If worry would keep nuclear weapons tucked away, we'd be safe as milk, right? I've always said that guilt was a product of evolution so that humans wouldn't all get squashed fornicating in the middle of the road.
With the holiday season bearing down on us, let's sing all those songs about babies in mangers and melting snowmen and spread some peace and good cheer. Let's make it a good one in case it's the last one.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
Here's hoping that I've never taken miracles for granted. Seems to me that a man knows too much when he thinks he knows everything. Wisdom, as I see it, depends on embracing the mysteries. I'll go out with more questions than answers.
All those t shirts and coffee cups with cute slogans about dogs' love tell you most of what you need to know. Get down on the floor and pet one. Love Lesson #1.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
Now, more than ever, I'm reminded to not take anything too seriously. I've used up ten lifetimes' quota of good luck. Whatever's left is all dessert.
Oh, I've worried. Complained, too. Nobody has spent more time hand wringing than I have. Let's don't even start on guilt. Let's just declare me the world's champion and move on to hypochondria.
Let me just say, right now, that if I had ever played any lottery, I would have surely won it.
I traded the family cow for magic beans in the beginning. Seems they were perennial. Who knew?
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
Life's a vacation once you figure it out. I could worry about the state of the world, but it wouldn't make anything better. It surely would spoil the vacation.
Peace and love. There's always somebody around to deride the concept. If it ain't Pontius Pilate, it's J. Edgar Hoover. Don't put much stock in fashion- it'll come 'round again.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
There's a sailor waiting for a bus in Fortuneswell. You'd think he would take a boat. There's no post office there anymore. Well, there is, but it's closed down.
There's no such thing as "too much love" or "too much luck."
I wish everyone had all that I have.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
In 1957 I was ten years old and the transistor radio was never more than an arm's length away. Occasionally it was tuned to WTMP, the coloured station, so that I could hear the real thing. Usually, though, I kept the dial on WALT, eleven-ten, my friend.
On Sunday afternoons I was always ready to call in and cast my vote for "Battle of the Crooners." Of course I was a soldier in the Elvis army, making sure that the King kept his spot on the throne. Gene Vincent would always get a few votes and so would Eddie Cochran. On most Sundays, "Tricky, Sticky, Rocky Ricky" would fare well, as would Sam Cooke and Buddy Holly. I was always ready to fight off any challenge from Harry Belafonte. I had seen the magazine covers warning that calypso would bring down rock'n'roll. Not on my watch!
Every now and then, despite my best efforts, Pat Boone would take first place. I was always crushed. How could this be? Surely America was better than this.
