For starters, they don’t use their social media accounts to promote those on the fringes of the medical community who denounce the virus as unfounded, as Morrison does. Take Paul McCartney and Dolly Parton, for example. While it’s not an artist’s responsibility to make relatable content for each and every fan, at the bare minimum, we should hold those with such sizable public platforms accountable for their words and actions as it relates to the lives of millions of people. Morrison and Clapton could’ve done something productive with their time, or at least not spent it encouraging irresponsible behavior (we’ll get to the lyrics soon). The 4.5-minute, call-and-response style diatribe is not just objectively bad (first rule of writing: limit vague pronouns, second rule: be interesting) but it’s a dangerous call to action for the anti-maskers and virus deniers of the COVID-19 pandemic. I hope you finally escaped that window frame that held you captive all these years.We should’ve been able to make it through the year without something like Van Morrison and Eric Clapton’s “Stand and Deliver” hitting the music circuit and repopularizing the two privileged, out of touch old white dudes, but here we are. And it stones me to my soul to know that you were the ghost in our kitchen window, but not as much as it stoned you. Dear Dad, Van Morrison will always remind me of you. At least sometimes, I am not fine, and if only years gone by forget the pain and wounds heal over time, then it’s just a different type of pain that comes to occupy my mind, like, “How could I be fine? How could you be fine?” And I start hearing these questions like the accusations that wake my sister up in the night, and leave her terrified to close her eyes because the demons never close their eyes (and I thought Jesus never closed his eyes but Christ, you sure seem blind sometimes). In the end, maybe God will piece our bones back together again, and me and my dad’s skeleton’s will drive too fast over the whoop-de-doos in death valley, just like we did in my memories, before death started eating at his spine. I was one with someone! (and now I am but a half)." Dear world, I wrote to tell you that the sun is shining down on Southern California today, and I wish that you could be here to see it. "O! Every old photograph is a painful reminder of losing what we had! (And I’d step out the front to toss up my keys and leave and breath a sigh of relief while he wept bitterly never believing I believed that: "He loved me!") Wife, your husband loved you more than his life, and I think that maybe he thought he gave you yours back. Daughter, your father loved you more than I fear you will ever be able to see, but I need you to receive it, because there were nights that he'd fight to stay alive just to see you, Bree. Well I said, "I do" two months after my dad disappeared and he was supposed to be the priest that married me. (O detestable pride, I liked you that way.) So do I rage at the Potter for destroying the clay that he made like we're somehow entitled to more than this? Or do I praise the Maker for giving and taking away? If you taught me that life is not meaningless, then this life is not meaningless. Well here I am: the end-all, who's come to judge and decide whether all of God's reasons for letting you die are damnable, or worthy of praise. But a California King is a world in and of itself when all that is left of the king reigns from a picture on the shelf. “Ma'am, it's a godawful night for a moon dance,” and my dad used to sing along to "the stars up above in your eyes.” It's a fantabulous night to make romance to my mother 'neath the cover of October skies. " I poured myself the stiffest drink my stomach could stand,” thought: Conor would be proud of the man that I am - and listened to a friend's local band jam old Van Morrison covers.
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