tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45671687893369472432024-03-17T22:44:12.718-04:00Lally's Alleyjust another ex-jazz-musician/proto-rapper/Jersey-Irish-poet-actor/print-junkie/film-raptor/beat-hipster-"white Negro"-rhapsodizer/ex-hippie-punk-'60s-radical-organizer's take on all things cultural, political, spiritual & aggrandizingLallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.comBlogger5054125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-47880914338899688892024-03-17T22:43:00.002-04:002024-03-17T22:43:30.091-04:00HAPPY SAINT PADDY'S<p>Here's my top five favorite Irish films in chronological order based on the era they're set in:</p><p><br /></p><p>BLACK 47</p><p>THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY</p><p>THE SECRET OF ROAN INISH</p><p>THE COMMITMENTS</p><p>ONCE</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-16922672102529442862024-03-15T13:01:00.002-04:002024-03-15T13:01:09.071-04:00AMEN<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieipz26SIEr2hTC-VaGTauB77OUXptPOUltNXB6xaBjTBrZOY8BwiG5Zrlo9if6I8QVsOlG2p5gEXtTJSoGMD3xiqGwtWFGwvLHrgEbQTspEN4pPlCZ6QVk7tJG_KdCc1VqP68miM29ovsnj-dP5TVmcKnkNXbv4nqz1BpxCV0zwkEopwXu8PV1jjwUwM/s526/426442823_7498437980175750_767498719606346602_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="526" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieipz26SIEr2hTC-VaGTauB77OUXptPOUltNXB6xaBjTBrZOY8BwiG5Zrlo9if6I8QVsOlG2p5gEXtTJSoGMD3xiqGwtWFGwvLHrgEbQTspEN4pPlCZ6QVk7tJG_KdCc1VqP68miM29ovsnj-dP5TVmcKnkNXbv4nqz1BpxCV0zwkEopwXu8PV1jjwUwM/s320/426442823_7498437980175750_767498719606346602_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-40159814120282006172024-03-12T14:54:00.004-04:002024-03-12T14:54:58.338-04:00A T'OUSAND T'ANKS<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADZI1gHQ5bR8wkql_InQ6zrBHfx4G7INiF1Ewd3Oy3Ue2-ESbLaJMCMA4BICWTawYj6ykfHv2NQfBJuHwP-tUJg7GL-Z5OUyKMOtLO00KB1Z7FX8B_RcUxhkNhLhzEdyP7-tD8QdzMDmRCGAcayxEIgcLWTw5BMaLtoEcGUpD7YfV-OaRl3XYPyK9TdM/s318/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADZI1gHQ5bR8wkql_InQ6zrBHfx4G7INiF1Ewd3Oy3Ue2-ESbLaJMCMA4BICWTawYj6ykfHv2NQfBJuHwP-tUJg7GL-Z5OUyKMOtLO00KB1Z7FX8B_RcUxhkNhLhzEdyP7-tD8QdzMDmRCGAcayxEIgcLWTw5BMaLtoEcGUpD7YfV-OaRl3XYPyK9TdM/s1600/download.jpg" width="318" /></a><br />Don't know if you noticed, but at the end of Cillian Murphy's Best Actor Oscar acceptance speech, he spoke in the Irish language to say: A thousand thank you's ("Go raibh mile maith agat"). My dear friend Terence Winch pointed out that's probably the first time the Irish language was spoken at an Oscar awards show.</p><p>The Irish were one of the first peoples colonized and occupied (still, partially) and subjected to genocide (including the misnamed "famine") and penalized (for close to a thousand years) by the English for just being who they are, which included almost totally eliminating their language. So whatever your thoughts on nationalism are, I felt in that moment like what Murphy described himself as a little earlier in his speech: "A proud Irishman" (even if just from growing up with Irish immigrant grandparents).</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-39428910481089016802024-03-06T16:56:00.002-05:002024-03-07T12:46:34.851-05:002024 MOVIE AWARDS<p>I haven't seen all the movies up for awards this season, but here's my reactions to what I've seen so far.</p><p>AMERICAN FICTION. Most original and satisfying movie of, and my pick for best flick of, 2023. (I've read critics saying it doesn't live up to the book. I haven't read the book but found this stinging satire seriously clever and witty, in the best historic sense of those words.)</p><p>PAST LIVES. Another unexpectedly unique story, subtly compelling and impactful. My choice for best director and original screenplay, both by Celine Song. </p><p>THE HOLDOVERS. A story we've seen variations of before maybe, but so well done on every level it shines like the gem it is. Including the acting, especially Da'Vine Joy Randolph, my choice for best supporting actor of 2023.</p><p>KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON. Epic filmmaking at it's best, and redemption for Scorcese with me after the catastrophe of THE IRISHMAN (so-called). Though I would have preferred spending all that time with the Osage characters (especially Lily Gladstonee who I hope gets the Oscar) and following the story completely from their perspective, rather than focusing so much time and energy on the perspective of the white men and their evil. But at least Scorcese was able to keep DiNiro mostly in character with only a few inappropriate DiNiroisms. </p><p>OPPENHEIMER. Another epic film expertly done (by Christopher Nolan). My pick for best cinematography (Hoyte van Hoytema). And so many great performances (Robert Downey Jr. my pick for the still binary Oscar for presents-as-male best supporting actor). Cillian Murphy impressive as always.</p><p>BARBIE. Greta Gerwig should have been Oscar nominated for pulling this product promotion satire off at all, let alone so stylishly. And Margot Robbie is, as always, the main reason to watch any film she's in. Some laughs and poignancy. Best costumes and production design.</p><p>NYAD. In almost any other year this would win multiple Oscars. Especially for best actor and supporting actor for Annette Bening and Jody Foster. Watching them play off each other is a master (air quotes) class in film acting. Unexpectedly engaging despite it being a lot of watching someone swim.</p><p>MAESTRO. Bradley Cooper should win a special award for best multi-tasker (directing starring co-writing co-producing). I thought he did a pretty great job, considering all the possible (and real) pitfalls. Again in almost any other year this would win a bunch of Oscars.</p><p>POOR THING. Starts out unappealingly, for me, trying too hard at calling attention to its artistic credentials, but Emma Stone is so spectacular in her performance I stuck it out to experience a lot of satisfying scenes. There are so many amazing performances in the best "actress" category this year, they all should win.</p><p>RUSTIN. Bio-pics are always full of challenges (as part of the story, and of the film making), and this one doesn't surmount them all. But Coleman Domingo is so good as the title historic character, he transcends the genre liabilities. In the binary Oscar world he's my choice for "best actor". </p><p>THE COLOR PURPLE. Some amazing scenes and performances, but didn't have the impact my friends who saw it on Broadway said that rendition did. Coleman Domingo displays his incredible range, as do many others, but for me the lyrics were sometimes too thin for the otherwise energetic production numbers, and the movement of the story seemed off at times. Still an intense experience. </p><p>INDIANA JONES AND THE DIAL OF DESTINY. Surprisingly not bad for this late in the game. And worth watching to see my longtime friend Karen Allen, as Marion Ravenwood, elevate the climactic scene to a level that complements while even surpassing Marion's first appearance on screen in RAIDERS. A very satisfying full circle.</p><p>AMERICAN SYMPHONY. I haven't seen the nominated documentaries, but my fave doc of '23 that I have seen is this one. Highly recommend.</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-58309149868257158802024-03-01T12:59:00.000-05:002024-03-01T12:59:15.922-05:00 REUBEN JACKSON R.I.P.<div class="" dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id=":r1ah:" style="font-family: inherit; padding: 4px 16px 16px;"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: -5px; margin-top: -5px;"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 5px;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x x4zkp8e x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--primary-text); display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I left DC in 1975, before I could get to know Reuben, but I knew of him in later years, and we've been Facebook friends for awhile. He was a beloved figure in the DC and wider poetry community, and will be sorely missed. To understand a little why, please read this terrific tribute to him. Rest In Poetry Reuben.</div></div></span></div></div></div></div><div class="x1n2onr6" id=":r1ai:" style="font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><div class="x1n2onr6" style="font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><div class="xmjcpbm x1n2onr6 x1ja2u2z" style="font-family: inherit; position: relative; z-index: 0;"><div class="xua58t2 xwmqs3e xxxdfa6 xzg4506 x78zum5 x1q0g3np x1n2onr6" style="border-bottom: 1px solid var(--media-inner-border); border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top: 1px solid var(--media-inner-border); display: flex; flex-direction: row; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><div class="x2lah0s" style="flex-shrink: 0; font-family: inherit;"><div style="font-family: inherit; height: 215px; width: 139px;"><img alt="When the Music Stopped: Remembering Reuben Jackson" class="xz74otr x5yr21d xh8yej3" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://external-lga3-2.xx.fbcdn.net/emg1/v/t13/10233008360971264341?url=https%3A%2F%2Fnewspack-washingtoncitypaper.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fuploads%2F2024%2F02%2FIMG_9800.jpeg&fb_obo=1&utld=amazonaws.com&stp=c0.5000x0.5000f_dst-jpg_flffffff_p139x215_q75&ccb=13-1&oh=06_AbEZJKVAVnWxspTCtGnZjyAgLPNt_wwWM_GMUL-LvxGShQ&oe=65E3CC29&_nc_sid=979bc8" style="border: 0px; height: 215px; object-fit: fill; width: 139px;" /></div></div><div class="x6s0dn4 x78zum5 xw2csxc x1odjw0f xyamay9 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" style="align-items: center; display: flex; font-family: inherit; overflow: auto; padding: 16px;"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: -5px; margin-top: -5px;"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 5px;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x x4zkp8e x676frb x1nxh6w3 x1sibtaa xo1l8bm xi81zsa x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--secondary-text); display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8125rem; line-height: 1.2308; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><div class="xtvhhri" style="font-family: inherit; text-transform: uppercase;">WASHINGTONCITYPAPER.COM</div></span></div><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 5px;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x x4zkp8e x3x7a5m x1lkfr7t x1lbecb7 x1s688f xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--primary-text); display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1.0625rem; font-weight: 600; line-height: 1.1765; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="x1lliihq x6ikm8r x10wlt62 x1n2onr6" style="-webkit-box-orient: vertical; -webkit-line-clamp: 2; display: -webkit-box; font-family: inherit; overflow: hidden; position: relative;"><div id=":r1ar:" style="font-family: inherit;">When the Music Stopped: Remembering Reuben Jackson</div></span></span></div><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 5px;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x x4zkp8e x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xi81zsa x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--secondary-text); display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="x1lliihq x6ikm8r x10wlt62 x1n2onr6" style="-webkit-box-orient: vertical; -webkit-line-clamp: 5; display: -webkit-box; font-family: inherit; overflow: hidden; position: relative;">“He was jazz,” says author Kwame Alexander of poet and jazz scholar Reuben Jackson, who died on Feb. 16. He leaves behind a legacy.</span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-67613295018005479522024-02-28T14:38:00.000-05:002024-02-28T14:38:36.559-05:00HAPPY DAYS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPMurhTPqLtEUzvIbXUDeKZh3xIchNtpaz5el5LC0Q1xYx3SwI84GY6Ambn1ZTDmVfaRYOoQ2KV_51r6Wg8QQg4W91KIcItAfO8c6k9mgMT7qGimU8YKt4SbthTks1I0ooOTkpnc0T5_Jcff_sLkjblEj14SxgzQT6b-xolKdTA1IZoEr2MBTg3NxNak/s767/284084669_10227456342905165_3825008636452093841_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="753" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPMurhTPqLtEUzvIbXUDeKZh3xIchNtpaz5el5LC0Q1xYx3SwI84GY6Ambn1ZTDmVfaRYOoQ2KV_51r6Wg8QQg4W91KIcItAfO8c6k9mgMT7qGimU8YKt4SbthTks1I0ooOTkpnc0T5_Jcff_sLkjblEj14SxgzQT6b-xolKdTA1IZoEr2MBTg3NxNak/s320/284084669_10227456342905165_3825008636452093841_n.jpeg" width="314" /></a></div>My firstborn child, Caitlin, arrived on this date in 1968. Here I am with her days later, still astounded by the miracle. <br /> <p></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-33004655666532247792024-02-21T12:49:00.001-05:002024-02-21T12:49:18.888-05:00A FAVORITE MEME<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ihd-ZmyNmC2iT2psFR9tRHj1FtkXuEqOsRZhYUBcMLUl8J4HrcUnaK6dTyocSsHo1Nkil4qWM6dIvIlZE9C34rA4FMUzzHEklguG-5DxtI8mnYvTYowNe-mARewTwOtvOFDRyjOzoD_W6pFvis69GPnCfjIwsGeIexpTVdWNRJdK65R09HlY4Wx8Wd8/s600/375729215_6589613201121012_8559369822209512134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ihd-ZmyNmC2iT2psFR9tRHj1FtkXuEqOsRZhYUBcMLUl8J4HrcUnaK6dTyocSsHo1Nkil4qWM6dIvIlZE9C34rA4FMUzzHEklguG-5DxtI8mnYvTYowNe-mARewTwOtvOFDRyjOzoD_W6pFvis69GPnCfjIwsGeIexpTVdWNRJdK65R09HlY4Wx8Wd8/s320/375729215_6589613201121012_8559369822209512134_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-34245997441930396132024-02-18T14:56:00.002-05:002024-02-18T14:57:50.322-05:00HIT MAN COOL<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ILi4EADPWPdyzaOovhBc2PJQCCRoVjyycnTH1KTbjoX21DUCa9q5sHuxVxsuHZqxng7z52azxEzAb3Dp0XgUKLlmS1CrE3S5zbA2AM0OcmHlHykqsyiupwkpWoNK8opQaPKG9W7K6an6Td_8Xz8shCNhfoDevdtBRGjMjABWEOrRSXoAa5_vIhRBk7I/s320/IMG_0725.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ILi4EADPWPdyzaOovhBc2PJQCCRoVjyycnTH1KTbjoX21DUCa9q5sHuxVxsuHZqxng7z52azxEzAb3Dp0XgUKLlmS1CrE3S5zbA2AM0OcmHlHykqsyiupwkpWoNK8opQaPKG9W7K6an6Td_8Xz8shCNhfoDevdtBRGjMjABWEOrRSXoAa5_vIhRBk7I/s1600/IMG_0725.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KD0__wKr4jPmft6W4eBnymJOtleLUSx9cP2PfS9ufwn5U5tDJM-ub7xmXE_tbOFGQx02XRVFb0Zw0M4bPRG10viZ8kHsWXVlwuzW4umeE3bkPgGF6wFesI5lL_DW5ZA2VRxcwMlc50PERJNLkmjcGfckqh5u-hR3__u43fK_P2-ONZNa9bHQ6v3Bdhk/s320/IMG_0726.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KD0__wKr4jPmft6W4eBnymJOtleLUSx9cP2PfS9ufwn5U5tDJM-ub7xmXE_tbOFGQx02XRVFb0Zw0M4bPRG10viZ8kHsWXVlwuzW4umeE3bkPgGF6wFesI5lL_DW5ZA2VRxcwMlc50PERJNLkmjcGfckqh5u-hR3__u43fK_P2-ONZNa9bHQ6v3Bdhk/s1600/IMG_0726.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I played a lot of bad guys on TV in the 1980s and '90s. Here's one, a mob hit man on the witness stand in an episode of LA LAW. [Thanx to Sue Brennan for the photos.]Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-26450778637410611672024-02-14T13:56:00.000-05:002024-02-14T13:56:03.396-05:00FIFTY YEARS AGO TODAY<p> VALENTINE</p><p>for Karen A. </p><p><br /></p><p>It was a gorgeous day to wander around Georgetown.</p><p>I didn’t. I got up early, “wrote” a “book,”</p><p>listened to some “classical” music like Liszt and Couperin,</p><p>Buchanan and Dylan, read about a marriage that </p><p>by not being a real marriage at all turned out to be</p><p>a beautiful true marriage—what has “true”</p><p>got to do with “real” anyway—like today,</p><p>what has today got to do with me and you </p><p>besides the way it makes me feel full</p><p>the way you can do, brings the good things</p><p>people say the country offers right here to the city</p><p>for a countryphobe like me, so I leave my music and words</p><p>and catch the street. Everyone’s out today!</p><p>Claudia! Ed! Terry! Henry! Ralph! I wish I was</p><p>as bright as the day, so after a while of being dazzled</p><p>I go home and take a shower with all the windows open</p><p>and I shave and jump around to the good sounds—</p><p>I remember to take the huge heart shaped box of candy,</p><p>I bought it for the kids, out of the bag and put it</p><p>somewhere where it won’t melt. I drink some milk</p><p>and eat some cheese, think about all the people</p><p>I should write a poem to for “Valentine’s Day,”</p><p>for “Washington’s Birthday,” for this wonderful weather</p><p>the world gives us despite our arrogance and</p><p>belligerence toward it, but I notice the time and</p><p>there is no time! Got to run, so I do, </p><p>in some new shoes that hurt my toes, but the rest of</p><p>my clothes feel fine, and I know I am, on the street again</p><p>paying homage to the sun with my grin. I feel like</p><p>Ted Berrigan walking with my head held high, jaunty</p><p>like Hollywood English types, and a little mischievous too,</p><p>thinking about how I can do something fun and funny for you</p><p>like the sun is doing for me as I strut. There’s</p><p>my car! I haven’t seen it in almost 24 hours</p><p>so I throw it a kiss because I’m not a good owner</p><p>but I love it and that seems to keep something going.</p><p>I get in ready to cruise these canals to your veranda</p><p>or something Eddie Arnold and ’30s Hollywood like that,</p><p>only the corner of my eye catches the bank clock and</p><p>surprise! (Spencer Tracy in A Man’s Castle with</p><p>Loretta Young I think, swimming nude!) It’s 4:15 PM!</p><p>I can’t believe it! I go into Discount Books to look</p><p>for Terry to check. He’s not there but someone</p><p>I don’t know says “Hi Mike!” so I say “Hi. Do you know</p><p>what time it is?” and he looks at his watch and says</p><p>“Well, the government says it’s four twenty but</p><p>it’s really three twenty . . .” and some more words.</p><p>I don’t hear them thinking about you and ”true” and</p><p>“real” and wondering what he meant the “real” time</p><p>and what was “mine” . . . You should be there because</p><p>it’s almost 5:30 in my life, but in the bank’s and</p><p>the guy who knows my name it’s only 4:30 and somewhere</p><p>out in abstract city it’s “really” only 3:30. Maybe</p><p>that’s why it’s so warm. I back up, back home, back</p><p>to back Dylan charms me to the typewriter where</p><p>I write to you to kill the time and to say</p><p>“Wontchu be my valentine?” </p><p><br /></p><p>(C) 1974 Michael Lally</p><p>[written, under peak Frank O'Hara influence, to lifelong dearest friend Karen Allen (poet and novice actor I had fallen in love with in 1973) on Valentine's Day 1974 in Washington DC where you could then park overnight in our Dupont Circle neighborhood without fear of getting a ticket...] </p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-4990527604901811122024-02-10T14:20:00.001-05:002024-02-10T14:23:01.667-05:00ALMOST 20<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrTMzJN3E240sbvUPRjgf_rKyUOsMDnpakemJp5Y9eq1IWyGa08kvHD6gZ7scCqO2gKTONeVipmSkVjOIlCH_gVuyaw2OveSPIq3zIGZm9zhJvDYZmFIg-q-ZCbqx1skEUMAv4pPPbNALaryxKI71mp9DWiNsPZI_GlRNoHl06sYCUy-IKObBOe2U89s/s324/20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="314" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrTMzJN3E240sbvUPRjgf_rKyUOsMDnpakemJp5Y9eq1IWyGa08kvHD6gZ7scCqO2gKTONeVipmSkVjOIlCH_gVuyaw2OveSPIq3zIGZm9zhJvDYZmFIg-q-ZCbqx1skEUMAv4pPPbNALaryxKI71mp9DWiNsPZI_GlRNoHl06sYCUy-IKObBOe2U89s/s320/20.jpg" width="310" /></a><br />Me at 19, with my buddy Murph during basic training in Texas in March 1962, two months before turning 20. [this photo is in my new book, SAY IT AGAIN (Beltway Editions)]</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-44454722738909235332024-02-04T17:06:00.000-05:002024-02-04T17:06:10.651-05:00SAY IT AGAIN<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxnWpzBq6uT7P2hT6wPpgVkn5Kt0vy9XakF4BS4g5s_F4WxDi6p3CKlivmXNp29oLIQuwX_SOzpljOtqFc59gjZMUX8hvR2urwzkeiWQKAJuyeJcZMf03HfyeUXHYWTnngXD9XTK1vCr-jM92pQlVT4ct6FjYR79WKcI8ThyK_hdXZ8sgEJ0JmFD6OJI/s2698/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2698" data-original-width="1794" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxnWpzBq6uT7P2hT6wPpgVkn5Kt0vy9XakF4BS4g5s_F4WxDi6p3CKlivmXNp29oLIQuwX_SOzpljOtqFc59gjZMUX8hvR2urwzkeiWQKAJuyeJcZMf03HfyeUXHYWTnngXD9XTK1vCr-jM92pQlVT4ct6FjYR79WKcI8ThyK_hdXZ8sgEJ0JmFD6OJI/s320/18.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />Now available, my latest book, SAY IT AGAIN: An Autobiography In Sonnets (Beltway Editions). Been working on this since 1960, one way or another. This contains all of my location sonnets covering my first thirty years ("Volume 1, The Road Goes Away") focusing mainly on the 1960s. Some published before, most not or revised, now chronologically correct and meant to be read like any autobiography or memoir, A personal cultural, social, and political history of my times. </p><p>[The book cover photo is me at 29 in early 1972, taken by Len Randolph.]</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-31879271270237496432024-02-02T15:03:00.000-05:002024-02-02T15:03:03.342-05:00YEP<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhoWC8RukHxojSrKp0gjDJxccYdB7FNA8wjZRVoyRg0CdzTQnuLgg0UuIbGtjY5R3dFIIBj_vnx6xVxzx66-KRnPcypleZj1AM9BEMci4ikHlkIf4hslFdfzdR675u-TcPg2msW4NDc8AVk4Rfk6u5baQxNpcAElzzcySGueBcxF0hXofQv-akNmz3Hs/s526/298927147_10228125835835693_1750509955595750173_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhoWC8RukHxojSrKp0gjDJxccYdB7FNA8wjZRVoyRg0CdzTQnuLgg0UuIbGtjY5R3dFIIBj_vnx6xVxzx66-KRnPcypleZj1AM9BEMci4ikHlkIf4hslFdfzdR675u-TcPg2msW4NDc8AVk4Rfk6u5baQxNpcAElzzcySGueBcxF0hXofQv-akNmz3Hs/s320/298927147_10228125835835693_1750509955595750173_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p>One of my favorite authors. I usually don't post quotes when the source publication is not cited, but this definitely sounds like her.</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-49304047154756352112024-01-25T13:12:00.000-05:002024-01-25T13:12:28.842-05:00FINDING YOUR ROOTS<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2B4U8o41IDRQqkkMULQDKm5r6ASrLhtJHYxb1nEqoN-Lw9CA6J8fzk82-hdhucxovtK2TzZmj_ViP9G9RBQqBR49LAyUYNG6kdHJG0r8HOdSo1TbM1jqToTxoArAIVTSnZA526j0bdLjrlyWGJ28BCWS-oNHz4wgE7H4Pb6B4DtuRBvesZHjQcFYKRC0/s320/me%20and%20creative%20friends-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="320" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2B4U8o41IDRQqkkMULQDKm5r6ASrLhtJHYxb1nEqoN-Lw9CA6J8fzk82-hdhucxovtK2TzZmj_ViP9G9RBQqBR49LAyUYNG6kdHJG0r8HOdSo1TbM1jqToTxoArAIVTSnZA526j0bdLjrlyWGJ28BCWS-oNHz4wgE7H4Pb6B4DtuRBvesZHjQcFYKRC0/s1600/me%20and%20creative%20friends-17.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />FINDING YOUR ROOTS is one of my favorite TV shows. I love to watch people discover ancestors they didn't know they had which changes their perspective on who they themselves are. The other night watching the host, Henry Louis Gates, reveal the past to guests Sammy Hagar (fascinating revelations) and Ed O'Neil (more subtly fascinating reveals), one of the latter's not that distant ancestor's maiden name turned out to be Lally. She came from a different part of Ireland than my grandfather Lally, but no doubt this makes me and O'Neil some kind of distant cousins. Why am I not surprised?</p><p>[The photo is me and O'Neil on a set for the short-lived TV series THE BIG APPLE, where I played a priest and O'Neil a detective. I had had dinner with him once, so we knew each other a little.] </p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-3125157582488147982024-01-17T15:13:00.000-05:002024-01-17T15:13:11.515-05:00SOME POEMS <p> Four poems of mine just came online on the Relegation site. Check them out <a href="https://www.relegationbooks.com/article/four-poems-lally/">here</a>.</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-38671124712449141002024-01-15T14:35:00.000-05:002024-01-15T14:35:37.698-05:00PERSONAL HISTORY<p>MY MLK SONNET</p><p><br /></p><p>When Martin Luther King is shot I feel the</p><p>sudden shift in the atmosphere, like trying to</p><p>breathe underwater. It's been three years since</p><p>Malcom X’s assassination and my new radical</p><p>friends and reading have opened my eyes to the</p><p>realities of class in the USA. Malcolm verbally</p><p>attacked white folks with impunity, but the</p><p>minute he decided it was not about race but</p><p>about the poor and the wealthy, BAM! King</p><p>spends years fighting racism and despite attempts</p><p>on his life and tons of threats seemed invulner-</p><p>able, but as soon as he organizes a poor people’s</p><p>campaign talking about the haves and have-nots,</p><p>BAM! I wonder if the Marxists have it right.</p><p><br /></p><p>(C) 2023 from SAY IT AGAIN (Beltway Editions 2024)</p><p><br /></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-1936290822439828402024-01-10T14:51:00.000-05:002024-01-10T14:51:36.933-05:00XMAS '23<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbmmu1EHx6PpEddvfSEMjyE92I5NZ2k0_4Mr_9CRtChdPHHB0_mM1KmSux2L6CJtJU8DgMO8TvbnU2P621-vCFSox8IY25s7tdOnwqGme5HWrHekyFQhOeOZ83yo3z0E-T3WFW2T9P2e8KH6YMuekpMOYv7tp-SoRE59hUzpIf0PJSHFDdTIXVIm1O4Y/s4032/IMG_4239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbmmu1EHx6PpEddvfSEMjyE92I5NZ2k0_4Mr_9CRtChdPHHB0_mM1KmSux2L6CJtJU8DgMO8TvbnU2P621-vCFSox8IY25s7tdOnwqGme5HWrHekyFQhOeOZ83yo3z0E-T3WFW2T9P2e8KH6YMuekpMOYv7tp-SoRE59hUzpIf0PJSHFDdTIXVIm1O4Y/s320/IMG_4239.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I raised my kids (as a single parent and shared-custody parent) to not stress over holidays and birthdays. If their in-laws or other parent or whoever wanted them to share the day with them we'd find another day to celebrate, which means our Xmases have often been celebrated in January. But this year it worked out to celebrate together the day before Xmas, so here we are in my living room, my three kids, Flynn (in tee shirt), Caitlin, and Miles, behind me, my grandkids Donovan and Deak (short sleeves) on the floor in front of me, and Monk looking over us from the other room. <p></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-39706521940753965362024-01-03T13:14:00.000-05:002024-01-03T13:14:32.214-05:002023 HIGHLIGHTS<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWIFbNXx94dSeciapFS5GbJkengLteQe8RpMp1kdOMSW641VMExSzTXdbxvlMeNC5wm0L-4xsvitpLCiTNp9kbpdyhBeKFK0ergeQPP1pICFuY4juPQscqYYTlXST6T-ktd-QKINcyLiqQIitdjpZWACw3iP-HRqO33ysXT44cQ_O9jJDVP3PCnDQG48/s225/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWIFbNXx94dSeciapFS5GbJkengLteQe8RpMp1kdOMSW641VMExSzTXdbxvlMeNC5wm0L-4xsvitpLCiTNp9kbpdyhBeKFK0ergeQPP1pICFuY4juPQscqYYTlXST6T-ktd-QKINcyLiqQIitdjpZWACw3iP-HRqO33ysXT44cQ_O9jJDVP3PCnDQG48/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="225" /></a><br />Two singer/songwriter albums released in 2023 that I had some connection to: Peter Case's DOCTOR MOAN, and Billy Keane's OH, THESE DAYS. Peter, longtime dear friend, included an adaptation of a poem of mine ("Give Me Five Minutes More" the title from a very different popular song in my 1940s boyhood) on his lp. While Billy, friend of my oldest son and my housemate and caretaker Miles (with his partner Hannah Bracken) had Miles playing bass on every song on his record. Well worth checking out.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhy56waP6uYyJlAi43B8k69_kS9kH1OB7_Vg1VJF0Mw77nTCvJ2gy4y27BkW0dJ6GLvK-cL-Hl5ac7iorq8i2hPl9_NIHIn-EEWMymm6nNsRN64Q1miArbmZaBE6xNie6NGNdsrRR18FhgLDcLkbTCAyCNbkIefPYD8LRGRyn1snr36vtCXKmTc2ec1Q1k" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhy56waP6uYyJlAi43B8k69_kS9kH1OB7_Vg1VJF0Mw77nTCvJ2gy4y27BkW0dJ6GLvK-cL-Hl5ac7iorq8i2hPl9_NIHIn-EEWMymm6nNsRN64Q1miArbmZaBE6xNie6NGNdsrRR18FhgLDcLkbTCAyCNbkIefPYD8LRGRyn1snr36vtCXKmTc2ec1Q1k" width="240" /></a></div><p></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-27747193853701925222023-12-30T12:20:00.000-05:002023-12-30T12:20:53.682-05:00'NOTHER LIST<p>For some reason woke up with a list forming in my mind of my ten top favorite authors sixty years ago when I was 21 in 1963! Here they are in no particular order:</p><p>Diane di Prima</p><p>Bob Kaufman</p><p>James Baldwin</p><p>LeRoi Jones (later became Amira Baraka)</p><p>Walt Whitman</p><p>James Joyce</p><p>Fydor Dostoevsky</p><p>William Goldman</p><p>Jack Kerouac</p><p>Lilllian Smith</p><p><br /></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-52774653685506953452023-12-27T13:22:00.000-05:002023-12-27T13:22:37.846-05:00LAST CHRISTMAS<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHZZ2ayiwEk9fM5Dg8x539Den1GtXzN1omz3EIIyuHzBBrfY5C4Z-X75eyjOGlCRRk1AQwwSxe8S354d7-KkDIbEt6oxbeAyqzqdpLLA4aYHo-CIfFaheJTgVEu7ihhQ3gp4ciamv6-2xSNqWxuQhXvHMlegQ4R278qvxSTnx22d0E8b9QtjXWJSFVCA/s900/Last+Christmas+poster.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHZZ2ayiwEk9fM5Dg8x539Den1GtXzN1omz3EIIyuHzBBrfY5C4Z-X75eyjOGlCRRk1AQwwSxe8S354d7-KkDIbEt6oxbeAyqzqdpLLA4aYHo-CIfFaheJTgVEu7ihhQ3gp4ciamv6-2xSNqWxuQhXvHMlegQ4R278qvxSTnx22d0E8b9QtjXWJSFVCA/s320/Last+Christmas+poster.png" width="216" /></a><br />When I first saw this film a few years ago I dug it, with some reservations. But watching it this holiday season, I was totally won over, so much so that it is, for now, my favorite Christmas movie. I teared up, I laughed out loud, I felt overwhelmed with love and melancholy together. And had some profound revelations. Not bad for a small flick with an entirely George Michael soundtrack.</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-63317473231655802752023-12-20T12:56:00.000-05:002023-12-20T12:56:38.538-05:00HAPPY HOLIDAYS<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwjW-MEhaKLRbqW1iR6NvLXps5RCNiKIdeNXqxMHX7aU0g2beVWLnWHzwk33oy2aOTR8hs6yK8kKkV4UqLvX604a1OLFre8aiGQRGA_amtmpEvOI3kPM-OfHDS-reRAaAlE85AMq_2dRdYm3b8zpV4Q9sBy-bnS8hVqXe_u3k4U6oF_thY-juRTRBPHU8/s526/396723470_10227649355492249_9134549048538129469_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwjW-MEhaKLRbqW1iR6NvLXps5RCNiKIdeNXqxMHX7aU0g2beVWLnWHzwk33oy2aOTR8hs6yK8kKkV4UqLvX604a1OLFre8aiGQRGA_amtmpEvOI3kPM-OfHDS-reRAaAlE85AMq_2dRdYm3b8zpV4Q9sBy-bnS8hVqXe_u3k4U6oF_thY-juRTRBPHU8/s320/396723470_10227649355492249_9134549048538129469_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />Photographer/poet Kevin McCollister's haunting image created on Hollywood Boulevard on Halloween 2023 </p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-32832848772063677562023-12-19T23:31:00.002-05:002023-12-19T23:31:23.242-05:00MARA WUZ ROBBEDLallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-67876381172668519372023-12-16T13:49:00.000-05:002023-12-16T13:49:26.199-05:00XMAS PAST<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUB6wjKUtpv92JvboRKqBglM8vzU92J3s7jyewtaDDnHEiWpQvDzqSDpxRQj53SRDnAKPH1RqKUbdxtrkwPBHE0K41B-S4dRDVAQ6Qt9NLLkLqwJP1Na04caLKRr6FkWi4s9-8DnvqeUtirujGp_8HBj_LC1bjSBu0ppMYJqbr3bPasS7CYZUDHUHWG9g/s817/Sandy%20Bull%20&%20child:Miles:me:Buddy%20Arlnod%20my%2021st%20St.%20Santa%20Monica%20home%20c.%20'83.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="817" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUB6wjKUtpv92JvboRKqBglM8vzU92J3s7jyewtaDDnHEiWpQvDzqSDpxRQj53SRDnAKPH1RqKUbdxtrkwPBHE0K41B-S4dRDVAQ6Qt9NLLkLqwJP1Na04caLKRr6FkWi4s9-8DnvqeUtirujGp_8HBj_LC1bjSBu0ppMYJqbr3bPasS7CYZUDHUHWG9g/s320/Sandy%20Bull%20&%20child:Miles:me:Buddy%20Arlnod%20my%2021st%20St.%20Santa%20Monica%20home%20c.%20'83.jpeg" width="320" /></a></p><p>Not a great photo, but a memorable holiday moment in the living room of the Santa Monica home I was renting in 1983. Me surrounded by three great musicians: jazz saxophonist Buddy Arnold in black, my son and budding bassist, Miles, and the iconic guitarist Sandy Bull with one of his kids. I'm wearing a seasonal sweater from the 1930s passed down from one of my older brothers, and Beatle boots I bought in 1962 pre-Beatles so called then Spanish boots. I still have the sweater and the boots and live again with Miles, Buddy and Sandy no longer with us.</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-26377276630617035592023-12-14T16:30:00.000-05:002023-12-14T16:30:47.960-05:00HYSTERICAL<p> I eat dark chocolate every day, and I'm not stopping. But, I found this internet meme hilarious.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpfnU8AE03tyiy3VyrPnL62sz_0d1pbXXVY8_h6bBFxv_RP12Dz_MvyId-0fgCPQ19HFN0KrQiuL8XJ9b76sucyDtldEukTAVuwnKEELPSCQJgG9JDWPt3pdZDk6ZlSu42V_03MVVfo1snO4V9-tkze76VoP9fLk_bgZQq01eKTM7GHlRws99h9tBBx4/s526/380591103_10231212093710211_5155718716609417683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpfnU8AE03tyiy3VyrPnL62sz_0d1pbXXVY8_h6bBFxv_RP12Dz_MvyId-0fgCPQ19HFN0KrQiuL8XJ9b76sucyDtldEukTAVuwnKEELPSCQJgG9JDWPt3pdZDk6ZlSu42V_03MVVfo1snO4V9-tkze76VoP9fLk_bgZQq01eKTM7GHlRws99h9tBBx4/s320/380591103_10231212093710211_5155718716609417683_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-12780705404518709392023-12-08T13:58:00.001-05:002023-12-08T14:09:58.185-05:00TRIBUTE POEM REPLAY<p>The Night John Lennon Died</p><p><br /></p><p>___________________________________</p><p><br /></p><p>One warm night, when I was a kid,</p><p>we were all playing ringalario in</p><p>the high school field at the bottom</p><p>of my street when Mrs. Murphy, known</p><p>mostly for the time her hair turned</p><p>purple when she tried to dye it, stuck</p><p>her head out the door and yelled across</p><p>the street to us, “Go on home now and be</p><p>quiet, Babe Ruth just died.” And we all</p><p>did go home where everything was somber</p><p>and serious and adult and strange, </p><p>worse than when one of the family died,</p><p>because then there were outbursts of</p><p>emotion as well as jokes and stories</p><p>and good drunken parties, but </p><p>the night Babe Ruth died, everyone</p><p>felt as sad as if it was a close close</p><p>friend or a sister or a brother,</p><p>but no one was really related so</p><p>there was no call for an actual Irish</p><p>wake or funeral party. I couldn’t help</p><p>remembering that night again, the</p><p>night John Lennon died. Nobody</p><p>threw a wake or a party where we</p><p>could all get drunk and high and</p><p>have a good cry together. We all </p><p>went home and wandered around our</p><p>rooms and heads looking for answers,</p><p>unable to sleep or forget or accept</p><p>or understand what had happened. </p><p>It had to be a mistake and it was,</p><p>a fucking senseless, horrible, </p><p>deadening mistake.</p><p> It’s hard to </p><p>recognize even the most familiar</p><p>things. I don’t know where I am</p><p>half the time, the other half I’m</p><p>flashing on some song or line or look</p><p>or attitude so close to my own</p><p>personal history I thought it was</p><p>mine. But it ain’t, cause it’s gone</p><p>with John and I feel like I got to </p><p>go do something now to spread a</p><p>little joy and loving and honest</p><p>fucking answers and questions about</p><p>the world I live in and the only times</p><p>we ever have, our own. I hope I’m</p><p>not alone.</p><p><br /></p><p>(C) 1980 Michael Lally</p><p>[from my book Another Way To Play]</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4567168789336947243.post-39815887315324003732023-12-06T14:48:00.006-05:002023-12-07T10:37:40.107-05:00PERSONAL SAINTS<p>Woke up this morning to a text from a fiend with a photo of Father Mike Judge, the Franciscan chaplain to a NYC fire brigade who died at Ground Zero on 9/11 and who we knew. I replied with the single word SAINT. Which then led my mind to generate an alphabetical list of dead folk who are personal saints in any world, or heaven, I have a say over (i.e. in my heart):</p><p>SAINT ANNE FRANK</p><p>SAINT ANTHONY (DINOVI)</p><p>SAINT AUNT MARY (LALLY)</p><p>SAINT BASQUIAT (JEAN-MICHEL)</p><p>SAINT BERRY (BERENSON)</p><p>SAINT BILLIE (HOLIDAY)</p><p>SAINT BIRD (CHARLIE PARKER)</p><p>SAINT CAL (JOHNSON)</p><p>SAINT CANDY (DARLING)</p><p>SAINT CAMPION "TOMMY" LALLY</p><p>SAINT CLIFFORD ("CLYDE" HEARD)</p><p>SAINT COOKIE (MUELLER)</p><p>SAINT DIANE (DI PRIMA)</p><p>SAINT DOLPHY (ERIC)</p><p>SAINT DOROTHY (DAY)</p><p>SAINT DOUG (LANG)</p><p>SAINT DOUGIE (STEINDORFF)</p><p>SAINT ED (COX)</p><p>SAINT ELIO (SCHNEEMAN)</p><p>SAINT EMILY (DICKINSON)</p><p>SAINT EVA (HESSE)</p><p>SAINT FANNIE (LOU HAMER)</p><p>SAINT FRANK (O'HARA)</p><p>SAINT FRED (HAMPTON)</p><p>SAINT GRACIE (ALLEN)</p><p>SAINT HARPO (MARX)</p><p>SAINT IRENE (DEMPSEY LALLY)</p><p>SAINT JACK (KEROUAC)</p><p>SAINT JIMMI (HENDRIX)</p><p>SAINT JIMMY (SCHUYLER)</p><p>SAINT JOAN B. (BARIBEAULT) </p><p>SAINT JOAN G. (LALLY GLOSHINSKI)</p><p>SAINT JOAN R. ("BAMBI" ROBINSON)</p><p>SAINT JOE (BRAINARD)</p><p>SAINT KENNY (GRAHAM)</p><p>SAINT LEE (FISHER LALLY)</p><p>SAINT LEWIS (WARSH)</p><p>SAIINT LOUIS (ARMSTRONG)</p><p>SAINT MALCOLM (X)</p><p>SAINT MARILYN (MONROE)</p><p>SAINT MARSHA (P. JOHNSON)</p><p>SAINT MARTIN (LUTHER KING)</p><p>SAINT MCCARTHY (JOHN)</p><p>SAINT MEL (JOHNSON)</p><p>SAINT MIKE (JUDGE)</p><p>SAINT NATALIE (WOOD)</p><p>SAINT NORMAN (LEAR)</p><p>SAINT OTIS (REDDING)</p><p>SAINT "PRES" (LESTER YOUNG)</p><p>SAINT ROSE (MCBRIDE LALLY)</p><p>SAINT SELBY (HUBERT JR.)</p><p>SAINT SIMONE (SIGNORET)</p><p>SAINT SISSY (JOHNSON)</p><p>SAINT TED (BERRIGAN)</p><p>SAINT TIM (DLUGOS)</p><p>SAINT 'TRANE (JOHN COLTRANE)</p><p>SAINT UNCLE JOHN (LALLY)</p><p>SAINT VERONICA (LAKE)</p><p>SAINT WALT (WHITMAN)</p><p>SAINT WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS</p><p>SAINT WILLY (FARRELL)</p><p>SAINT YVONNE (DE LA VEGA)</p><p>There are more in my head but I can't get them out. How 'bout yours?</p>Lallyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.com0