Glenn, though, while he knew how to swing a mean trombone, is not the man being considered. From the rock world, Steve and Jerry might be given a thought. But the slender one has in mind, from a fair list, old Roger. He who sang “King of the Road”, perhaps the finest song about an era where two hours of pushing broom could buy an eight by twelve four-bit room. All a man of means by no means would need. Not paying union dues, always on the move, as was demanded of so many during the Great Depression.
That classic song has been part of this year’s background hum, ever since the slender one, realized that more than three quarters of life, as measured by statistical expectancy had passed, pardon the bad pun, by in a flash. Perhaps that is why the obits, either in English or in Estonian as surmakuulutused catch the eye so often. Old friends in both, far too often. The better half suggests that this practice is akin to whistling past the graveyard, which is an idiom for pretending to be relaxed while in actuality being fearful. Even as we know that our life is finite… Ahh, death, where is thy sting? As John Donne wrote, that sting is sin, one that we all try to avoid.
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