My Marcello

Beginning of the last week here. Yesterday, oh what a fine day. Sil takes the 8 am ferry after we talk for a couple of hours.

Watched a good new piece about Paul Simon. He’s losing his hearing. I do laundry and a nap.  

“Paul, Paul” Asa and Ry wake me up. We drink wine and snack. We listen to Joan Armatrading and Joni. Ry collages in my guest book. Asa doesn’t watch many movies - I get jealous, he says. I tell him but you gotta learn how they do it. Ry agrees with me. 

I go swimming naked for the first time this trip. The only other people anywhere are the Guy who Makes his Wife Laugh.  They seem vividly happy. Under Vermeer light big bursts of wave force and sounds toss  me round.

I go to karoke at Cherrys at 7 but the big thick blond drag queen is dragging things down with not much uplift or end in sight. No karaoke. They set up tables and announce Assasins at 9. I’ve heard about them for weeks and stay. While I wait for the show … I text with Lynda bout things and bask in the beauty of bartender Jason. The only thing wrong with him is his name. He should be Enrique, Carlo, Antonio, Marcello maybe. Yes, that's it. No careless frown on him ever. His pillowy lips and megawatt smile meld with dancing eyes and once in a while one of his perfect nipples peeks out from his perfect tank. 

The show is anti climatic. Too much wind machine strewn Tressy wigs and not enough wit. My Marcello … please get up there and command the stage. But he stays behind the bar ... pouring, shaking, stirring, moving round like a sleek young buck dolphin with Michaelangelo arms. 

I come home and play Talking Heads and dance. David sings about rocks and stones and days going by.