Young Girls of the Sixties

So,  Ginger’s gone. Flown away.

Long ago, some thousand or so years it seems, the Firesign Theatre was forming itself through a series of accidents in the hills of Los Angeles and making friends among the artistic communities of Hollywood and Mixville and Silverlake.  In those hills live and have lived and will live many most inventive and strange people and generation by generation, the hills absorb these people and house them in the jungle of  little bungalows that dot the twisting lanes and canyons. We made friends with a number of women, younger than ourselves by seven or twelve years or so, the girls of the Class of  ’67 (in Oona’s case) and of the years and classes surrounding. In a couple of cases, we married into them (Oona and I, Tiny and David for a time) or lived with them (Phil Proctor and Cathy Cozzi) or romanced them (Peter and Liz Plum) but most were friends and associates and Ginger Russell was chief among them along with her friend Cappy, now known by her real name of Kathy O’Mara.  And the three friends from Nightinjail Jr.High – Tinika and Cappy and Ginger – were in attendance at virtually every early FST performance, had their pictures taken in strange masks, were witnesses to an older world  that, I suspect, they barely noticed through the hilarious fog of their youth and beauty and charm and – sorry – innocence.

And Ginger had the laugh.  She had such a ringing of a laugh, such a stunning laugh.  And it’s on every recording of everything we did; on  all the old shows, the old radio recordings. And I’ll always remember Ginger for her amazing forthright intelligence, for her immense kindness and mostly for her friendship.  She was one hell of a girl, among a bunch of women who were somehow smart and funny and exceptional.  We were lucky, us guys.

53 thoughts on “Young Girls of the Sixties

  1. The circle gets smaller, and holding on to what is left becomes more difficult. Things never became so dear, as when they have left, leaving you to grasp for open air, in its place. All that becomes past is left to inspire for all who remains here to pull the weight up the hill. We are all more than what we might have been without them, knowing the difference. What was spiritual between yourselves, then, is still there, look harder . .

  2. This affects me deeply and strangely. I heard Ginger’s laugh only today as Peter asked her if she’d heard the one about the Arab with the large left nostril. Very sorry for your loss, I almost feel as though it’s my loss too.

  3. Quoting you, Phil, from the live show at the Ash Grove:

    “Ginger was there. We’ve got her laugh.”

    What a wonderful legacy, a wonderful thing to leave behind.

  4. As comparison, two and a half, last night, and four the previous, not exactly a consistent pattern going on, here. That’s the variety of insomnia, never knowing what to expect, but avoiding the expense of a sleep aid, free to be awake, as long as possible. If I get the proper rest, the Turner black-and-whites go away, not even a single feature. How dull can that be? Stars of the imagination, with a cast of however many it takes, grips, directors, and gofers, all suddenly out of work, in a sanely rested world. This is not a pretty sight or conclusion. All those movies, that Jimmy or The Duke never made, are suddenly possible, with good scripts and union writers, too. Not possible? Why, Walter Winchell gave me the scoop, yesterday, and he’s never wrong about that. All you have to do is compress the sleep part of your day and they take care of the rest. Take notes, son, you might need them later.

    With this depression we’re having, there has to be, just a whole lot of gumshoes, out of work, looking to make that connection and solve that mystery. How long can you deny Sam Spade, or Mike Hammer the right to do what they do best, smoke unfiltered cigarettes and have the last word? With little glory coming their way, this being such hard times, and people being down on their luck, it’s a natural for these detectives to inspire, so many, to do the same. Whatever that is, and as soon as the final version of the script hits the floor, and we all know what the hell we are all doing here.

    What was a point of concern, is this apprentice gumshoe, Nick, and his secretary, Nancy, solving everybody’s, but their own. Who are these people and do they have the nerve, and right, to live in Washington, twice removed from the nation’s capitol, that’s why it’s a state? Shiny, bald, and known to associate with our four-legged animals, the politicians, having everybody to wonder where this is all leading and going, and given the responsibility of writing new material, for the tired masses. Are things beyond the point of no more rewrites? Originality and “that-edge” have taken a holiday, crossing into Canada, illegally, working for ill-gotten gains, in the back woods, bothering perfectly contented elk, that’s why they call them Mounties. What else could you do with Canadian writers, with too much time on their hands?

    Spend another nickel and see one more episode, does this really have a conclusion or leaving everyone in mid air, defying common sense, and the last true step of mystery writing. Same planet, your choice of scenery, and struggling actors, needing a script — who knows how this will end? — Could be, could be!

  5. What will fill the void, give me the first word, or the essence of that first thought? No one volunteering, making the call, just curious about who could be out there. Each fill their own space, digging the hole, making that limited space for the oneness, a single idea, but never to the next person, having a lot of busy nothing, while distracting and turning their eyes away. I could be gone, come back and no one would be the wiser or distinguish the difference.

    One begets, forgets, forgot, and forgotten. Pick your time when ignoring should happen, if they could only remember what to do, in the first place.

    Taking it on the chin, the silent air swinging past, while sitting in your chair, looking for somewhere and thing, out there, the first amber in the dark. This is where you settle for less, a physical and mental retirement, where the lack of anything becomes the vogue of dearth

    Escaping to sleep, hoping to meet something lurking just below the surface, in a subconscious interlude, wandering in the wilderness, searching just like you, only to find out it was you. Would you recognize the same, if you saw it sitting across from you? Dancing so tight with loneliness, it’s hard to consider anything else. Take that break in the road, a different path, say something to consider, usually to someone else.

    It’s a self fulfilling prophecy, that wishing for something else is, in essence, barking at the moon. A lot of noise and carrying on, but nothing more than a lot of over-the-top reaction. If your noise is louder, lead, but don’t expect an audience

    I went to bed, knowing not much time would be spent there, but just the same, the rest of the world seems to be able to fall into that habit, of subconsciousness, or flying with the angels. I left the real world, slightly off from square, on that plain, in adoration of knowing who I was speaking with. It complimented all those, the ones that never asked me to pay; we exchanged sight, as if it was the common language of breathing. It just was. This is my stop to fall out of this dream.

  6. Last night was a banner, getting, what has become the standard, two and a half hours. Rather than point it out and complain, the simple time can be nothing more than turning the page, to the next thing.

    ‘ Better to be here, and moving, things still left to conquer, and no one else seeing the contrast. Who else is going to be the object of the pie thrown? The clown catches it, with arms open, and knowing there could be more than one. You sleep, you miss it, that’s what face people do, instead.

    With no resistance, things are assigned that were never imagined, filling in your spaces and voids, holding you in tow and beholding, in your worst detrimental way. In the vaguest terms, worlds roll over, with little differentiation amongst them, one being the same as the next, losing their personality, amidst the whim of a glancing eye. All are made the same, when serving their ends. You could have been anybody else, and never to have been notice, otherwise.

    So, don’t be so quick to hand it over, and lost in the generic blend of your bended-knee servitude, with evidence that you were never there. Keeping the watch, spending that time busy in your richness, giving little to the unconscious, wandering in extended sleep, being satisfied to be merely out-of-it.

    When it all doesn’t amuse, don’t be quick to put on someone else’s smile, to fill the space and time. Put the responsibility where it should stay and reside, coming from within.

  7. Isn’t it Walt Witlessman’s birthday?

    The man with no sense of humor, eating his vegetables before his verbage.

    And, exclaiming, as he slipped on a banana, “what a fruit!”

    We’re all picking prose, under out New American Master. . .

  8. It was my birthday, last year, but nobody came. Does that mean I’m not one year older, because of the lack of participation? Also, when “it all happens,” does that mean my death will be greatly over exaggerated, leaving me to be the last critic, whether I accept it or not?

    Then-again, if I have a really good year, can I skip the next one? I did that in grade school once; it’s just all in the way age becomes you or not, like guessing who is behind the mask at Halloween. My only problem is that my mask doesn’t come off, ugly looks being optional.

  9. Other than that, everything else goes on, but exactly where could be in question. Politics are broke, and so am I, eventually, with all of us being that much closer to the street. The redneck rules with no rules, and they seem to wait for all of society’s worst and best, to be where they have had to stay, all of this time. So, “welcome home,” or a simple “hello,” to the new arrivals, not yet acquainted with the ways of square one basic living.

    It’s where less is not essentially more, but the only thing left to have, by elimination of none, being the only one. This is where the true are separated from the complaining. Where, it is one thing to be a critic, but another to have any working solution. Whine, for the sheer act of it, is only a sound, disconnected from the rest, who are just wondering which way is around it.

    Too many gimmies, and very little contributing with seeing the longer vision, and any attempted of a way out or solution.

    The mythical two thousand-twelve may not be in the form of a physical break-up, but starting, at first, from within, with all the inhabitants, creating the destruction, themselves. I have seen the enemy and they are me. Self absorption has no place here, by not seeing the obvious, and only continuing by the use of blinders, not obviously seen, on either side of a self possessed being.

    Answering the simple question, how does this make the whole, if I proceed forward with this? It is the self, but inclusive along with them and others. How abstract can this paragraph go on, before it solidifies into the concrete.

  10. Phil,

    Your situation and adoration sounds very much like the lyrics from John Phillip’s ‘Twelve-Thirty,” on the last LP, before the Mamas and Papas broke up.

  11. Phil,

    I just saw you guys in Portland and, as usual, you were more than generous following the show, especially since you were visibly exhausted.
    I read about Ginger with tears in my eyes. It hit me doubly hard because I just learned of the untimely passing of one of my dearest friends ever–a Canadian woman named Christine who lived a life that novels are made of. The past–the sixties–is slipping away piece by piece but some how you guys keep it alive. Thanks so much and you certainly have my sympathy for the loss of Ginger

  12. Phil,
    So sorry to hear of the loss of your friend with the supersonic laugh.
    It is amazing how you can pick her out of the recorded crowd of voices on those old tapes. It’s kind of a comforting notion that her laughter is the current physical manifestation of her on this plain via bits of mylar, whale oil and magnetic phenomena. Ones laughter is not a bad thing to be remembered for I think!
    Take care Phil and say hello to Oona for me!
    P.S. Got your Hello from Phil Fountain the other week! Sorry to miss you all in June. I am hoping to come out for the Fall shows!

  13. If we all think we’re so far mature and advance, we seem to long for things that are so basic and rock solid. The very things that have given us joy, as children, if we’re really lucky, we haven’t strayed from. Friends, acceptance, the common bond of laughter, sing the same song, or read from the same page of dialogue, all draw us closer, than anything thrown at us in an infomercial or coy comment. Wear it well friend, many aren’t as privileged, where the air is truly rare and the bond a common one.

  14. ‘ Was starting to get writer’s withdraw, where the fingers get a certain cramp to them and the brain goes on holiday. Not that chronic insomnia, and daftness hasn’t taken its toll, . . . any and every excuse to jump off the edge and take up flying, or maybe letting it roll ’round the brain, once or twice, in that

  15. I could have been squeezed through a sense of surreality and just left of an underlying subconsciousness. What’s holding my attention, to a point of insomnia? Everything out there, standing in the darkness, subtly saying, you could have, if you only did this or maybe that, and it had their label on it, to cut your credibility.

    ‘ Don’t want t say I like the ride, descending, in an effort to package us all, dumbing-down to basics. But can’t you just step back and watch the circus?

    Put me anywhere, in your mind, as long as it’s virtual. That’s where there is no commitments held, because nothing but a name is occupying the space, between the ears, and years, it’s OK to keep it open and empty. Pardon the echo, please.

  16. I had that long spiritual conversation, and knew it just wasn’t talking with the air. That tickle, that flash, a simple essence in response, all held true when asked within a response. It’s all holding to the simple fact, if asked, there is an answer coming forward. While being quiet to listen, don’t be so quick to hear your own answer echoed back.

    The answer is sounded between the pauses, when least expected, at the point of most weakness and silent desperation. The light touch upon your shoulder, simply gazed with no condemnation, and a way to step from chaos. What else could anyone else want, other than to be that one moment of enlightenment?

  17. It could have been, but it wasn’t. At least not in this time and universe. So, the measured millennium marched and there were no excuses, because no one particularly cared, one way or another. Run the credits, stick the gum under the folding seat, and hope there’s a cartoon feature to all of this. My feature was short, less than an hour and a half, if you don’t count the awake time. Making a dozen excuses would play right into this, other than the obvious, but all things must crash, sooner or later. Insert quilted pad, here, break fall, this is all self sustaining and contained from within.

    If this were an actual emergency, you would have been able to tune into one of two station, at a time, momentarily distracting you from the real catastrophe, . . me.

    The strange aspect to it all is that a Unisom was taken, right before, having just an opposite effect, to this resident dyslexic. Maybe, I have been going about this all wrong, when I should have taken a stimulant, instead. Now, if I’m doing really bad, that must means that real progress is being made, as we speak. This all has to be a comic book world, right out of Bizzarro. Someone turn the page, please.

    Other than that sleep aid leaves me slightly hungover, another consideration is probably long overdue. Prospectively, I have been pushing this envelope for quite some time, and strangely enough, have not found the outer corners, yet. Looking for that mystery beyond the normal bounds, has a certain degree of classical boredom to it, or the outright avoidance, while no substantiated relevance has been really found, in the conscious world or surreal.

    One way or another, they’ll close you down, while the outright foolish flourish, without a care or concern. The least on the ball, the better. So, when it arrives, all three hundred pounds of it sitting in the corner, all goes on, whether it was present or not, divine blind bliss. All cause for concern wouldn’t mean a thing, wasted breath, other than pushing it, in and out. This is where I get off, must be my station.

    Strangely, if you had to point-at the apex, where all slides smoothly, in between the two frictioned masses, this would certainly be it. Roughly translated, the weight has yet to fall in Wonderland, just west of Wunderkind, and south of Wanderlust. If you throw enough pieces at it, all at once, something is bound to meet up, in an encounter, by chance or purposely intended. Once hit, any excuse can be made, why you were so deserved. No one ever questions it, after the fact.

  18. The Scene:

    It’s tents and adobied buildings, sand and brown dirt, for the street, walked under foot. Merchants and the populous mix, in a intermingling melt of talk, with a language that is foreign, only able to discern the general meaning of a hand motion and the intensity of a voice.

    All in a mix of their everyday life, trying not to make it cheap, when hardship is as common, as just the food in your stomach or moving on to the next thing, if it’s not. Being in the moment of two thousand years ago, is not the same as now. Being separated with that much time, can only have two different means of priorities, and only looking at each other in amazement.

    Perspicacity being defined less than clear and accepting what is not that sharp and in focus, and so it unfolds just two steps off from basic. Don’t forget to scratch, left of the right ear, and slouch. Anything less would be out of the norm. The ability to be one of them and less conspicuous has its own set of mundane boredom. You did want to be in the past and during that time it spanned all those years? Here you are, less than welcomed and it is really up to you of where this will all go. Where next?

  19. Hungry in any ancient times:

    Same hot sun, the dry red dust with the ever-blowing wind, and, if lucky, you might eat today or maybe the next. It is where you find it, being not of always good fortune, but half the time, the luck in what’s left over, the portion no one wants.

    Pick your time, but most likely in that time unseen, hidden away, years ago in a hungry time of Mesopotamia. So common, it was almost unsaid, never questioned, simply that empty feeling.

    ( When it is experienced, you simply eat, buying that much more time, its sustenance bridges all, allowing that much more time sustained and fulfilled, once again.)

    No one will remember you went without or otherwise, even if they stumble across your bones, long time since, bleached in the sun.

  20. I am always amazed how one acquaintance bridges to another, who knows someone else, that brought along that other group, the common connection. It seems we are all connected, even when not always together, all of the time.

  21. Once the past is passed by, is it still here, where you left it behind.
    Could it be that history is current, not necessarily looking over your shoulder.
    The past is closer than expected, with closer bonds, waiting for the next leap forward, in a continuous flow.
    So, where do you want to start, immediately, regressively, or skipping all points in between?
    You can be in the past, looking forward from that place of past sunsets, and the dreams within one’s eye.

    That stance, glazed looking beyond in that daydream,
    seeing the places not seen, intermingling and mixing,
    but not of it originally, viewing the past,
    as if it was the very first time.

  22. It’s not the emotional disconnect,
    but put in the moment of time,
    when your time is not where you wanted to be.

    You didn’t look for it that well. It was there, while looking elsewhere.
    Or maybe,

    It’s in someone else’s hands and perceived control.
    Or maybe,

    It could be what you make it at that particular time.
    Or maybe,

    Pass through it, but go where it is right now, just well spent time, . maybe.

  23. I could have been that fly on the wall,
    with what was being traded back and forth.
    Even if the content wasn’t worth the consideration,
    sarcastically belittling and mindless self absorption,
    pissing the time away.

    Just trading away the time,
    in order to not consider the time spent.
    You could have done something better,
    even with less time spent doing it.

    It’s simply the initiative, stepping away, making that first step.
    It could have been done that way, . . really.
    Only to have the talent of a backspace,
    and keep hitting it, until it looks right,
    but I don’t want to go back to adolescence.
    Please.

  24. This is the decline of the empire that never was. For any good reason, or unforeseen, there never was anything to depreciate or decline, and maybe at best waiting for something from charity, to have that ridged sense of self worth.

    After that, everything can move down to that basement location and the true object of everyone’s attention, at the end of their fingers, pointing and wagging. Why try to be anything different, when the public punching bag is so central to many others, than yourself.

    The only peace, within yourself, is when they sleep, and you become the only one awake and aware. Otherwise, it’s that lull, where the anticipation of the next day pervades all, lost again.

  25. Most everything out there is ready to flush me down the tubes, to blindly ignore, or be reminded that I am not them.

    Being on the outside is never so well defined, when your only view is from afar, not even on anyone’s radar or perception.

    Self Absorption, being so well within, has no place or time for anything else, even taking the smallest part of me, to a corner and forgetting.

    So, you nudge the stone up the hill, figuring nothing will move, if there isn’t any involvement or participation, but where do we go from here?.

  26. Your only credit is the clean up, from conception to finding its way to your inherited trash. Be thankful what is sprinkled on your head, with the little thought it took to deposit it there.

    You just happened to have lucked circumstance, at the moment of their displeasure, and if they had the timing and wits, of sending you down the tubes, not differentiating you, from any of their previously conceived made mess.

    Your turn, you can have it, be thankful, don’t leave your new mess, when you leave.

  27. Is this called Writers’ Block?

    Whether it be
    the lack of flow or
    the shape of the reasoning between your ears.

    When truly frustrated,
    none of the above is chosen,
    just a meandering wanderlust

  28. She seems so distant with time, while the heart has never left and it still is all held near.

    Held in heart, where once it was the touch of a hand, and the thought of her goes on forever, with and without her.

  29. Making Excuses on the Sidelines

    I was pulled from slumber, when floating in that murky abyss, only to realise I had over stayed. Reaching for the sweats, putting on the slippers, not knowing, if the right was right and the other one left. Now, where did I leave off, only two hours ago?

    Everything is so abbreviated, there’s never the time to just sit in that lull, to look, listen and think. Hearing the dribble, that nothing of value was ever important, watching the next six commercials, in a row, your life will be changed or quickly brushed to the side.

    When is it my turn? Are they finally finished? Talk long and empty, going on-and-on, entering the left and exiting the right, with no stopping in between, and no content or substance.

    It’s not that I haven’t heard of it before, but the same thing over and over, to the point that everything is in lip-sync, like a pre-rehearsed sales pitch. Being forced to tears can’t be all from boredom or the fond wish you were sleeping instead, but simply pacifying the lack of content or most anything else, that hasn’t or wasn’t mention before.

  30. Hey Phil,

    All the best at Marin and Golden State!

    Check the air pressure in the shoes and the polish per squeezable nose.

    ‘ Can’t be there physically, but always there in spirit and well intended

    wishes.

  31. Read the News Today, Oh Boy . . . Second Pass

    Only drawn by what is in front of you, at that particular moment,
    no one has any view outside, let alone everything that came before,
    making up a certain instance in time.

    Simply, stop, and look what came before arriving at a certain realisation.
    How the news is read at a certain space in time
    and being known by the way you read it
    and all the things ever done before.
    It’s read and loosely understood, oh well.

  32. After being out of circulation for so long,
    there’s a larger question whether they even remember what I look like?

    Getting back into it, appears to be more difficult than the job or task in view.
    Getting that first initial motion requires the most effort and energy,
    and only becomes easier after the first encounter,
    eying up that certain task.

    It’s with great anticipation,
    but it only for the betterment of both,
    what passes the time the best,
    work and my skills in full play.

  33. Cleanliness is far from dirty, for all the good that is done, when not getting into trouble. One balances the other like neighbors staring over the fence at each other, making faces and trading hand gestures. If one extreme was missing, the other wouldn’t have anything to do, missing their counterpart to justify their own.

    On the other hand, if ignored, the other spins their own web, catching themselves and tripping over their own feet. Any faults discovered are quickly rendered into pointing to any one else, except the situation that presents itself, before them. Thinking that everything they do is broadcasted out, there is never any acknowledgment of what lies within or t he simple fear of any thing else not completely understood. Who me?

  34. I seem to lack the confidence, when overwhelmed, and for better description, wearing a bull’s eye target on my back, as if nothing can go any place else, but me.

    Hyper-hyper, me? Using both hands and my feet are used to juggle everything, having to be suspended in mid-air, and not knowing quite where it should land or be.

    With most not knowing where anything goes, every word is the definitive, and many things are flying by the seat of their pants, in retrospect, or any basic understanding of it at all.

    What little you know is leading the totally blind and misguided, all looking at me, as if I was delivering Christmas, and something less, if I can’t.

    Pressure, what pressure? There’s no pointing to the next person, or blaming anyone else. You’re the one delivering it, not being expected that anybody ever had a thing to offer in any kind sense of co-operation.

    All blanks stares of confusion and mystery paint their eager faces, not lifting a finger or any demonstrated intent, with hands down by their side, in immobile attention, and having all the good, as if the fifth side on a square.

    These are your ques, to tread where no one has the common sense to creep, crawl or diddle with. At best, it is usually stepped over or directly on, distorting, breaking and mangling whatever was being offered.

    The only known fact is, they’re there and everything is not, with temporary blindness for added insurance, avoiding any kind of blame or reason. Well, at least I know where my feet are planted. (Upside down)

  35. Reporting from the far-reaching extents of insomnia,

    just past the all nighter diner, where coffee is the life’s blood of its inhabitants.

    All the creatures come out and play, but it’s the same old tune, over-and-over, again.

    One of these times, I’ll get it right, after that funky break, in the middle.

  36. It’s obvious who won, this past Tuesday.

    The Only True Candidate of Surreal Choice

    and a close associate of David Ossman,

    George Leroy Tirebiter!!

  37. They’re Coming To Take Me Away, . . . So What!

    One of these times, the sky will stop falling and there will be no one, a half-step back, looking over my shoulder. ‘ Could have said, it’s not really there and ignore everything, without exception.

    Fall into that sleep uninterrupted, no one on duty, and let it drop where it may, all oblivious to anything, but what ever can be absorbed, at a particular moment.

    No insight, except for the moment’s self amusement, no one, but me, all stops, while you hold time at bay. Then-again, pay me now, or later, but more when later, always a price, never fleeting free.

    Always looking over my shoulder, for the next extended hand, but seem I can never fill it enough, the next demand, then the next. There never is the rest, that pause in between, the two consciousness.

    It has to be someone else, taking the turn, making the break, walking far ahead. I only see what has happened, after.

  38. So, I make the route, again, biking on a Saturday. With several layers of shirts, sweater, and sweatshirt. With the triple layering offer a barrier between the elements and me? Gloves on the hands, and knitted cap under the biking helmet, all for that simple ride, under my own power of pedal. For all in all, trying to make the best show of it, when the heart is heavy and the future very uncertain.

    Like staring into the dark, where all shapes and circumstances possible, all waiting for their chosen time. It’s the ones not seen, making the imagination to go kilter downwardly down and expect the worse, with the better, few and far in between.

    No matter how it settles, all that is left is that small piece of faith, hoping for the best and wanderlust, being someone else’s luck.

    And so, it must go, . . .

  39. Bad Times In Christmasland

    Santa doesn’t come around here, anymore. With everything being cut, what is left can only be used as a reminder of what use to take up that very space, let alone taking the time to recognize the difference of being without.

    With no night before Ex-Xmas, any night will do, because the same happens on all the nights, nothing, . . with an occasional “what-if” from a whining tone of a objecting voice.

    Truly, we are all experiencing the trimmed down version, to the point of being called absent from the scene. Someone thought they might have seen it shuffling down the road, and maybe taking up that very same space, but can’t really be sure if it wasn’t all just a bad dream,(something eaten), repeating itself, one right after the other, in a continuous nightmare. When they come so frequently, it becomes generic, calling it,’ Just A Bad Day.’

    If all of these congregate and clusters, how can you tell when there really is a bad day, and not just a Ho-Hum Holiday?

  40. Scrooge Is Just Alright With Me

    Maybe we should have all jumped off that bridge with Jimmy Steward, rather than let some angel, like Clarence dip his wings in the water. By the time we all experience that Second Dip in this Depression, twisting in the wind will seem like a walk in the park. Just walk over the corpses, they have no name, faceless, a siren’s whine, and don’t you have some where to be, now.

    Scrooge had to have been Joan of Arc’s father, and a true sense of holiday grace to go along with it as well. Raise a cup of cheer, and notice the bottom fell out, just empty, like the rest of us.

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