A belated thanks, Dan, for that blast from the past. My mom, thoroughly suffocated by the 60s suburbs, would sit at her piano, Pabst Blue Ribbon by her side, and unfortunately, a cigarette as well. My brother and I were utterly clueless about how much it meant for her to write and play her songs. Her diaries clearly illustrate that we were little shits. Fortunately, we grew up, and I was able to mature into the loving, solicitous son that she deserved. Now, my older brother, that's another story.

Peter T.