I'm thinking about making this week's Tavern..."The Cross-posted Edition". By this I mean that I hope to cross-post it at other venues, such as Blogcritics, Daily Kos, American Street, or other such places as would draw yet more eyeballs to each participant. And being a kindly old soul, I would like to extend my generosity by saying that you can write pretty much what you damn well please, and I will sift through and pick out what I need for my little scheme.
If there is something you would particularly want me to use, either mark it as such, or write to me at baruchthescribe at yahoo dot com whereupon I might light upon your suggestion with greater felicity and huffman. Sooner is better.
Jane at Pratie Place has already jumped in, with a piece called:
Christmas in the schools: music educators weigh in
She plays the role of "J.P.", and does a splendid job of it too. I want to invite you to participate in her discussion, which really should be our discussion, and so I am going to suggest that you weigh in. Comments are blogs, according to some, and so I may use your comment as your submission on The Tavern, and link it back to your homeblogsitethingimapoo, as the Germans say. You may also post a comment here, and alert me to the bostpost you would like for me to use.
As a Liberal Christian, or liberal christian, or progressive TAOIST, or practicefailing bUdDhIsT, or Presbyunitarian, or sufijudaistical mystic, or whateverrrr, one, which is to say I, agree with her on the subtle and blatant atavism that we bring forward, to a changed world, a changed demographic, and expect the people to adapt to the products, rather than have the products adapt to the people. I mean...who is boss here?
And while some may incorrectly guess "God", the real answer is that the onus rests on the slumponixonian shoulders of Mammon, and his gathering. Not a smattering, but a splattering hath this throwback foisted forth upon "we, the future", who should have known better, but who, in the meantime, are too busy rifling through carseats for change, as it is nowhere else to be found in our stay the course parade off lemming heathcliff. I mean Montgomery Clift. Mount Gomer.
(Pinterian pause)
As so it was that the Tarheel Tavern hath stepped proudly forth into this new realm beyond the yesterday, where songs needn't words, not words salads, nor salads breads, nor breads spoons, nor spoons nightmares, nor nightmares daze. These things I quoff into my hank gurdjieff, eternal footman, and butling, mathatma choate, all to lay before you, the treasures we all share, lest we not be here at all. As we are scarce as the breeze which cloaks all in her brief chancely dance, gasped as eternal. Fickle fackel tea.
So go. Rrrrrrrrrrrite!
