Twenty seven years ago, a couple of years before the internet was conceived, a mother gifted her young songwriter son with these two books. Probably for his birthday. Except for a brief stint in storage, these two volumes would sit front and center on every writing desk the young man ever occupied, in every dark corner, basement locker, converted chicken coop, or stifling top floor alcove. These books do not contain the words like selfie, twerk, ringtone, biodiesel, polyamory, carjack, bromance, emoticon, or dramedy. And this is good. gh
Gregory Hoskins 