Brrr, it’s super chilly on my rooftop watching fireworks exploding over the Estribo while smoking a Cuban cigar. Reminds me of shooting Chinese bottle rockets from Coca-Cola bottles to celebrate the fourth when I was a kid, and of shooting Roman candles at each other in Donelson. Of sparklers and Black Cat firecrackers, and of Jimmy Fleming smoking one once. He said it had a cool mellow taste until it blew his lips off…right in front of us. Jimmy used to eat frozen French fries and dog biscuits to impress us, I guess. His brother David once sold my dad an Elk rack for a quarter. Tonight I’m drawing beer bottles, frogs playing guitars, cuckoo clocks, and bras hanging from tv antennas, while Becky’s recovering downstairs reading Hardcore Troubadour. I’ve been reading Murakami this summer, and the summer’s tunes have largely consisted of Jeanette “Baby” Washington, Barbara Lynn, Sonny Burgess, Memphis Slim, Fern Jones, and Paul Burch. And of course the rockin’ tunes of Gas Express and Gas del Lago competing for my business early. A dog’s howling a screechy weird howl next door and the rain is settling in for the evening. I’m shuttin’ down soon because my cigar is almost down to its band but not before the end of Femme L’a Dit. On second thought, maybe I’ll scribble some more, then brush my teeth.
