One Of The Problems With Being Relatively

I'm Like A Bad Musical Cliche Because I Bring My Guitar On The Road And Try To Write Songs In Hotel Rooms.

Look Not Too Long In The Face Of The Fire, O Man! Never Dream With Thy Hand On The Helm! Turn Not Thy Back To The Compass; Accept The First Hint Of The Hitching Tiller; Believe Not The Artificial Fire, When Its Redness Makes All Things Look Ghastly. To-morrow, In The Natural Sun, The Skies Will Be Bright; Those Who Glared Like Devils In The Forking Flames, The Morn Will Show In Far Other, At Least Gentler, Relief; The Glorious, Golden, Glad Sun, The Only True Lamp—all Others But Liars!

Should The Progressives In Germany In The 30s Have Tolerated The National Socialists? Of Course They Shouldn't Have.

In A Perfect World, I Would Be 6-foot-3 And Have A Perfect Head Of Hair And Look Like Orlando Bloom.

In The Long, Nonillustrious History Of White People Pilfering African American Culture, Have I Just Perpetrated That? I'm Motivated By A Love For The Music And By A Love Of The Performances, And I Really Hope I Haven't Done Anything Bad.