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Machomuchacho

27 April, 2006

Summer


Speaking of which, allow me to recommend a trip to the North Carolina Outer Banks to get yer fish on. Now not everyone, mind you, we don't want it gettin' overcrowded. But some of you, some of you who won't go home and slap an OBX sticker on yer SUV--you're welcome! It's great, fishin is good, and pressure is nil. Take a week, grab a heaver, and enjoy the simple pleasure of a nice cast and marked down meat at the Food Lion. Join me. We'll see you there in the coming months...
Ferry schedule available


Posted by JP |




Happy birfday!


With but a few minutes left in his special day, I offer a "happy birthday" to Dave, aka Skip, on his 52nd year on earth. What a guy! So angelic, so generous and so full of life. Nevermind for a moment the tendency to sing German "folk" tunes in a crowded synagogue, Skip loves the children. Overlook the crusty outer layer and embrace the gooey center. Skip is the marshmallow bunny in the Easter basket of my life. God bless and keep you, Skip. Amen.


Posted by JP |




19 April, 2006

Bran doh


I've not seen a lot of Marlon Brando movies. I think it has a little to do with the fact that he reminds me so much of my brother, Charlie. Which isn't so bad, it's just that I'm trying to lose myself in movies, and seeing what you believe to be your brother is definitely going to hamper that.
I watched "
On the Waterfront" this evening and I was most pleasantly surprised. It's heavy handed to be sure, but by paying close attention to Brando I can see what all the hubbub is about over his acting. He was incredible. I concentrated on his facial features and he appeared to be in a trance, so deep was his commitment to the character. It was really pretty impressive. I would like to see more of his earlier work.
One other neat thing about the movie occurred in the beginning. There appeared to be a moth or moths flying in and out of some earlier scenes. I was able to slow down the dvd to check them out. I haven't listened to the commentary yet, but I would interested to learn if this was common for films of the time (attracting insects because of the lights), or if it happened to be a result of the location they were filming in. If you rent the movie, watch for some annoying moth shadows during the first 45 minutes of the film.


Posted by JP |




10 April, 2006

Sniffin' tees

Heidi, from the internet, wonders if I managed to steal away from my former apartment with a fistful of wifebeater tees fresh off the sweaty back of the old German man. I can only hope this a rhetorical question. In the words of Hawk Harrelson, "yes!"
When Madison grows cold and gray and I am made to feel a prisoner in my home, I frequently turn to my generous supply of soiled t-shirts to remind me of summer. I light a fireplace log, turn out the lights and pull one my prized mementos over my sunken chest. As my own sweat re-energizes the residual old man sweat, I am instantly transported back to my tiny Chicago apartment. Before long the aroma overcomes me and I am unable to keep myself from huffing the belly portion of the shirt like some teenager would a gasoline covered cloth. I pass out eventually, I'm not sure for how long, but when I awake I am in the most pleasant physical and emotional state one can imagine.


Posted by JP |




03 April, 2006

Memories of Albany in Autumn

Oh man was I ever foolish to promise that I'd make blog entries once a week. Certainly this will never last. For as you can see, as is fairly obvious to the most casual observer, I have not a thing to write.
Perhaps you would like to hear about my roommate's car, the one with the leak in the weather stripping. I sat in the drivers seat and emerged all wet-assed this morning outside McDonald's where each morning I drink coffee with the boys.
Or better still is the story of my pickle jar. I bought it at Woodman's and it's filled with a shit-load of pickles. The jar says it's more easy to handle than previous jars had been--it is. I can't tell you how many slippery jars of pickles I have watched fall to the dirt floor of my cabin only to crash and break on the box turtles that gather at my feet for warmth.
But what about the story of that guy, my former landlord, who I recently discovered is no longer with us? Well shit, it's just a blog. Were I to tell you about our epic Indian wrestling matches your eyes would grow tired from staring at the screen. When you grapple with a man for three straight hours taking only the occasional break to sip from a bucket of homemade brandy, the important details grow lengthy. This, my friends, is simply not the place.
But I can tell you about the old man's music. In the summer when the air would become thick and sleep therefore impossible, I'd lie awake on my canopy bed listening to that old man play his harp. An angelic sound all on it's own, his harp playing, nonetheless, was a distant second in tonal ecstasy to the sweet syrupy vocals that dripped like Hennessey from his chapped and bleeding lips. For what seemed like hours, I would fix my gaze upon the August moon and allow myself to float on the notes of his harp and the lilting cadence of his words...All I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is see your eyes.....Roseanna.....Roseanna...
He's gone now, but come summer when I again find sleep is out of reach, his words will surely come back to me. Perhaps they will come to you as well.


Posted by JP |




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