Yesterday afternoon I was at the Gabriel’s birthday BBQ and someone called me from the "Globe" or some other newspaper (I can’t remember right now) wanting to know news of the death of Peter Silva.

Took me by surprise. I did not know he had died. Rodolfo met recently in Rio de Janeiro. He worked in an assembly of my text "Men, Saints and Defectors." After the play we went to drink at a bar in Copacabana. Unfortunately it was only this time I had contact with him. He was a very funny guy, but seemed to have even a touch of sadness hidden in some corner of the eye that gave him away when he looked for a neutral place as any for a few moments he just stayed away from there. I've seen that kind of look at other people. And it's kind of look that always excites me, because I know some people have that kind of sadness inherent and seeking to disguise jokes, but she's there to boring you constantly turning her life into a "tour to hell" as he said Cazuza. Or have you ever noticed a blues guitarist narrowing his eyes when he pulls that note decisive and fatal? That's what I saw on that night in the pubRodolfo in Copacabana. Go in peace, my Brother.

I think it was in 89 or 91. I'm not sure because I'm confusing the festivals that we were going and the exact date of events. I know we went through these two stories and that mix. At that time I was broke and there was not much more than a suit used in the gas station that I used constantly. My pants were all torn and I had no money to buy new ones. And then I was always with that ridiculous blue overalls that made my figure look ridiculous.

And everywhere I was wearing that damn suit. At the end of all the parts guys would go to a makeshift bar that the Festival had devised which consisted of a bunch of tables scattered in front of the theater and they set a stage for artists to come up there and jam sessions to give a variety of genres. Always asked me to go play some songs and I went up there and played some rock songs from Robert and some of my songs.

He had a face Piolin Group (which was there with the "Ford of Sarap") who played drums and accompanied me. In fact this was the only crazy guy of the group. He was always drinking with us. The rest of the group was very serious. All good guys, but very serious. We arrived at the lodge in the morning, coming from the binge and they have penetrated doing exercises in the gymnasium. Our group shared accommodation and the mill was spell L'Aquila.

The people coming of the night and waking them. I never envied, but always respected the guys. But this guy who was a kind of percussion in the piece was completely gone through and found the fellow in our group that he needed. And we went up there and played. It was all very amateurish, but it was fun. I began to notice that the most excited that I'll go up there and sang were just the guys in my group. All though they even seemed to like me, but I could see a bit of exaggeration fan club is not consistent with the friends I had.

And I was there singing and suddenly stared at the audience and noted that the guys were all with wine glasses in hand drinking and having fun. And I kept thinking: "Where do these bastards get money to buy wine? Everyone's hard." And I'm singing in the mill urge to drink something and the guys down there having fun and drinking. I could not understand. Only after a few days is that I learned that so I went up on stage my friends went from table to table with the following text: "See there the Mary? Poor fellow, he's at worst, have you noticed that he only uses this suit every day? He has no other clothes. It's fucked. But he still goes up there and play and sing for you.

He is not even a disengaged subject? Let's help him buy a new outfit. Everyone working. If you work together, he continues playing. " And is not that the guys helped? And they took the money and bought wine and never gave me no drink. Just realized the dirty in the last days of the Festival. At least I started to enjoy the wine with the threat that was not going to play if they do not crack the wine with me. Instead, they came to accept my demands. And we also had a booklet of poetry to sell at the Festival and get some money. As I am very shy and cannot sell or Cindy Crawford in liquidation, was in charge of making the brochure.

I rode with two poems of mine, I made a photo collage on the cover, xerox took and threw into their hands. They sold the blessed poker face that God gave them the money and we cracked. Then Peter tried to sell the booklet for two girls. They said: "We buy only the author autograph. Where is he okay?” I was walking towards them and using staggered through my old blue overalls. Peter then said, "You're that guy from there. Can I get his autograph for you?" (one of his quotes and sayings) One of the girls looked at me and ordered the tin mocking my pitiful person: "Who? That guy is the poet? On me? What is it? That guy must be the mechanic of you." And they went out laughing grossly cunning. I came close to them and asked, "What happened?" Roger sent emphatic: "Fuck, Mary, it's time for you to dress better.'re Already beginning to disrupt our business, dammit." These were my friends. On second thought, not much has changed if I stop to compare my friends of yesterday and today. The conclusion I can reach is that I've been in good company.

I almost had a fit when my friend James told me that films by Peter Bogdanovich sucked. I loved Paper Moon, Daisy Miller and Texasville, and a little less prying eyes and A View of Death, I considered his statement almost like slap. Days ago, reviewing The Last Picture Show, that long in my memory had not the strength of the others mentioned, I realized that it is easy to underestimate his films, dramas of his characters seem small, uncomplicated their homage to classic American cinema.

The Last Picture Show begins as a film of the year 1950 (the story is set in 1952).There was silence and rawness of black and white anachronistic, would think seeing a long George Stevens and Michael Curtiz, if you took started in a reprise of the pay channels. Gradually we see other oddities, updates that Bogdanovich does in his elegy to the golden age of cinema. Gradually, too, people are dying, young people reveal their weaknesses and insecurities (especially sexual, as the Production Code does not scare more with its limitations), the ellipses will command the narrative. And the naked bodies of young bursts with force, especially those who enjoy a festival which will select for Cybill Shepherd at one point.

It's a whole movie played by a gray paint deep melancholy, which barely distinguishable or can diagnose. A film bathed by the grain of hopelessness worn by America's Vietnam War and the loss of utopias of the 1960s. A drama truly crepuscular, with Timothy Bottoms and Jeff Bridges in early stage and Ben Johnsonas a great old lion.

First, a great music....