Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Hey Chief (3)
"Hey Chief (3)"
Paul was over at Trevor's trailer, the interior decorated by pin-ups of toyland babes in pumps, doing the half-naked body stretch over fancy automobiles and crap like that, but hey--Trevor owned it; on the flip side, Paul remained a bit stoic, having held onto his dandyism, not shaving his gentleman-era mustache, though held a cold Bud in his hand; plus, had a mouthful of mint chaw, but paid no attention to Trevor's perversion with the world, just needed a friend.
So, as Trevor went on and on about this hot chick he was banging, Paul was blocking him out, pondering how psychiatrists and others attempt to hide the truth, labeling some psychotic, when of course they totally are, yet then those brilliant madmen, seeing into the Otherworld with surgical precision--even better, and knowing they're not mad, but enlightened, holding onto the enchantment that drives them, while the normal folk, like Trevor, are all about the cold six-pack and crummy cable shows, never displaying the true theology of man's mystical intercourse with the unseen, though seen by many, yet only the steeled can handle it, and Paul was about ready to write a letter to the Corinthians, allegorically.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Hey Chief (2)
"Hey Chief (2)"
Paul piloted his CRF 250 Honda, a dual sport cycle to the edge of a cliff in his native Arkansas; next, he cranked the motor off, unseated himself, and looked around at the animal-haunted nature of his woodland scenario, spotting the Totem of a fleeing skunk. A lonely barber, having embraced dandyism, yet as redneck as they make them, putting some chaw inside his oral cavity and giving it a big spit, wishing he had a bottle of Southern Comfort; also, the respect of people--well, at least Mexicans hadn't thieved away his job; still, nobody respected a Caucasian barber.
He figured that he should lose the mustache and shirts with a collar, unless they were flannel, but that would prove only the regularity of normality. After all, what do they say in these back-wood hills he knew: "It's freaking Arkansas fella--same shit happens."
Sunday, January 29, 2017
The Man from Laramie (1955)
"The Man from Laramie (1955)"
Snowing in Nashville/Franklin area today--a dreary day; thus, just watched The Man from Laramie starring James Stewart with Mom and step-dad--it was awesome! Double talk, repeating rifles, Apache, a mystery; plus, a beautiful girl that never gets kissed, for Jimmy Stewart is a true gentleman--he's got couth.
Having seen Day of the Evil Gun (1968) starring Glenn Ford at my Pap's house when I was a teenager, I figured there could be no better Western; at the same time, when I saw Silverado starring Kevin Kline in 1985 during a vacation to Colorado years before, I figured the same thing, at that particular flux of time. Next, Tombstone starring Kurt Russell lit me on holy fire, but truly--The Man from Laramie is the freaking metaphorical bomb concerning an unwanted anti-hero doing his best to solve a crime, stay alive, and remain as innocent as a dove. It lassoed my lonely heart.
Hey Chief (1)
"Hey Chief (1)"
Paul didn't like the feeling of arousal, not since youth. Felt like toxic slime in his pants. He had overcome his desires, morphing frigid without being cruel, yet standing up for the weak, when necessary, and washing like Tobias.
Paul was a barber. Had a fancy mustache, like Tesla and Proust--those dudes could pass as brothers, though one wore a fur coat--go figure. Too, Paul was Catholic, and took it to the next level of intensity, being an ascetic with a fondness for dipping; next, giving it a redneck spit, so uncouth, but his only non-dandy habit.
He had a friend that owned his own perversion--Trevor. He liked Trevor cause Trevor was totally honest. Dude would tell you he was a fink; hence, a nice fella--in Paul's opinion.
So, Trevor was in the barber's chair and Paul was giving him an elegant Errol Flynn haircut. It was a nice day to be dandy.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
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