::10.3.04::
CRISE DA TENRA IDADEAndando para o ponto de ônibus (foda...), saindo da praia, cruzo com a nova geração de universitários, saídos da UniverCidade (ô nomezinho cretino), todos sentados na calçada no boteco mais próximo:
(menino 1) - Eu gosto mesmo é de Ramones. Ramones é o que há. O resto é o resto.
(menina) -E eu odeio Ramones, odeio todos eles.
(menino 2) - O negócio, bicho, é The Doors. Doors é melhor que Beatles. Beatles é mesmo uma merda.
(menina) -E eu odeio Doors também, odeio mais que os Ramones.
Me lembrei de quando eu estudava no Maracanã, e a discussão básica das nossas tardes era se o Guns'n'Roses era mais ou menos legal que o Faith no More. Foi época dos "eu odeio" e "eu amo muuito". Tudo era mais intenso, apesar de beeem mais superficial (é, rolou um paradoxo). Eu só fiquei querendo parar, como fã ardorosa de Jim Morrison e seus asseclas, pra falar ao menino 2 que ele não poderia dizer tal coisa dos Beatles. Os meninos definitivamente não merecem. Talvez os Ramones.
:: Marcia Furriel 9:50 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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