Who'd Have Known

The first eight songs of "It's Not Me, It's You" are filled with shallow lyrics and biting sarcasm made humorous and entertaining through Lily Allen's adorable British vocals. And then suddenly she gives us "Who'd Have Known," a sweet little song about two people beginning a love relationship.

Placement is everything. Throughout the entire song, I held onto every word saying to myself, "keep it going, don't let it become a joke ... keep it lovely." And she let it happen ... giving the song "just the right amount of awkward" through my pause and uncertainty ... partial lyrics follow:

Are you mine?
Are you mine?
Cause I stay here all the time
Watching telly, drinking wine
Who'da known, who'da known
When you flash up on my phone
I'd no longer feel alone
No longer feel alone

I haven't left here for days now
And I'm becoming amazed how
You're quite affectionate in public
In fact, your friend said it made her feel sick
And even though it's moving forward
There's just the right amount of awkward
And today you accidentally
Called me baby

Are you mine?
Are you mine?
Cause I stay here all the time
Watching telly, drinking wine
Who'da known, who'da known
When you flash up on my phone
I'd no longer feel alone

Let's just stay
Let's just stay
I wanna lie in bed all day
We'll be laughing all the way
Told your friends
They all know
We exist but we're taking it slow
Now let's just see how we go
Now let's see how we go

Somewhere Else

The Perils of Penelope Pitstop

The Ruined Cottage (Fredericksburg)

The rain-soaked books on the front porch and scattered children's toys throughout the house reminded me of William Wordsworth's poem "The Ruined Cottage" written in 1797. Excerpt below:

... her house
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe
Had from his Mother caught the trick of grief,
And sighed among its playthings.

Jaime Jorge Jose

They called him George. He was from Barcelona and was a Catholic.

Bernice, a nice Jewish girl, married my grandfather when she was a young woman and her family disowned her for the next ten years. They didn't reconcile until my father was born in 1937.

That's my dad standing next to the tank in the pic on the wall and also my dad in the pics on the desk. Kids have a way of making things right.

Bernice

My Eastern European grandmother whose family came to America at the turn of the last century.

Bernice grew up in New York City and always wore beautiful well-made clothes. If you click on the pic large you can see the framed fashion prints behind her.

When Bernice was a child, her mother took her to watch the suffragettes march for the vote. She was told to remember those women because they would change her life. They definitely made a difference in mine.

Zexy (Lorton)

Silly (Lorton)

Sullen (Lorton)

camping in lorton, virginia.

Kisses

During the swine flu scare (from boston.com's big picture Web site).

Eric the Dancer

Eric has a colorful past. He started traveling on his own at a young age and by the time he was 17 he was tramping across the country by freight train.

It was a hazardous life as you might imagine but it was also a great adventure. It would be easy to romanticize those times; however, they were anything but romantic. There were many dangers such as other tramps who saw a teenage boy as as easy prey and yard bulls (security) who did not always treat tramps with the respect deserving of a gentleman of leisure.

Eric learned from his tramp mentor many valuable lessons every aspiring young railroad bum should know. Eric’s skillfull boarding of a moving train while running at top speed over huge chunks of gravel without losing luggage or having his legs severed under the wheels would have scored Eric a score of 9.8 or better at the olympic games. His grace and timing were no less skillful or beautiful to watch than a dancer on the big stage. Tramps in hobo jungles across the country would speak in hushed tones filled with awe and reverence as they shared stories around the campfire about the Railroad Dancer.

But as with all mentor relationships the time comes when a young tramp must venture forth into the world alone. So alone he went, full of daring do and grand visions filled with pans of delicious hobo stew, whole cigarettes with only a little lipstick on them, bottles of thunderbird wine and a warm patch of grass in which he could lay his pallet.

Eric is an old man now and many years have passed since he rode a train, but his old heart still skips a beat and his breath quickens when the moaning of a distant train seems to beckon, calling him to dance just once more. So the next time you’re sitting at a railroad crossing watching a long slow train thundering through town ... say a little prayer and ask the Gods to stay close to the unseen "Dancers" of the world.

Post note: Eric no longer smokes or drinks and sleeps in a bed but the story ain't over til it's over.

Eric circa 1976