Lunar Follies Read Online Free PDF Page B

shit about the Virgin Mary, hey!
    Gleeful Franco, who told some asshole cop to get the fuck off his Cadillac.
    Friendly Jimmy Shots, who is not a bad guy for being half-fuckin’ Irish.
    Deadly Jackie Buds, who covered his finished basement walls with beautyful maroon and gold woddayacallit, velveteen?
    Lying Baby Rufino, who stuck up what turned out to be his compare ’s gas station over in Elizabeth.
    Raucous Patsy Cheech, who was a nice fast middleweight till he got fucked up with a Jewish broad.
    Joyful Whitey Bromo, who could play fuckin’ Hearts for a year and never win a hand.
    Genial Beppo, who ate fifteen calzones at the St. Rocco’s feast.
    Ferocious Black Sally, who cut some mook’s nose off in Sunnyside, don’t ask.
    Perfidious Jimmy Trey, who took a little of the vig off the top as a regular thing, who they found shot fulla holes on Neptune Avenue.
    Rowdy Tommaso, who worked strictly as a union bricklayer ‘cause of an oath he took to his mother, God rest her soul.
    Merry Clemenza, whose marinara that he put scotch in, was famous even in Naples, no shit.
    Good-natured Jackie the Pipe, who says he can get Armanis for like a yard apiece, Armani his ass.
    Fierce Papa Gigio, who kissed the ground his wife of forty-six years walked on, Rose.
    Scheming Tony Candy, who says he heard that they don’t put no tomatoes or mozzarell’ in Domino’s pizza that tastes like fuckin’ shit.
    Strident Jerry the Barber, whose three daughters, Robin, Erin, and Tiffany, all married American boys who went to college and don’t know the difference between a cassata and a lupara.
    Radiant Googie the Jump, whose sister went to the convent after that rat basted Polack George fuckin’ something left her high and dry which was good news for the emergency room, right?
    Neighborly Nuzz’, whose little candy store on Eighteenth Avenue clears maybe 300 grand a year, God bless him.
    Merciless Mario, whose wife of eighteen years still looks, madonn’, like the gorgeous chorus girl he married, even though she’s not even Italian.
    Shifty Nicky Chicago, who always wears porkpie hats like some kind of a cetrul’ black guy.
    Tasteless Corrado, who never picked a horse right in his whole miserable fuckin’ life.
    Sunny Ralphie, who drives nothing but Cadillacs, fuck you with the German cars, he says.
    Sociable Tommy Mouse, who they don’t let into Atlantic City even to take a piss anymore.
    Murderous Enzo, who says he never knew the guys who got popped over on Ralph Avenue, what balls.
    Unscrupulous Harry the Painter, who lets his wife buy anything she wants in Miami Beach, which she says is full of nothing but spics from Cuba over there nowadays.
    MORE PHOTOGRAPHS OF THESE IRREPRESSIBLE AND HARDWORKING AMERICANS, WHO HAVE HELPED TO BUILD OUR GREAT NATION, OR SO THEY SAY, ON THE SECOND FLOOR, REAR GALLERY.

GASSENDI
    Banville Teddie: Late Works
    This small, exquisitely mounted exhibition shows works from the Gassendi Foundation’s collection of Teddie’s last miniatures. It is provocatively, if somewhat inaccurately presented under the title “In the Months of Love,” a phrase from the juvenilia of Ingelow MacGonagall, a Scottish poet much admired by Teddie, and comprises a group of late paintings from the mysterious “Primavera” series. They are hopefully dreamy, their microscopically gestural bravura “in love,” so to say, with the notion of ideal beauty, their colors almost vengefully Parnassian. And yet, this dreaminess is quite proper, perhaps, to aesthetes, while not yet quite so to poets, to whom, en masse —as we know from Teddie’s recently discovered diaries—these delicate miniatures were dedicated, and for whom they were most certainly executed. This dreamy quality of Teddie’s work is often thought of as a flaw, and yet one cannot remotely conceive of the paintings otherwise. Teddie increasingly thought of himself as a poet, and of his colors as words, his forms, as he once put it, “[as] a shifting syntax,