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As much wine as I want 0

Dear Bradshaw,

            Help! I’m under attack. Time is taking its toll. The years are cutting into me like shards of broken glass. Having been to Sabaudia and the beach this past weekend, I have seen [for the first time in my life] that I can no longer drink as much wine as I want. You, of course, know the term: beer belly. For me it is better expressed: wine waist. Holy heck, man, that’s all there is to it. Francesca disagrees. She says I’m Skinnybone Jones but suggests I cut down to a glass or two a day. Easily said, easily done, except that for me the more the merrier. I love life and laugh a lot when — on a daily basis — I dive into the deep end. The incredible thing about it is that I eat next to nothing. Nothing! So how? What? Why? From where? Age + Wine (in abundance).

            I’m currently re-rereading the biography of ee cummings (dreams in the mirror) and it reminds me of spring and hope and birds. Speaking of birds, this past weekend in Sabaudia (I sent pictures), one bird in particular was chirping like nothing I’d ever heard from a bird. Bach, okay. Mozart, fine. Beethoven, sure, I’d expect it. But a bird? Actually, I guess it makes perfect sense.

            Also in Sabaudia, we smoked a (delicious!) Cuban cigar, listened to (in addition to the bird mentioned above) Chet Baker, Art Blakey, and also Stan Getz with Joao Gilberto (The Girl From Ipanema), and watched Dreams by Akira Kurosawa. Good golden God, I’ve seen that film five or six times but for Francesca it was the first and — oh boy, baby — what a bird of a flick.

            Okay, champ, that’s it for now. I’m back to the bottle.

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