i stare at twitter and don't know what to do or say -
2012 came in like a tired wave lapping against my hungry shore. Drink, drink, drink, it seemed to say.
With the New Year I unearthed all the books I've amassed from book sales, lying in piles here and there and began to organize.
But I started paging thru the first one I picked up and never got back to it. Maybe next year.
I swear, the voice on my new navigational system said, "I told you to turn right, asshole!".
Whoops, wrong satellite.
While organizing, I fantasized about putting all the books in respective genres; fiction, non-fiction, etc.
Oh, what a library it would be.
I read "The Book of Old Silver - English, American, Foreign", by Seymour B. Wyler - all 400 pages and I don't know why.
Saul Bellow. Now there's a name. I read his "Henderson The Rain King" years ago and I'll never forget the roller coaster ride with the circus bear. Bear with me.
So I read one of his very few plays from my book burning pile - the failed, much maligned "The Last Analysis". Broadway bomb of 1964 after much revision.
Revised again for publication, - it's hysterical. My interpretation - once beloved comedian has nervous breakdown while attempting to build a Freudian School of Comedy in New York City. Picture Milton Berle in a clown suit as a student of Socrates. I loved it.
Speaking of Broadway, I found a rare record in the bins - "Pat Carroll in Gertrude Stein" (Caemdon TRS 367), a solo show from the late 1970s with Carroll as Stein musing about her beloved Parisian life while Alice B. Toklas naps in the other room.
I rung in the New Year with it. Felt like I was tipping glasses at 27 Rue de Fleurus. Felt the same way about Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast", which I read on a bus trip to NYC years ago, also about the American expatriate artists who graced Paris in the 1920s. Poor Ernie.
But I wasn't enamored by Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris", or is it "Paris at Midnight"? - with Owen
Wilson magically being whisked away to the art colony of '20's Paris. I certainly didn't dislike it (loved the surrealists), and I was just glad he had a hit movie. It seemed a bit dumb. Pedro Almodovar's "The Skin That I Live In', also let me down a bit. A modern day Frankenstein story about a scientist who creates a synthetic human skin. I thought it was a bit ridiculous. Good chill at film's end, though.
In the same record bin that revealed Gertrude Stein, I found The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Philips PCC 616), Ernest Hemingway Reading, (Caedmon TC 1185) and Bernard Shaw's Don Juan in Hell, Directed by Charles Laughton (Coloumbia Masterworks SL-166).