Walking home I passed the Greek bars, old men outside smoking, arguing in a language invented by naiads and dryads. I was thinking about Buddy Holly, God's musical gift to me. Ok, there may or may not be a God, but there was a Buddy Holly. He crash-landed fifty years ago today, and those happy hiccups of teenage desire were silenced. Twenty-two years old and he'd already written his enduring Book of Psalms.

I posted this utterly charming clip once before, but it's time to post it again. Bless ya, Buddy.