$$: http://paypal.me/vancevancevance  or
https://venmo.com/vancevancevance  or
a check to VanceFunder P.O. Box 17,
Arlington, MA 02476 for this web-groovery.
Pay or not. Up to you. Let’s stay connected.

This week’s pajamas: Hmmm too soon to tell.

Also Sunday 3/28 at 8pm I’m also doing this  https://moockmusic.com/opening-doors/ with Grammy Winner and Grammy Award Rejector Because They Don’t Recognize People Of Color In Children’s Music artist Alastair Moock  - It’s about race, conversation, and song.

I coach stuff

Good Good Man - the CD - streaming all over, even get a CD from me…

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SPRING

My neighbor Rose, with her grandson Charlie in the stroller, passed Bessie and me on Woodside this morning. It was balmy, overcast, and 60’s, and we were remarking on the here and now of spring.
“I thought spring would never come”, said Rose, following with “and my heart was pounding just going out in it...” Face mask and all, she didn’t care. Spring.

Another neighbor has a giant blow-up Easter bunny on his lawn, with a home-made sign on the basket calling out his neighbor across the street, famous for the hugest blow-up holiday apparitions known to humankind. The sign read something like, “Hey Joe Dalton, what you got?” or “where you at?” Joe hasn’t responded yet, I know this because I can still see his house.

My friend the late flutist Lance Martin used to hate spring. When asked why, he’d just say “All the snow finally melts, uncovering months of stinky dog poop. Not a fan.” Spring.

Walks with Bessie have little to do with walking and most to do with sniffing every exposed molecular thing. Everything. Every. Thing.

I despise looking up lyrics on the web and reading “Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most, song by Ella Fitzgerald”. The song is written by Landesman and Wolf. Ms. Fitzgerald sang it, probably best. But she didn’t write it. Then again, my heart pumps pee when folks say “We built a new (insert house, patio, shed, bunker, battleship) when they’ve never swung a moment of hammer. In any case, I’m just bitter that Karen Schneiderman asked me for this song at last week’s show and I butchered it like one of those uncertain-skilled tool wielders might butcher a dining room renovation. Sorry, hon.

Lisa was out in her yard as I went by yesterday. Leaning on her snow shovel like a fencepost, she looked at me, narrowed her eyes, and says “Can I PLEASE put this away?”
This beautiful best friend neighbor stood amongst her yard full of snowdrops that make even the crocuses say “Damn, them plants got serious game”.

Snowdrops be like, “Hey crocuses, what you got? Where you at?”

xovg