"Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants." -- Dorothy Parker

I spent most of last weekend working on a poem, but when I read it for the 110^th time on Tuesday or so, I dumped it.  Admitting it wasn’t any good was a relief, really.  See, there were a few lines I liked, but I was asking too much of them. You know, sometimes you can write a poem, and sometimes you can’t.

Yesterday I had a Nonnie and Drago idea-doing a blog about one of Drago’s claims to fame.  He’s one of the guys on the black and white “Village People” album.  My brother, wearing a sleeveless and sideless T-shirt  (a style he says he invented) stands behind the motorcycle and next to the Indian Chief.  In fact he had his hand on the Chief’s ass, but you can’t see that.  You can Google it and see what Drago looked like during the club crazy, disco crazy early eighties, before so many of the gay or drug-addicted village people died of AIDS.  I wanted  to write yesterday, but it would have been drivel.  My brain was thick, my fingers leaden.

I think it was the news that Japanese babies under a year old couldn’t drink the water-too radioactive.  Like a mother would feel okay giving her 13 month-old baby tap water.  Like anyone on that sad, sad island would feel okay drinking the stuff.  Maybe that was why I couldn’t write about all the funny things that have been going on around here since I last blogged.  And there’s Libya and all.  Dunno, but *“so it goes.”  Hope you’re okay.

*Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five. (He might be able to write something these days-if he weren’t dead, if he wanted to.)