite a Deadhead lately.  It all started when I had Sirius radio for a few months in a lease car, and discovered the Grateful Dead Channel. It started with Scarlet Begonias , and just blossomed on out from there.  I discovered so many great Dead songs that I never knew existed! So, anyway, Happy Birthday to Bob Weir!  I thought I would celebrate by posting this excellent version of him and the band singing Rev. Gary Davis' song, Samson & Delilah : I just love that song. Here is a painting I did of Reverend Gary Davis, who wrote the song:

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John Adams, the 2nd President of the United States, once wrote: "I believe there is no one principle, which predominates in human nature so much in every stage of life, from the cradle to the grave, in males and females, old and young, black and white, rich and poor, high and low, as this Passion for Superiority … Every human being compares itself in its own imagination, with every other round about it, and will find some superiority over every other real or imaginary, or it will die of grief and vexation.  I have seen it among boys and girls in school, among lads at college, among practicers at the bar, among the clergy in their associations, among clubs of friends, among the people in town meetings, among members of the House of Representatives, among the grave councilors, on the more solemn Bench of Justice, and in that awfully august body of the Congress, and on many of its committees – and among ladies every where – but I never saw it operate with such keenness, ferocity and ...

After 52 years on God's green earth, I have finally come up with a rational explanation as to why I prefer women to men. But, first, we have to begin with Sam Barris, who bought a brand-new 1949 Mercury at the close of 1948.  He drove the car around stock as his daily driver, until he figured out how to chop the top on it.  That was in 1949.  His modifications to the '49 Merc hit such a sweet spot that they have been replicated hundreds (if not thousands) of times since then. There is a saying on my "side of the tracks" in the car hobby.  It goes: Anyone can restore an old car; it takes a real man to cut one up! And so I think of Adam and Eve.  Adam, being created first, was the "stock" model.  I picture God looking at Adam and scratching His head, and thinking:  Hmmm ... I wonder ... if I ... flared out the rear fenders a bit, shaved that annoying hood ornament, and put a couple of Gurney bubbles on the torso ... maybe slim down the jaw line a bit. Vo...

I wanted a Muse poem of my own, so I wrote this yesterday morning. I feel a little bad about the in-your-face tone of this poem.  I hardly ever adopt that pose except when trying to psyche myself up to lift heavy weights ... or when dealing with other alpha-male drivers on Detroit's freeways. But I like it because I cannot recall having seen anything else like it. My Muse Can Beat Up Your Muse My muse can beat up yours – don't even try her. She's armed with wit and sense and holy fire. Unparalleled in her alacrity, She will not sanction mediocrity. Her frightening aesthetic probity Eschews the common for the rarity. At home with pen or brush, with harp or lyre, Her beauty doth continually inspire. Your muse, I'm sad to say, is often slow. She's tardy to arrive, but quick to go. Your muse plants only barren things and plain Within the convolutions of your brain. While my muse grants me victory again, You cannot yet complete your first quatrain. Your paper fallow, not...

This is a poem my wife recently completed. I hope you like it. Requiem Three headstones: one marked “Love,” one “Everlove,” And one – cathedralesque in ancient time, Now cracked and leaning as if it would fall, Marked “England” – cast their autumn evening’s pall Of blended shadow shaped into a spire. It pierces like an arrow of desire That only heaven ever will remove. Fast falls the eventide; now rings the chime Heard by the faithful as a worship call; But by those deaf to truth as just the fall Of one more hour of climbing Babel’s tower, Or one more vacant night to strive to fill With empty-minded acts of bland good will Which time will terminate, and death devour. Unconscious of the evening clouds that lower While autumn sunset burns the sky with gold, The commerce-kings rush past at Matins’ hour, As if life’s meaning might be bought and sold. Blind to the churchyard’s sure and certain sign, They miss the sun’s last, horizontal ray That shines on granite stones, foreshadowing The li...