"A Radical Lass She Was" it!

Love is not violent, abusive, or greedy. Right now anger,  lying and hate still seem to have a winning edge, but we are all made of the same stuff; we were made to love each other. It’s an age-old message that needs to be heard and acted upon in these troubling times.

Read by childhood friend and brother in life Gene Ptak. Lyrics are below. Thanks to Diane Sarrett Willing, Gene Ptak, Dave Nye, Mary McGraw Gordon, John Mindock and Cindy Hooper.

I wrote this along with Dave Nye.  His  guitar work is great.  My vocals.  It's a "what if" song. What would you do and how could you possibly thank someone adequately? 

This is a story about Christmas a little more than a year after my father died in 1954 and how our mother loved and cared for the four of us. In 1954, Mom was 28, Fred 12, I was 8, Don 2 , and Cathy was only 2 months. We went from a small-town, middle-class family to barely getting by the sheer grit of a single-mom. It's a love story.

I wrote this song as a tribute to the power of love. I'm very grateful to John Mindock for his music and vocals.

The hate and chaos in our nation is, to say the least, disturbing. We'll let the video speak for itself.

A shout out to all moms!

Quadzilla Man is a fun song with a serious message. It’s about rolling over stereotypes, and people with disabilities have plenty to roll over. This IS NOT SAD blues. No, it’s affirmative “stand up and be yourself” mellow blues.

A Radical Lass She Was
By Ed Hooper I confess / I believed the holy men lies / The ugly TV and print voices / branded her crazy /
I stopped listening to / Her angelic peace voice /And / Her angry howl / A radical lass she was / Retro hero she is
Painted villain by villains / But she had eyes that knew something / Looking out / At fickled souls who cheered
But never saw her / Fans (not all) became spam / got swept up in the mob’s / Dirty dustpan / (yes, me too)
We couldn’t believe / Holy men could do such unholy things / The lashing of children’s souls / One by one lash by lash day by day / And then other holy ones / Cloaking it under their blessed robes / She channeled her truth / And burned holes in the holy / The boos rained down on her beauty
Like savage blades / She sang through and got past / The depressing stabs / Searching, like us all…
I want to be bitter for her / But this “too little too late” poem / Is a selfish apology / No communion was served
Yet all 64 inches of her did not yield / She sang on as the Celtic banshees called  / Sinead’s lovely wail was that of myth
Of wild angry gods / And now I am really listening… / Sinéad O'Connor