Take for example the summer of '96. It was incredible. Not quite the summer of '69, but close. I recently came across a quote in my Anthropolgy reading which describes it perfectly. "By thus opening out into the Great Time, this sacramental existence, poor as it might often be, was nevertheless rich in significance; at all events it was not under the tyranny of Time." (Mircea Eliade: Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, p. 37) My cousin, the most interesting person I know, is writing a book about the summer of '96. The book is not called The Summer of '96. It is called The 27 Club Group. Or Pulling a Train. Don't ask. If you have to ask you're never gonna know. Someday it will be online. It should be pretty interesting. It has alot to do with golf, especially caddying, restaurants, and drinking.
Ahh, yes. Drinking. I don't really drink that much. Really. My cousin drinks. He once tried to kill himself by drinking. He had a minimum of 5 beers a day for three months. He didn't die, so he upped it to 10 a day. Is this alcoholism do you ask? Well yes...and no. When he was trying to kill himself it was acoholism, but now that he is more well adjusted (finally finished his first novel, finally found a reasonable girlfriend) it's not alcoholism any more. Even though he drinks the same amount. In any case, he's got the fire.
I'm a control freak. I always pick the music. The range of my musical interests can't be charted (neither can my musical talent, although I own a conga).
I'm very wise. Want some advice? No? I'll give it to you anyway. Don't take a nap late in the afternoon. If you do, you risk having your soul leave your body to follow the setting sun. This is why you feel groggy and out of sorts when you wake up. You'll never be the same.
Also, if you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let 'em go, because man, they're gone. (JH)
I'm very competitive. My friend Rob won't play any reindeer games with me any more because he says I'm too competitive. But hey, I like to win. All the time. Especially at miniature golf. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I hate to lose. Ties aren't so bad. Especially if you were supposed to lose. I think it was Yogi Berra who said that a tie is like kissing your sister. I disagree. I think it's more like hooking up with your ex-girlfriend. You know what I mean. It's the end of the night. You're drunk. All efforts to hook up with someone that you actually like have failed. You can't win. You go for the tie. I'm rambling.
I revel in the unarticulated. Or is it the unarticulable. It probably is, at least for me. But then if someone went out and articulated it, where would I be? Nowhere, exactly. When the question is asked how much more black can it be, the answer is none. None more black.
So I'm sitting here listening to Wyclef and I realized that Vin Scully saved my life. Yes, Vin Scully. What does he have to do with Wyclef Jean you ask? Not a damn thing. But if you don't know who Vin Scully is I'll tell you. He's a baseball broadcaster, one of the old greats. Bob Costas modeled himself after Vin Scully. And what a great name too, Vin Scully. You can say it over and over again, like I've been doing. Vin Scully, Vin Scully, Vin Scully. So anyway he saved my life. Story: I'm driving back to Maine from NJ with my friend Ashley after we have just lived like rock stars for all of fall break, and needless to say we are a little run down, ready to pass out anywhere and everywhere for about a day and a half of shut eye. I'm dozing off behind the wheel in a big way and Euclid isn't helping at all, not showing me the normal love stimulating my mind in such a way to prevent me from wanting to go to sleep where I'm a viking. We're driving across route 84 about to enter Danbury, Connecticut and listening to a Santana bootleg that the 3-Pronged One brought with him and although good, it's killing me slowly. So I turn it off, flip a button on the radio, and what do I hear but the soft yet crisp and distinct voice of my man Vin bringing us Game 4 of the World Series. He called an incredible game, interjecting intermittently with his words of unfathomable wisdom; there was no way I was going to fall aslumber. He kept the Show and I going all the way back to Maine, more than 4 hours from Danbury. Now some people have been complaining recently that baseball games are going way to long these days, but in this case, the length of the game saved my life. I surely would've ended up exiting the highway in dreamland and sending Wynn and I careening into a ditch, a support column or an oncoming 18-wheeler. Thank you Vin.
Barcelona is, in my opinion, the most fascinating city in the world. There are several reasons why I make this claim. First, I have been there. I would not feel qualified in naming a city greatest in the world if I had never been there. It just wouldn't be right. But it doesn't end there. It does however begin there. My excursion to Barca was especially incredible because of how I experienced it. I didn't go as a tourist, hopping on the bus and scrambling around the city to see every last point of interest that Mr. Fodor told me I couldn't miss. No. I went to visit my cousin who was studying there for the semester. He served as my guide. But not a guide in the normal sense. I just experienced the city as he, someone who was living there and knew it well, did. Don't get me wrong, I did see some sights, and they happened to be some of the best parts of the trip. Diagonale and Paseig de Gracia were unique. The Picasso museum was brilliant. La Sagrada Familia was the most incredible thing that I have ever seen. And the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking that my cousin and I were Fred and Ted Boynton, right out of Whit Stillman's film Barcelona. The combination of all of these things, in a completely glorious yet unfantastic way, led me to my above conclusion about Barca.
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