The power of music

Have you ever wanted to break down and cry when listening to a particular song? Maybe it’s the inspiring message, or the moving performance, or the sheer beauty of the piece.

Well, don’t get me started or I could on on all day naming song after song…but take for example just one song: the classic “Ooh, Child” by the Five Stairsteps. “Things are gonna get easier” yeah, that’s something we’re all praying for.

Try this. Go to youtube and listen to the original song by the Five Stairsteps, and then hear a fantastic cover by Donnie McClurkin & Kirk Franklin.

I am not going to admit to being a crybaby. But I will say this, when I hear those two songs, my vision gets blurry and I have to blink a lot.



Can anyone recommend a reliable cloning service?

I get frustrated because (a) life is so crazy it’s often hard to find time to read, and (b) when I do have time to read, I am a very slow reader. I find myself analyzing phrases and paragraph structure,etc. and so I read at a snail’s pace. But I love to read, and I love discovering new books and new writers.

So, could anyone recommend a reliable cloning service? I will have my clone do all the tasks and chores of daily life, and then I will spend my time reading…

A must-read for Fitzgerald fans

I have been a Fitzgerald fan for several years.I would recommend Professor Bruccoli’s book to anyone who wants an in depth understanding of Fitzgerald. Some might dismiss the book on the basis that Bruccoli is an unabashed fan. But I would say so what if he’s a fan–he’s got some great insight in Fitzgerald’s psyche. And even though he’s a fan, he doesn’t (in my opinion) observe Fitzgerald with rose colored glasses.Fitzgerald was so complex. He could be brutal in his personal relationships, he struggled with demons (mainly alcohol) for most of his life, and yet his writing displays such a high degree of sensitivity. Some passages of his prose have a quality of delicacy and fragility.Here’s one of my favorite descriptive passages from Gatsby:

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I
drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely
knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I
expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion
overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and
ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping
over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally
when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright
vines as though from the momentum of its run.

What a dynamic description of mere lawn!