Bandolim, Katz and Calzuljique

Hey there. Good to see you here. What is your dream job? I will tell you mine.. It is something that I have aspired to since I was 10, but that has perhaps gotten a little dusty. Many of my friends shared the same dream. I still do, but I don't know about them. I have always wanted to own a bar/ store/ somewhere that sells stuff. This idea came about from watching crappy old movies such as the Three Amigos, and seeing the proprietors of liquor serving establishments lazily perambulate behind the bar and do almost nothing. What we wanted was somewhere where we could just hang out all day and play music, with only the occasional shootout to disturb us. I was reminded of this distant dream today when I went into a store on main street to buy a cigar box. The friendly proprietor was just sitting outside with his friends and enjoying some of the fine tobacco products he sells. Apart from worrying about finances and the occasional oral cancer, it seems like a pretty good way to spend a day at the office. Well, from now on, that is the goal. I am going to work towards owning an emporium of fine goods. There are worse things to aspire to than silly childhood dreams.

Now I want to talk about my old friends. They are hard to remember. A few days ago I found a letter. It was from a friend I had from when I was born until the day I moved to England. I never replied to the letter, preferring not to do so. It is a hard letter to read now, not just because an 11 yr old wrote it, but because it was so obviously heartfelt. Now I am feeling differently. This friend went and still goes by the name Elizabeth Wiljelm, and soon after we moved, her parents separated and her mom left our awful part of NJ and took her to Vermont. Well, thanks to whitepages.com I now have her mom's phone number and I am debating whether or not to give it a ring. It would be weird to say the least, as I can no longer remember much about life at that age. Is it a good idea to talk to such distant acquaintances whose lives have been so different? God knows.

Speaking of God, it is time for me to go to bed or I will not be up for church at the appropriate hour. I will then have to drive my grandmother to meet her train to Iselin. It will not be an easy trip, because the Puerto Ricans start getting on the train around Springfield. It is weird, but to single out only the Puerto Ricans (and Turks, Arabs, Greeks, Germans, Northern Italians, Poles and Albanians) for collective derision seems like something only she can do. "Puerto Rican", has been added to her considerable vocabulary of Southern Italian words for things that are bad. For example, if my brother and sister are arguing, she will tell them to stop being Puerto Ricans.

Well, that is all for now. C ya soon...