sky captians drink french martinis?
has the crazyness returned. yes. upon realizing how tame everything had been for the past months, it has returned. perhaps it is the seasons fault. fall leads to winter and the cold drive children of the south mad. again. onward. to the day of ghosts. and unexpected canadians. our new friends. on route to argentina. a party in their honor and police climing up three flights of stairs to knock on our door. yes we will quiet down. half an hour later they are back. morph into the sky captian, the red barron, amelia airheart. on to the day of rain. a different party on a different third floor. payphones on the roof. jesus and the devil playing songs. grandpa dancing and dr. strangelove and his wheelchair crashing down the stairs. the next day. party on a second floor. gas masks and rollerskates and sitting on stairs and a face of all jaws. find my dear melissa in the streets with a dog and a bottle of wine dressed in a cow and cowboy. and then i bit him on the arm. the real halloween. a bottle of wine and then i am in cognito, or a spy in a platinum blond wig. dance party in the old abandoned milk factory. beautiful music. my wife with a tuperwear container of vodka. i lose my mind. or my vision. its over until next year. i have no scars to remember it by. then we waste our days skipping classes to see films. make our way into a fil festival afterparty. with all the free martinis one could want. conversations with all of them. stolen away to sit in a booth. 'my dear you can not order anything else that comes in a martinin glass, you spill them to often', i was bannished to vodka and tonics. conversations again. then the dancing. untils the lights came on. a farewell to the modern day pan. i hope he will be back but a thousand kisses just in case. today: repeat. free passes scored last night. the afterparties of the film industry await.