Listen To What I'm Not Saying

Heroes

They sent a monkey into space in a spaceship especially equipped with a banana dispenser. His fly-boy buddies knew him as Junior, and as he risked his life for you and me, and all of "mankind", all he ever asked for, was a banana. Junior flew dangerous rescue missions every day in a McDonnell Douglas Tailbiter "Tin Cup" helicopter throughout the Vietnam war.

His father Rex, Sr., was a fighter pilot in World War II.. Rex, Sr. was good pals with, and was in the same fighter squadron as, President George Bush, Sr. Their was a lot of bigotry towards simians in the military back then. That systemic abuse lingered on until Bush "One", enacted the first pro-monkey military legislation. In fact, every military aircraft today comes with a banana dispenser as standard equiptment.

Ain't Got No / I Got Life

Her story started as many do amidst the sights and sounds and scents that folks call home. It could be anytime, anywhere. But it wasn't Rio or Africa or Paris. As it so happened, it turned out to be 1930's America. Where muscles wore out in time to worksongs as fingers slowly bled. Where the sweet aroma of a fresh baked apple pie cooling on the windowsill could make your heart flutter, if only momentarily wrestling aside the the stench of fear. It was in Tryon, which is just south of Dirtpoor, North Carolina. Home of nothing good and right next door to even worse. Brokenbacksville. Lumpstown, USA.

If it wasn't for her acute condition, nobody would have ever seen her. Nobody lines up to watch someone slowly die. If it wasn't for her condition they would have had no choice but to keep her home to continue her apprenticeship in misery. Fortunately the Doctor agreed and with the help of the "Eustice Waymon Fund" they gathered enough alms to send her to the only place that could help. For her condition was quite dire; she was diagnosed early on with a rather severe case of serious talent. So it was, off to the "famed" Julliard Clinic of the Arts in New York.

Julliard. Where Bach and Brahms tripped over each other trying to get away and certainly where Miles heard her play.

They cured her there. Taught her how to play. Set her straight, allright. Showed her how to make the best of her condition. How to ease the pain when they told her she was no good elsewhere. Where being no good meant not the right color.

She was just a useful naive little girl with her hat out, playing for tips at the Midtown Bar and Grill in Atlantic City when they told her that she would have to sing if she wanted to get paid. (She understood that the Lord don't pay and she played anyway, even though the Lord don't pay.) But she could play. Lord knows she could play.

She had a nickname then and they told la niña that they weren't going to pay her to sit around and play.

So she sang. And she played and she howled and she banged... until the keys and her fingers bled.

She cured us then. Taught us how to play. Set us all straight, right?

Sinnerman

Oh Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Where you gonna run to?
All on that day

Well I run to the rock, "please hide me"
I run to the rock,"please hide me"
I run to the rock, "please hide me, Lord"
All on that day

But the rock cried out, "I can't hide you"
The rock cried out, "I can't hide you"
The rock cried out, "I ain't gonna hide you guy"
All on that day

I said, "Rock, what's a matter with you rock?"
"Don't you see I need you, rock?"
Lord, Lord, Lord
All on that day

So I run to the river, it was bleedin'
I run to the sea, it was bleedin'
I run to the sea, it was bleedin'
All on that day

So I run to the river, it was boilin'
I run to the sea, it was boilin'
I run to the sea, it was boilin'
All on that day

So I run to the Lord, "please hide me Lord"
"Don't you see me prayin'?"
"Don't you see me down here prayin'?"

But the Lord said, "go to the devil"
The Lord said, "go to the devil"
He said, "go to the devil"
All on that day

So I ran to the devil, he was waitin'
I ran to the devil, he was waitin'
Ran to the devil, he was waitin'
All on that day

I cried -
POWER!!!!!!!
(Power to da Lord)

Fat Kid

A Fat Kid with a Piece of Cake is a lonely little bastard. Look at him with icing on his chubby face and hands; fork poised at the ready. His steely eyes ward off potential predatory playground sharers.

He shall endure a solitary existence, eventually toiling for just enough weekly wages to keep his shirttails smudged with fudge.

They're Back...

Lesson Six: Viticulture - Overall Rating: 95

Another top producer, Boones Farm excels with blush varietals. The Strawberry Hill is full bodied and fragrant; a ripely flavored wine with intense flavors (strawberries, lemon pledge, apple, lime, and oakey toast), good acidity (LSD-25) and medium length. 0.78% residual sugar. 741 cases. The Strawberry Hill is exceptional: extremely distinct and fine quality; a dry, full bodied, with excellent flavor and length. It tastes of rose petal, litchi nut, grapefruit, urine and old sneakers. Long persistence. 595 cases. Drink through 2005. Screw Cap.

Ahh, Anna Lucia

Love lost. My heart weeps for Anna Lucia. Sex, and Drugs, and Rock & Roll.

Lesson Five: Civics

Christopher Walken for President: 2008. If Harvey Keitel considers joining the ticket, I'm in.

Last time I saw Chris he was with Bobby and Harvey, at the NY Film Critics Circle Award. He was about to receive his Best Supporting Actor Award for his penetrating portrayal of a suicidal GI in The Deer Hunter.

As I recall Ed Koch was just elected to his first term and Chris could care less about the awards. Everything revolved around politics with Chris. He's basically a political animal. Everyone knew this day would come.


"If you want to learn how to build a house, build a house. Don't ask anybody, just build a house."
- Christopher Walken

Meaner Than Dirt

H. Marion Wayne, (Pictured Here - Only known photo-graph), was just about the meanest son of a bitch I ever come 'cross. Marion was the worst kind of four-flusher. Nary a moment he wasn't full as a tick with his Colt unshucked. The man walked 'round Cody like he had a stone in his boot all day. Needless t' say the day i met ol' Wayne was the only time I ever been' shot (in the back). Ole' Wayne'll put a slug in ya quicker than a jackrabbit takes care of business. Made the mistake of datin' that hornery bastard's sister one evenin'. 'Course she was no prettier than he was and she didn't give me nothin' but a lick and a promise, but sure 'nough when i drop her off, ole' Marion come a-runnin' at me, a-punchin', kickin', bitin', n' shootin'!

Lesson Four: The Lesson of Tuk Tuk

Anuk and Suku were brothers. The three of us shared an old missionary outpost on the furthest edge of our remote compound. Their father, Tuk Tuk, was the village elder. I was there that winter conducting a Wildlife Harvest Study, we were trying to gauge the impact of human encroachment on the areas oldest residents.

The Artic region is a surprisingly welcoming environ. I found myself quite suited to the solitude. The Inuit inhabit the lands near the Artic. Their homeland ranges anywhere from the northeastern tip of Russia across Alaska and Northern Canada all the way to parts of Greenland.

Unfortunately I was only able to spend one winter there. Travelling can be treacherous and downright lethal so I did not get to venture too far out into that snow covered majestic landscape. Perhaps that is my greatest regret.

Every night we gathered in the one room schoolhouse that doubled as the town hall. The women would cook and dance as the men stitched our boots and coats to make sure they were ready for the rigors of the next day.

Tuk Tuk made sure everyone knew everyone the great stories in their rich folklore tradition, especially the children.

Tuk Tuk kunikatuk tut tuk - Tuk Tuk may you swim with great walrus.

I Know Not It's Name

This is the "Thing" That attacked us that day. No one talks about it. I Know Not It's Name.

Lesson Three: The Truffle Hunt

The air was crisp and clear on a fine October morning in Tuscany. I was gathered in the pallazo with the other young men as we anxiously awaited the beginning of our first days as Trifolau, or as you may say professional truffle hunters.

As you know the truffle reffered to here is an underground fungi. As you may not know and as I was to find out, the Trifolau leads a lonely existence.

We were taken to the edge of the villa in a small van and began our hike into the foothills where we would remain for the next several months. Only Pino, our mentor, would leave every week for civilization. He was a sturdy man of over eighty years and he was waiting at the edge of the mountain with the pigs when we arrived.

That day we hiked over twenty kilometers letting the sows lead us on toward our coveted prize. (As you may know the smell of Italian white truffles (Tuber magnatum Pico) contains pheromones that are attractive to female pigs, but not to boars.)

I still have a hard time putting into words the sheer joy we felt every time the sows broke away from our pack and ran excitedly towards the base of an unfamiliar tree. With great effort the sow would snort and kick at the dirt while she plunged her muddy snout into the ground, ultimately setting free our reward.

The nights were lonely and quiet as we stared into the fires and drank our homemade grappa telling tales of our lives we left behind, distant lives that seemed to fade with the smoke in the firelight.

il Pino la ricorderò sempre - Pino I will always remember you.


"The most learned men have been questioned as to the nature of this tuber, and after two thousand years of argument and discussion their answer is the same as it was on the first day: we do not know. The truffles themselves have been interrogated, and have answered simply: eat us and praise the Lord."
Alexander Dumas (1802-1870)

Lesson Two: Habana

This has to be my most cherished picture from the old Havana days. To say Rick and Delilah were regulars at El Club de Mentiroso - The Liar's Club ,would be an understatement. My own Casablanca was more like an ad hoc Embassy than a watering hole. The expatriates were drawn there by the buzz on the streets and the locals shunned the place. They were crazy days and only the toughest made it here.

My career there started quite auspiciously one evening when I couldn't scrape together the pesos neccesary to pay off all the rum I consumed that day. Manuel, whom I thought was the proprietor, was kind enough about it. I swept the broken glass and rinsed off a few dishes, and ended up sleeping it off in the tiny loft above the bar.

When I awoke manuel was gone but the place was filled with expats once again. Thats when I met Rick and Delilah. Everyone assumed I worked there so I didn't want to let them down. Manuel never came back and no one ever told me I couldn't run the place, so I did. I took all the drink money and stored it in cigar boxes in the loft every night, less a little something for my effort. No one ever claimed the place. I did what I could to make that bar and that loft home for the next eighteen months or so.

Eventually my ship had arrived and i was getting off the rock. It seemed Rick and Delilah did not have passports and they had not planned on ever leaving. The place had no keys, so I gave the cigar boxes to Rick and kissed Delilah goodbye. I don't know what those crazy kids were running from, but I know where you can find them now.

Lesson One: Amphibious Dream (Rêve Amphibie)

Bridgette and I grew apart over the years, as even the dearest of friends do. But hers is a love I shall not soon forget. L'un peut comment oublie le bouquet doux et doux de la rose. She was a hellcat as you can tell, pictured here on my Harley circa 1968. This gem of a photo harkens me back to an era of infinite horizons, and a personal zenith, where love was not only in the air but in my heart.

The passing of time tugs on the frail cobwebs of memory. Yet, I recall, in vivid delicious detail, every moment in dear Brigette's company. I remember our impetuous, impish grins when the custom built "Fat Tail" Harley was delivered. The bike had just arrived, it was a gift from Serge Gainsbourg . This picture was taken then, on the day I received it. We named the cycle "Jane", after Jane Birkin, the American firebrand actress whom Serge was just starting to romance. Everyone knew they would marry soon. The cycle seemed to personify her precise blend of strength and sexuality.

Well, Serge felt awful that he was still stuck stateside, as his tour was prolonged, so he sent "Jane" over to Paris to us as a sort of atonement. Serge had become all the more popular there as his antisocial episodes garnered more and more admonishment along every stop. The "negative press" his antics caused only served to fuel the flames of legend and keep him away from us longer.

Bridge' and I were ecstatic upon receipt of this wonderfully childish and thoughtful bribe, and the two of us left that night for Cologne, commanding "Jane" to set us free, with nothing but bread and wine and a roadmap charting the highways and bi-ways of youthful indiscretions.

We spent the whole night riding, chasing down that infinite horizon.