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Vance’sMondayAcousticPajamaParty #87 - CELTIC MOTOWN MASH-UPS REDUX!!


I didn’t get to this last week. I’ll try this again. Please don’t ask how this’ll work. I expect joyous hysterical failure

When: Monday nite 11/29, 7:30pm EDT.
(“doors” open at 7 for community hang) -


Who gets 10%: This is my 4th time donating to Food Link They now call the old auto parts store on Summer St. home. This organization turned a gutted monolith into a subtle, well-thought out center that rescues fresh food, alleviates hunger, and contributes to environmental sustainability, right here in my town. What with all the bounty most of us had yesterday, this is the least I can do today. or 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 = This week’s pajamas = new bright yellow SKYSCRAPERS (oldest continually operating model plane club in the country) sweatshirt!!

I teach and coach stuff.

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


(This is a story I posted 2 years ago this time. I just had to post it again)

Pam and I used to date in college for a bit. I got invited to her house for Thanksgiving in 1979 where I met her Dad, Pete, a burly-voiced gregarious giant of a man, who knew 5 chords and could play anything written before 1960. He liked me enough, his second-daughter’s "college friend". Two other kids from his second marriage made for quite a table of Northern Massachusetts folks. Like 8 Northern Massachusetts folks and me. You know what I’m saying…

So this very tall, very forthright, very unknown to me, very White man Pete is going around the table with the tray of turkey meat, asking each party what they’d like on their plate and how much. He comes to me. “I’ll have a little of both, Sir.” He turns to Pam. “And you?” Pam replies “Only white meat for me, Daddy”. He couldn’t have seen me smirk or roll my eyes. I was certain I did it only on my inside. He leaned down between Pam and I, and, camouflaged by the chatter at the table, ever so surreptitiously said into my right ear and her left ear, “You two can work this out later…”

I miss you Pete. Hours playing with you in your kitchen. You knew everything. Every song. Even in the evening's eventuality of being deep in your cups and cigarettes, you played on and on, demons be damned. You thought I hung the moon. You’d call WERS when I was live on air and demand they play more of me. I do this thing partially because of you. You thought I had something. I hope I do.