I’m grooving to my favorite platters of 2024 today and plan to do so again tomorrow, all in the name of selecting my much-ballyhooed album of the year. At some point on Sunday, I’ll scrawl a question onto a piece of paper that I’ll then hermetically seal in an envelope and place in a mayonnaise jar, which I’ll leave on Funk & Wagnalls’ front porch. On Monday afternoon, said jar will be transported by armed guard to a nearby park, where the many nominees (and their plus ones) will be congregating inside a heated tent.
The night’s host, a noted mystic from Eastern PA known as Catnac the Magnificent will hold said envelope to his brow and divine the answer to the unseen question: “Honeyglaze, Kaitlin Butts, and Karen Jonas.” Or is it “Hayley Reardon, Malin Pettersen, and Pa Sheehy”? Catnac will then rip open one end of the envelope and read the question for all to hear…
Yeah, yeah, I’m being silly.
One thing I hope the (imagined) attendees say about me is that I’m funny—though I suspect they’d mean weird funny and not ha-ha funny. Humor, especially when derived from a long-gone late-night talk-show host, doesn’t always translate beyond its cultural and generational confines. In a way, then, my comedy is akin to the Oxford comma, recognized by some but not all—and even that some is divided as to its use.
Kindness does translate, however. I’d like to think that those who know me recognize that I’m friendly, generous and considerate—it’s certainly my intent, at any rate. To borrow a verse from Courtney Marie Andrews’ “May Your Kindness Remain”:
The richest of people
Aren’t rich with Elvis, cars or fame
No, they’re not rich with something
That can be bought or arranged
No, it’s kindness that makes them beautiful
And a kind heart don’t cost a dime
It’s a gift that keeps giving
For the rest of your life
That’s not to say I haven’t had moments when I acted impetuously or blurted things I soon regretted. To be human is to be flawed, of course, which means I’ve had my share of rash actions and words. But come judgment day, when the good Lord (or maybe just the medical examiner) weighs my heart, the kindness it holds should cause the scale to clang loud…
The Old Grey Cat 