God, he’s just my dad!

Tuesday, 29 November 2005

I write a great many things which I would prefer were not read by children. There are gentler ways to explain that celebrity is a golden calf—its worshipers doomed to sad, small endings. There are less psychologically blunt ways to explain that politicians are nothing but grafters and mass murderers in their Sunday best.

So, no kids—not mine, not yours—is my preference. But I’m not worried about mine.

I saw Arlo Guthrie in concert in Taos years ago. In the middle of a set he related a story of school one day when the teacher lead everyone in singing, “This Land Is Your Land.” Every single kid in the class knew all the words to all the verses.

Every single kid except little Arlo. He ran home crying.

They sang songs, including that song, at home of course. As you know, his father, Woody Guthrie wrote “This Land Is Your Land.” So Arlo never took it as something interesting or something to which attention might be due.

So my blue tongue, my foibles, my follies, my sentence fragments, the genito-political warts and all. Safe as houses. I don’t think one member of my family has read one tenth of 1% of my writing. I doubt my kids will even get that far.

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