I am listening to Babe, I'm on Fire, perhaps the most manic and virtuosic rock song ever written. The next time you see a group of hippies and boomers sitting in a circle jerk about Bob Dylan, hit them over the head with a copy of Nocturama. On that note, no, I didn't get tickets to the Plug Awards Show with honorary award winner Nick Cave. I tried. Again and again, I tried. But it was too late. Meanwhile, I'm on fire. I'm on fire reading and researching the hell out of The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (easily one of the best books I have ever read thus far). I am trying to find out about every person he mentions in "Banal Story," a page and a half head scratcher. Many of the persons referenced are boxers, one of them is clearly the inspiration for the fictional Jack Brennan in his story "Fifty Grand." He's got me all hopped up about boxing, a sport I loved as a child. Learning about all these dead white boxers is actually quite enjoyable, despite being tedious. "Fifty Grand" is a good story. I was hopping around the house boxing the air in my underwear and Mort Rainey hat last night after reading it. Got to put a smile on the Miss's face.
In other news, I just learned that Roy Scheider has left his body, not to return. I would like to state that I will always be grateful for his portrayal of Dr. Benway in David Cronenberg's audacious adaptation of the allegedly unfilmable Naked Lunch and of the police chief who finally shoots that atrocious beast who still glides through the waters of my dreams in Jaws. And yes, in case you were wondering, I forgave him for his involvement in 2010: The Year We Maked Contact, possibly the worst sequel ever made, long ago. Actors need to make money, too. Hence classic Gary Oldman films like Air Force One, Lost in Space, and The Scarlet Letter.
Back to where the action is--my Finca Vigia edition.