::13.2.04::
OH BABY THAT´S WHAT I LIKE!Muitos lembrarão de Cocktail, o filme, quando o torto do Tom Cruise, bêbado, canta essa música com um colega também bêbado. Eu também lembro disso, infelizmente. Graças às amizades que escolhi, ouvi a trilha sonora de Cocktail por toda a minha pré-adolescência, junto com minha melhor amiga. Mas do que eu realmente lembro era da gente dançando na sala, depois da escola, o disco que ela roubava constantemente da tia, duplo, trilha sonora de American Graffiti (George Lucas pré-Star Wars). Foi uma fase maravilhosa, a gente passava dias inteiros inventando dancinhas e passos, e imitava os personagens do filme, e associava mais um Grease, um Dirty Dancing...tudo o que tinha direito. Foi um momento rockabilly da nossa existência, auge das festinhas anos 60, todo mundo tinha uma fitinha oldies em casa, saias rodadas e rabos de cavalo (hummm). A minha fitinha(que sobrevive até hoje), ou melhor, a primeira delas, chamava-se American Graffiti, e graças ao meu velox e à tecnologia e ao mundo moderno e as pessoas e o mundo, hoje eu estou baixando tudo de novo, para gravar em cd.
A primeira foi essa, que é a tal do Tom Cruise. Uma associação infame. Mas a música é genial!
Chantilly Lace
The Big Bopper
Hello baby, yeah, this is the Big Bopper speaking
Oh you sweet thing
Do I what
Will I what
Oh baby you know what I like
Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round
There ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl
That makes me act so funny, make me spend my money
Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose
Like a girl, oh baby that's what I like
What's that baby
But, but, but, oh honey
But, oh baby you know what I like
Chorus
What's that honey
Pick you up at 8 and don't be late
But baby I ain't got no money honey
Oh alright baby you know what I like
Chorus
:: Marcia Furriel 9:02 p.m.
[+] ::
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"...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--"
DO LIVRO
The Subterraneans
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