Wooden Heart You make me happy when skies are grey. At the pinkly decorated nursing home Mother’s Day lunch my mother chats all through the crooner’s songs, the same songs and the same crooner as last year and the year before and the year before that. At this time of year he obviously does all the nursing homes and does them cheerfully. I feel for him and his stellar career: one-third of his audience, like my mother, ignores him completely; one-third are the living dead: teenagers play at zombies but propped up here in mobile chairs and beds…
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