In Walked Fud
Steve Provizer June 27, 2019
“[Fud Livingston’s] final decade was a difficult one, and a pernicious addiction to alcohol ultimately took him out ahead of schedule. Until shortly before his
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“[Fud Livingston’s] final decade was a difficult one, and a pernicious addiction to alcohol ultimately took him out ahead of schedule. Until shortly before his
I don’t know if there is a law, axiom, or principle to this effect someplace, but I begin to discover that the best way to
In the spring of 1973, one could not turn on a radio without the voices of Tony Orlando and Dawn emerging from it, singing “Tie
Note: Since this was written we have launched an online edition… we still think you should get yourself a physical copy, but you don’t need
—Andy Senior (July 20, 1994) Road Raisins—Oh, how I love ’em! Road Raisins—I gotta have ’em! I pick ’em up in the road— I’m not
In looking back to The Syncopated Times of December 2016, it unfavorably impressed a few readers when I assumed and seemed (to them) to luxuriate
When I was about ten years old, I became the proud possessor of an Edison Diamond Disc phonograph. This was under the objection of my
Keys and Buttons I probably don’t state this often enough, but I am most happy when a subscriber, having finished reading an issue of The
I was probably the only kid in my grade school who knew about Glen Gray. That precocious enlightenment came about because my father returned one
On being an Editor It must be a form of cosmic retribution—or what the ill-informed call “karma”—or what the sage denizens of my neighborhood mean
Co-Dependent Baby (Sung to the tune of You Know What)[columns-container class=””] [one-half-first] Come, Sweetheart mine— Don’t snort that line, Put away your crack pipe and
Among My Auctioneers eBay once sold me such glories— I placed my bids without care; My house has only three stories And I need to
April Fool’s Day came early this year for some of us in the Northeast when every indication of an early Spring was muffled under what
Office Chair Old Office Chair’s got me, Mouse by my side— Fetch me that coffee Or I might get snide; Can’t leave this computer Ain’t
Owing to an interrupted internet connection this past week, I was almost certain that I would have to complete this issue without the crutches of
One of the little-noted casualties of the Social Media revolution is our fluency in composing a simple and heartfelt message of condolence. The Victorians were
Making the World Safe for Autocracy (Feb. 16, 1996) There is delight in dismantling a beautiful machine. Each screw unscrewed, never to be rescrewed. Lordy,
A year has passed since I launched (as if by slingshot) the first issue of The Syncopated Times into the world. I may safely say
Sometimes our past lives come back to haunt us in strange ways. I’m not referring to anything paranormal. Reincarnation is a jolly concept but it
Our national discourse has improved considerably Since Barney was elected President. Who else would kids of all ages love and trust Having been spurned and
I found it on the AM dial. A Hollywood cowboy mimicking the distinctive Alpine sound of the Moser Brothers, a wildly popular touring group of
The other day a rather sad jest occurred to me: What’s the difference between a deadline and the Loch Ness Monster? Nobody believes in deadlines.
I have received many kind compliments since launching The Syncopated Times in February. One deeply gratifying recurring note of praise is that readers have declared
I no longer write poetry Because I was caught satirizing under the influence And my poetic license was revoked. This was a year ago, and
I doubt that it was ever actually true that every five-year-old boy used to want to grow up to be a fireman and that every
One evening, when I was working away on the present issue, the phone rang. When I am struggling against time and gravity, I’m inclined to
The joy in my moderation is so intense That I can hardly keep from smiling. I have succeeded in defeating temptation By boring it to
From the age of at least five or six I’ve been tormented by what may pass in a dim light for perfectionism. I would toil
I won’t eat in a restaurant. They make me nervous. I eat a lot of spam and tomato soup. I roast weenies on a fork
In addition to being publisher, editor, circulation manager, graphic designer, and advertising director for the paper you are now reading, I am also cook the
When nostalgia sufferers start on the topic of How Much Better Things Used To Be, I am most likely to smile and nod blandly while
The pull of gravitation gets me down And holds me as I struggle to ascend; I grapple, its embrace thus to disown, Though certain of
What goes around comes around—usually on Thursday. Every advance in technology is just a new way for people to talk dirty to each other. Some
Flash and bang and motion flicker in my periphery Demanding brief bursts of comment but never silence. What is there to like? But approval is
The paper you hold in your hands is a paper you hold in your hands for a reason. I’ve stated a determination to produce an
The soul selects her own society,/Then shuts the door;/On her divine majority/Obtrude no more. –Emily Dickinson Today, of course, anyone reflective enough to read the
Putting together the paper you hold in your hand was no doubt the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life. Added to that, it
As I rocket headlong through my fifties—fifty being an age when one supposedly begins to get all misty-eyed over the lyrics of “September Song”—I find
Against automatic banjo-trilobites wagging you haunt me; Were we young once—ever? I have gallstones older and smarter than the President. Yet the leather in the
I have never been particularly fond of getting out of bed in the morning—or in the afternoon, for that matter. My daily dilemma is: do