Clifford Skridlow

Kava a cigarettski (ceskia republika-steez)

KJP, Prague-side.

Waiting for the tram to go to the mall for cool European jeans for my girl.

KJP waiting for the #5 in East Zizkov. (The Z's are supposed to have accents, but I've yet to set up keyboard shortcuts for the Czech letters. It's pronounced Zhizhkov)

Me on the Tram...

KJP rocking the #5 tram in the wee small hours.

My absolute favorite piece of graffiti here. I've taken to scribbling it everywhere.

This is a close second...

The mall, yo.

The last few nights have revealed some doozies... Yesterday, I was in a huge and blank white room (that's been a recurring dreamtheme since I was a pollywog). I walked into a conversation between a boy from high school whose name escapes me and a very pregnant woman. The boy and I would always talk about Godfather trivia. At that time in my life, my knowledge of those movies was staggering. I'm talking about knowing their runtimes down to the second. The pregnant woman turned to me as I approached, and revealed her prosthetic arm. It was one of those off-putting clawhook dealies. She put her flesh hand on my shoulder like an old friend, and I wasn't creeped out. "Were you discussing baby names?" She nodded. I thought to myself, "Sir Jumps-a-lot." She looked at me seriously, and said "Sir Jumps-a-lot?" It blew me away, and I woke up.
I think that has something to do with a woman I passed on the street up in Letna on the north side. She was very pregnant and very blind, cane and the whole deal. She had this huge content smile as she passed from left to right in front of me. An older Czech women was walking towards me, and we were simultaneously taken aback by this woman's sheer intrepidity. The Czech woman said something in Czech to the Blind lady as she crossed the street. I'm sure it was something like, can I help you cross the street? The blind woman paid her no mind. Maybe she was deaf, too...
Last night, it was Dan Aykroyd and I in a series of wacky mis-adventures involving an indestructible Leopard-spotted woodchuck, and something involving finding a parking spot...
Kellie's been here for days, and things are great. Her Czech is coming along famously, and I hope she moves here. We went to an art store the other day, and it made me feel good, as it was the first time she seemed comfortable here. It's very humanizing to feel familiar with things you know in a context that you don't understand.
You know, Elvis was under the impression that he could break apart clouds by staring at them and willing them to disperse. Why can't I think my waiter into bringing me another double espresso? I guess that's why I am the king to nobody... (ohmygod, here he comes. I do rock, after all!)
I just checked out John Hartford's site for the first time since shortly after he died. I guess his son released a tribute album that looks pretty cool. I always like the song, Run Rabbit Run, off of the album they made together, all those years ago. He sounds so much like his dad singing... It's rare that I get upset by the news of someone dying that I didn't know personally. Hartford was one of those that truly bummed me out. He was so outside and inside, and punk because he didn't give a fuck. On Steam Powered Aeroplane, he followed on of the catchiest songs with an annoying few minutes of gruff huffing, "Hey Babe, Ya wanna boogie?" all gutterthroat.

What other passings got to me? Marcello Mastroianni, fersherr.

Definitely Stephane Grappelli

Everyone's favorite son of Krypton, Kal-El, told me that Derek Bailey died. Say it ain't so! That guy did more for my musical taste than most. He is the reason I wanted to move to Portugal. So much to say about that guy. A post for another day when I have more info on his status... bummer.

Regardless of the bad news, it was heartening to hear Kal-El's voice. He's a mountain to me.

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