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Thursday, November 29, 2012

treasure these few words 'til we're together

There's been a rash of robberies hereabouts in the last little while.  In our little town, where everybody knows everyone else.  The circumstances of the robberies indicate that it is someone local doing it.  So that's neat, one of our own violating our homes.  They have stolen a motley assortment of things, but the main thing they're after seems to be painkillers.  So don't bother coming here, thieves.  The strongest stuff we have is ibuprofen and vanilla extract--although we might have a bottle of Nurse McCready's Surgical Bruise Lotion somewhere.

Here's the story I want to tell you (sorry to those of you who have heard this before):  Some years ago we were at a recording studio, and we were talking about Harry Connick Jr.  Some idiot friend of one of our friends said, "Let me tell you who the next Harry Connick Jr. is:  Michael Buble."  I almost choked him to death.  I'm still angry about it all these years later.  Look, Michael Buble is fine.  I don't hate him.  His vocal style is a little off-putting at times (his enunciation of "holl-a, joll-a Christmas" is enraging), but his voice is quite nice.  But to pretend that he is at all comparable to Harry Connick Jr., that he's even in the same zip code, is ridiculous.  It makes me see fire.  You do not compare a crooner, however charismatic, to a composer/arranger/singer/musician.  They're just from different disciplines; both of them singing jazz music is not the only metric we should be using.  There is nobody out there like Harry Connick Jr., at least not that we've heard about.  Does everything he touches turn to gold?  No, but I'd like to see Michael Buble try to play, let alone compose, something like "Come By Me."  Bleh, it's just an infuriating argument.  I have seethed about this silently with occasional vociferous flare-ups (most recently on Thanksgiving) ever since that conversation, and finally the other day I was able to come up with a proper comparison, one that would have actually made sense for that knuckle-dragging buffoon to make:  Michael Buble is the next Mel Torme.  Not as dominant as Sinatra, but ardently beloved by his fan base, which is not insignificant by any means.  There's nothing shameful about being the next Mel Torme.  I will now put this ugliness behind me.

You should know that I gave up on my book.  Thanksgiving killed me.  I sometimes feel like I should have more energy, and then I wonder if I'm malnourished or depressed or just lazy.  I fear just lazy.  But the Thanksgiving prep was too much for me to do and stay on top of my word count.  I will shelve my efforts and take them up again after the holidays.  NaNoWriMo should take place in January or February, is what I'm getting at, when there is nothing to do except contemplate a voluntary medically-induced coma. 

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