I do quite like the idea of "3"... it's the most basic "family" unit (that is, source parents plus child), the minimum number of voters for a democratic resolution, three of a kind, three on a match, trouble in triplicate, the trio rhythm section of Jazz, baseball's least common hit, Christianity's Holy Trinity, three to get ready,
ménage a trois (although three's also a crowd), number of storied Bears/Musketeers/Wise Men, even 3x3 to produce an extra-lucky integer. I also consider it the minimum number of items to fashion a representative sample of something, which is why I often provide three examples rather than a barebones one or a not-convincing-enough two.
Moving through this "Bereaved Knew Whirled" of Parkinson's dissed-ease has me, for now, mining the IW Archives to entertain you reader. Recently I dredged up... I mean,
carefully selected, three posts of poems celebrating animals. Now I offer you--again, one per each new post--a threesome of meaty-beaty interview-portraits from my venerable rock critic days, back when I got to hobnob with the hoi polloi of musicdum.
First up, the then-younger Bluesman often identified as John Hammond Jr., even though his middle name does not echo that of his famous music producer dad. In three parts (but of course!) Hammond holds
forth here... and
hear-to... and
then here.
2 comments:
That's some intro! I'd say, on this day at least, you've gotten the upper hand on that Son-of-a-Park that's been pestering you.
Just back from a family fest in the Sierra foothills, and now begins the forced-march forward to surgery titled "deep brain stimulation," which everyone assumes (more a wing and a prayer, on my shaky part) will still these Parkie tremors for a few years. Anyway, thus the time of Archival revivals... next up, Ozzie's offspring.
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