Tag: ansel

From, “The Adams/Fellini Tapes”

~ johnbrandall

Snippet Seven

"But you're young and you only live one, right, Feder?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'm young anymore, Ansel."

"I thought you were always young, gay, accordion-spry."

"That's a bit of an act. That's what I do—or, what I see others do, who know how to do it well."

"Do you think about running out of time?"

"I do."

"That surprises me."

"I don't see why it should."

"Because you're happy! You smile, you... emote."

"I am as old as my father was when he died."

There was a silence. A comfortable, firm silence. Ansel wondered whether to let the silence pertain. Yet he felt inclined, called to continue. The tone, he knew, would not quite be his.

"And how do you feel about that, Feder?"

"When I wake tomorrow, my friend, I will send you a text, to let you know."

Memory Foam

~ johnbrandall ~ 1 Comment

It is broken.  Does it require of me that I buy a new spacer kit?  What if I counter-offer with a brand new ball assembly?

The right answer ran between the left guard and the left tackle, to the house.

I am from Illinois but I live in Missouri.  This does not make me anxious.  I do not spend an hour a day imagining the explanations I will offer as justification when someone asks me, "What are you doing here?"  Or says, in the pejorative, "Go back to your Land of Lincoln..."


Full story here...

Vegas

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

Everyone debauched but everyone a virgin in some way.  You can’t have tried everything, you can’t have tired of everything.  Something to come back for, something to save for next time, when you’ve got more money, some savings to play with, and hopefully better luck.

There’s a premium on everything, and nothing is free.  Not even luck. Luck costs money.  Luck for a buck?  Maybe the stars are free, but good luck seeing them through the neon broil. Maybe it’s time for a drink.  Maybe it’s time to skim some winnings, to cash out, to double down, to parlay, to bet the house, to count some cards.  

Good place to come for a birthday.  One you don’t want to remember.  Just cab doors opening and closing.  Croupiers changing shifts, cleansing their hands of the table and all the bad luck that came with it.  Cashiers sitting behind bars.  Chips in their neat little stacks of hundreds or thousands.  The peaks in the distance.  The hotels standing and stretching in the hot, dry desert air, the sun not far away.

Gathering chips for their bets, trying to get free drinks, trying to get comped.  A generous mix of Filipino, white, some blacks, you name it, a few Koreans, the new wealth Chinese—cabbies called them whales because they were big fish, big betters.  Old and older.  A bunch of kids crawling around doing god knows what, more likely to get kicked out of the casinos than anyone else because they don’t bet.

Mafia types—Skyball Chibelli and Baba, hoping the croupiers don’t look too close at their money.  Cabbies who went to high school here.  Eighties music, light shows, five-dollar minimums, champagne bottles, sixes and eights, Manhattans, Coronas, the hot sun, no clouds, bellmen looking for tips, towel boys looking for tips, everyone looking for tips and some people giving them.  The whole place like an octopus but with more arms, looking for anyway to get its hands on your money, and when it does—bang!  it pops its barb into you like an unexpected sting ray, whether you are an expert or not.  Here, no one is an expert.  Experts get beat up and know better...


Vegas never closes...