Category Archives: Uncategorized

Dear “New York Times”/critically modified:

February 12, 2016plagiarism, plagiarists, Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

Dear New York Times,

The Ghost Writers are at it, again. You know…creating their little mistresspieces out of the stuff we’ve already written.

You might take a note.

Without an ounce of bitterness, allow me to say that I own my home. And, situated nicely between two north/south arteries in my fair city, this old farmhouse is in no danger of eminent domain. Yeah; it’s mine, and I get to keep it.

Oh; and, the mortgage company was paid off years ago. With money I actually earned, doing what used to be called “hard work.” So, they can get off that.

In addition, my parents taught me to save money, which I did every two weeks over and above the pension which took a portion on its own. So, I won’t be clamoring after any of their cronies for hand outs any time soon.

So, even if only eight or ten people legitimately read what I have to say every week, that handful of precious gems – an honest lot, by and large, and humble – are my new friends. And, every honorable citizen knows that true friends are a bond inseparable by the lure of greed, covetousness, or any other of the seven deadlies to which so many ascribe. There’s a word for people who wallow in that mire: dissolution. Kind of like a half life for the progeny of a poison.

Derisive laughter. Distorting smirks. Nervous tics. Drawers of nooks and crannies filled with pestled, white powder. Xanax. Ambien. Aloof dispassion. It’s all the same. The hallmark of lives lived disingenuously. Barnacles, all.

Yeah. Just me, on behalf of every honest creative, checking in. The rest can go about their dirty business. We’re still here, minding the truth.

littlebarefeetblog.com

“Desperado.”

January 18, 2016grief, nostalgia, poetic prose, psychology, tributes, UncategorizedDesperado, Glenn Frey, pop ballads, the 70's, The Eagles, tributes to our 70's balladeersruth ann scanzillo

Only once or twice in any generation will a pop song rise to the level of universal symbol.

The one that always spoke to me was “Desperado.”

The band: The Eagles. Kind of a southern rock/pop style backed by strong vocal harmonies and blended by not one but two song writers, one of them the newly departed Glenn Frey.

But, that tune, a signature for the intimate, 70’s love song crooner, was about even more; this was the ballad of the touring minstrel, and what he’d learned about life.

My father had been his own generation’s vagabond songbird. He’d met mum, on a night train, its steam engine stopped long, enough, to wake her enough to spy the dashing, raven haired soldier who just needed a seat. He’d sung to her, all night, and spun his stories, and woo’ed her, and gotten off the train, and been pursued by the great American hand written letter, until he let her love him and married her.

Though our generation preceded the technological rush by just a few, short years, our pop idols still knew how to sing alone. But, none of them had been trained in the art, if there even was one, of The Tour; nobody told them they’d live out of a bus, never eat right, rarely sleep, and probably go through so many groupies it would be hard to remember their own names, let alone those of the eager teenage girls who clamored back stage. Yet, they were the last of the clarified poets – lyrics, always close to our ears, never frantic, in time with our lives, right next to our hearts.

None of us knows what inspired the lyrics to that nomad’s song. But, I can remember singing it, loud and soaring, year after year, behind the wheel of the Pontiac Ventura and then the Sunbird, to and from work in the Greek dinor and, later, on the way home from my own pop band gigs, after the latest boyfriend had stood me up. To me, every heartbreak and heartbreaker was a Desperado, out ridin’ fences, never ready to come to his senses. He never did let me love him, and it was always too late.

Rest in Peace, beloved balladeer. Soar with the eagles, now . And, for letting us love you – thanks. ❤

RIP Glenn Frey.

Like Father, Like Daughter….

January 7, 2016Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

This video, last known poster Mia Debbins, of father and baby girl, is the pearl of a father’s love for his daughter. I have never seen anything else like it, ever, anywhere, and the two of them remind me of my own relationship with my Daddy as a very little girl. If anybody knows their names, please offer them in the comments. Thank you!