A few weeks ago, there was a brief odd obit from Manhattan.  The kind of obit that is common there but by the time it trickles its way west, it's puzzling and I feel like I almost needed to read it in the city to comprehend it.  This guy always intrigued me.  He was the silent one in 'The Godfather'.  I think he was the last face Kay sees at the end of the movie as the door's being closed on her - she sees someone kiss Al Pacino's (Michael Corleone's)  ring and knows.  Bright looked Keaton in the eye and it said, 'There, there, little girl woman, now you know and as smart as you are, it's this way, see?'

 

My bird Frankie Ocho is singing in the kitchen.  He loves Turner Classic Movies, especially orchestral themes.  John Williams should own this bird, actually.  But I do.  He does not comprehend fear or anger, I think.  The other day he was being a perfect loud bird ass and wailing away and I was like 'ACK, FRANKIE, ENOUGH" and opened his cage to get him thinking he might like the big cage in the other room for a while.  He just jumped on my finger - quite happily.  He could not sense annoyance.  He wanted to go in the big cage. 

 

I sure am a long way off from being like I want.  On the other hand, at least I have internal aspirations.

 

Going to buy a book now.

 

More Hawkins.  Dammit.

 

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