Right at the end of this. I always see people with lines from novels or poems or songs or whatever tattoo’d on them, and I think, man, that’s forever, you might only like that passage this year. But this, from Leonard Cohen, I don’t see myself ever falling out of love with it:

For the first time ever, I kept a running tab of the best of every month:

It’s not everything I read/watch/listened to. Just the stuff I dug.

And? I had this big idea that I’d peel back through all those, dither and negotiate about which is actually my favorite whatever of the year. But what I’m right-now finding? I like to remember better, on the idea that if it was good, …

Not that industrial rock (if that’s that term) album that turned up a while back, but a different arrangement (not sure about that word either) of a song I really thought I knew. It’s like that slowed-down “Born in the USA”—you hear the song all over again for the first time. Pretty excellent. And? Back when Waylon died, this was when we all still had answering machines with actual little micro-cassettes in them. Mine that day was stuffed full, everyb…

I forget who says it, but a while back someone was talking about how the good singers and musicians and actors, they can always do pitch-perfect impressions of their contemporaries. Maybe comedians too? Bet so. Actors, of course. Anyway, just stumbling upon this, from the year I was born. Merle, man, he so had everybody down. Like, dangerously good. And then it rolls into the usual star-studded medley, which makes me smile and smile and smile . . .

is the author of 22 or 23 books, ~300 stories, and all this stuff here. He lives in Boulder, Colorado, and has a few broken-down old trucks, one PhD, and way too many boots