Valentine’s Day has been moved, sweethearts. Now you can mush and gush a whole two weeks earlier! Why? Because nothing is more romantic than a few icons spiraling to their deaths.  A young woman miscarrying the day after she learns of her horn-rimmed husband’s death, now that’s something to make you hold on to your loves for dear, dear life.

February 3rd, 1959 was the day the music died. Thirty-three years later, my mom promised my dad that if my soon-to-be brother were born on that day, they would name him Buddy in memory of Buddy Holly. I think she consciously kept him in utero to avoid her first son being called what many, many, many dogs have answered to. Alas, he came on the 4th and lives quietly as a Cody. As it turns out, Cody became a very popular puppy name soon after his birth. Oh, well.

I have come to piggyback the commemoration of the accident that killed some of my father’s favorite artists. This year, fifty-seven from the date of the crash, I am to start a tradition for myself. I am to holiday. The world is big and our brains are even bigger,  thinking whatever they want, thinking quickly in all directions. It’s overwhelming to imagine the infinite thought processes happening at any given moment.  I find comfort in the collective consciousness of holidays. Of hoping that Santa is coming or that there are things to be grateful for or that love and romance can be celebrated in a sweet, unassuming way. So, tonight I’m going to head out to a jukeboxed bar and play “Peggy Sue” or “Oh Donna”. Or, I'm going to pace around my apartment playing "Everyday" on my kid-sized guitar, skipping the F chords because they're too hard. Or, I'm going to dance in my bedroom to "La Bamba" and reach deep into my shallow knowledge of Spanish for translation. I'll be doingsomething and it’ll be nice to know that there are people at the crash site and people at the monuments helping keep these love songs alive.