Spitball Army

At Oceanside harbor, California. I am guessing this was taken around 1964.

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Today was the day I was really supposed to get your mail, so I am concerned. Please keep writing often, won’t you Hon? I’m desperately in love with you and need you, of course, & miss you so. Our country needs you too, though, & I can wait, because it’s going to be so wonderful to have you back again, to be with me forever.

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You got a finger in every pie,
Well what did I expect?
You made an art-form out of talking shit,
And partying ’til you’re wrecked.
In the small hours it’s so easy to feel
You’ve got some big ideas,
But in the morning you should put them away
‘Cause you know they’ll end in tears.

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Scott Hicks, who directed the film Shine (about pianist David Helfgott), has spent the last few years creating a documentary portrait of composer Philip Glass. It has just begun appearing on the film festival circuit. If the promise shown in this trailer for the film is any indication, the movie will be wonderful. Sidewalk Film Festival, are you listening?

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The Good lad an author! I much like site!

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The music offering “is more popular now,” said Hazel Delgado, 33, a social worker and Starbucks regular from San Bernardino, Calif., who attended a recent concert presented in front of one of its coffee shops by another act on the company’s label, the singer Sia. “I want to come in and be surprised,” she said. “If they do get more mainstream, why bother?”

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At one of the three breaks between acts, I took an exploratory excursion down the many staircases that spiraled toward the basement. The Met, between acts, is one big 15-minute speed-party out in the lobbies, and all of the people are beautiful. My inner voyeur found it nearly as entertaining as the opera. I tried to spot celebrities, but saw none. Budgeting time for the climb back to my aerie, I went in to use the basement men’s room.

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Then, at the curtain call, the singers came out individually and the Met audience clapped their approval, measurable by the loudness of their clapping. The audience here did the same. How odd that was, as if they were trying to communicate their admiration for the performance to the shadows on the screen.

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I stepped right into the next place in line. Apparently, that place belonged to the Chrysler Man. I was informed of this as he pushed me aside and stepped directly in front of me. At the same time, he began muttering epithets at me ranging from “bitch” to “cracker” to “peckerwood.”

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