Author: Jim Santo

we’re buying a house in Dutchess County, in the lower Hudson Valley. Hopewell Junction, of the town of East Fishkill. contract signed, deposit accepted, on a glide path to second home ownership. then, move and sell our house in Queens. massive disruption, an orgy of spending, and powerful emotions. neither of us are in great health. it’ll all be great in the end, but this song keeps playing in my head.

the problem with blogs is that once started, they are easily abandoned. easier than forgetting.

unless you decide not to abandon your blog, in which case you’ve got to, sigh, write shit.

in my senior year at Glen Cove High School, i took an optional class in Journalism taught by Mr. Lee Smith.

Mr. Smith was a strange, damp fellow who harbored an unusual affection for the works of Edgar Alan Poe. Students enrolled in his American fiction class could count on witnessing his annual performance of Poe’s A Cask of Amontillado.

it was not a recitation; it was a soundless karaoke, a miming, of a tape recording of someone else reading Poe’s tale of vengeful entombment. Lee Smith’s eyes gleamed as the story reached it’s horrific climax:

For the love of G_d, Montressor!

the assignment in my first and only journalism class with Mr. Smith, who come of think of it resembled Edgar Alan Poe, was straightforward: report, write, edit and layout an eight-page newspaper. i had eight or so months to accomplish this feat but it was just too much, man.

so i dropped out, necessarily face to face with Lee Smith and his greasy Poe hairdo.

“Santo,” he said, mentally loading his trowel with cement. “You’re pissing your life away.”

eight years later, i was the editor of The Westbury Times, reporting, writing, editing, and laying out a local newspaper for publication every week.

For the love of G_d, Mr. Smith!