Murder
might be too strong, I concede.
But thoughts were most assuredly murderous this morning, listening to
the neighbors’ dog, over the wall, in the adjoining compound, to the one where
we are staying. Like a car alarm
that is supposed to announce a threat, or a potential intrusion that is quickly,
completely ignored as an annoyance, Fido started yelping intensely around
3:45AM, long before the roosters started crowing, 兔子惊扰[1] I lay there, with the residue of
multiple espressos ingested for the drive down earlier in the day, coursing
about my veins and considered his concern.
It’s not my dog.
Perhaps I should have sprung up and been alterted that he was on to
something. Surely, this was not
just any bark. Intensely
determined, over and over he called out, “danger, danger,” “concern,
concern.” But it wasn’t my yard
either. And with the exception of
his repeated call, there was nothing else happening in the night air. A thief tip-toeing outside perhaps? A bear lumbering through the
garbage? Perhaps I’ll head out and
find my car has been broken into, or worse. Then I’ll ring the neighbor’s bell and lament how I should
have listened to Fido. But at 3:59AM I wanted to throw a steak over the wall
pasted with strychnine.
We’re back down south by the sea. Last night I saw the more built up side of this Praiha da
Rocha community. There is a
casino, which we avoided and a bevy of posh hotels and nearby condos, that
stand above a proper sandy beach, which extends for a hundred yards out to the
sea. This reminded me more of
Santa Monica, or some coast of Italy that I’ve yet to visit, than it did the
quaint, rough-hewn Fort Funston cliffs that are a closer walk to our home.
Walking about, on the main strip, after some decidedly
adventurous parking we couldn’t find the Mar
e Sol restaurant. Well-
dressed couples were heading down to the beach. No towels. No
flip-flops. It must be down
there. I went into an ornate
hotel, painted in gold. “Fala Inglesh?” “Yes.” As if she was from
Canarsie. ““Mar e Sol ? You wanna go, out the back, by the pool, down the
stairs out on to the
boardwalk. You’ll find Mar e Sol
on the right.” Left
actually, but we made it.
Dining is deceptive.
You see the prices and you think dollars. You understand they are Euros and you discount up. But only slightly. Not sufficiently. Rather it’s satisfying to stare at a
menu where all the entrees are 10-something or less. The bottles of wine are similarly 10-something or perhaps a
bit more. There is a free round of
their “dry cheese” with dinner.
The proprietor also fala’s
Insglesh, and he is pedantic
but in good measure. The food was delicious. I had a “Wolf bass”, which I’ve never heard of but sitting
there on the sand, sounded hearty.
Things got more hearty. Beside us, behind a wall, was a bachelor party that
descended into soccer-like chants and shirts coming off. We joked about what we could do that
might offend them. Behind me, at
least, mercifully, was a TV that erred to the merciless. The same young man in a grey blazer
went around to people, asking what must have been embarrassing questions. The microphone was visible in nearly
every shot. Later I switched to
the head table and then, it was all over.
I could no longer ignore the TV as it was within eyeshot. Let’s hope Air China does not get a
hold of this, as its perfectly attuned to their sensibilities.
Charles Kynard is grunting and groaning behind in the
background, as if he were Charles Mingus on this funky acid jazz track “Little
Ghetto Boy” from the the 1972 album entitled “Woga.” Not quite sure what that last word signifies though Google
tossed up the “World Olympic Gymnastics Academy”, which most assuredly has
nothing to do with this. Born in
St. Louis in 1933, he passed in 1979 and though I couldn’t find a substantive
obituary, he apparently kept close to L.A. and didn’t record much beyond the
contributions we have from the sixties and seventies. This third tune on the disc "Lime Twig" is slowing it all down
nicely.
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