This photo popped up on Facebook, where we tagged as many people as we could (our friends the Isaacs family, and another friend, Dale). What interests me at the moment is the stuff in the background.
Most of it is stereo gear, circa 1984-87. There’s a red bottle ... that’s liquid you put on the record cleaner thingie before you cleaned your vinyl. A turntable sits atop a receiver. On the right side of the picture is a dual cassette deck.
I think the books on the other side of the receiver were music-related. It’s hard to make out, but at the top of the photo, near the right, is a postcard of two boxers, one of whom is landing a punch on the other. The postcard was from Greil Marcus, in reply to a fan mail I sent him. Ah, those were the days.
My wallpapers generally follow two patterns. On my desktop, I have a rotating random selection of photos from the hard drive. On my phone, I usually have the latest cute picture of my grandson.
But right now, both desktop and phone have the same photo, cropped in the case of the latter to fit the screen:
I love this picture because of the look on Carrie Brownstein’s face. There is such joy, as she throws out the first pitch at a Mariners’ game. She has brought joy to a lot of people, but I don’t think it’s always been easy for her ... we’ll find out when her memoir comes out later in the year. In the meantime, look at that face:
This picture was taken soon after June 20, 1953. I say that because, to the best of my knowledge, the baby in the picture is me. My brother would have been six years old. My mom was 25, and my dad was 29.
Today is my dad’s birthday. If he had lived, he would be 91 years old.
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.
-- Jack Kerouac, On the Road