A blue and white sign on the wall. JUST FOR TODAY. Look down. A cold colorless blue linolium floor. Feet. Legs. Shorts, skirts, shoes, socks, sandals, human beings… I look up again like a deep sea diver coming up for air. There is no air. Shirts, arms, skin, faces. Colors, textures. Black plastic and metal chairs. […]
read more“You want me to drive, Artie?” I ask as we walk over to his car. “What?” he shouts, gripping his cane with one hand, adjusting his hearing aid with the other. “Can’t hear a fucking thing with this goddamn thing,” he growls, “I hadda take it back three times already, goddamm it!” I was searching […]
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read moreSo I’m sitting at some fancy whorehouse with some my Russian cohorts, waiting for Eugene the Gypsy to come to town and rescue me from their well-intentioned-but-somewhat-overbearing clutches, when this fancy French international banker dude who knows somebody comes along and insists we all go to some fucking trendy new “Mexican cantina” in downtown Moscow […]
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read moreI was born alone like a bloody little midget into this wailing cauldrin of matter. And here I shall die alone too. I feel my time running out here and I feel the weight of a thousand slugs on my soul. Cold and slimy and damp. Merry fucking Christmas. Strong but gentle and a very […]
read moreIt’s been a full year tonight since I sat here at my open-air office by the waves at the end of Copacabana and wrote a blog while waiting for the year 2008 to end. Another calander year has gone by now and here I sit again, taking stock of all of this last year’s accomplishments, […]
read moreAfter the beach, Eugene and some of his band members went back to their beach-front hotel for a shower and a nap. We made plans to meet up after dinner at Mio’s house in Copacabana for a dinner and informal rehearsal for their upcoming show together at the Fundação Progresso in Lapa. The show would […]
read moreEugene the Gypsy and I have become fast close friends since we first met up here in Rio a couple of years ago. There was an instant connection, a strange familiarity right from the time the infamous Rock n Roll Journalist, Mayra Dias Gomes introduced us at a corner bar in Ipanema. This one of […]
read moreGot to the beach at Posto 8 and parked my bike by the familiar shower stalls. I greeted the regular attendant there who greeted me with the usual greeting. “You been missing here, Cigano.” “Well… If I’m missing here, I musta been present somewhere else. Now I’m present here and missing there. Such is my […]
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read moreThe next day we were invited to a strange and lovely garden party at a sprawling idyllic rural compound located right in the middle of the world’s largest and most populated metropolis. The beautiful home belonged to Timothy Leary’s widow, Barbara and her new husband, the cool and hospitable Brazilianarre art collector, Kim Esteve — another friend of Cousin […]
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