Ernest Hemmingway 1899 - 1961
One of my greatest heros. If only he could have wrote us just one more book. A true badass in every respect of the word. During WWI he recieved the Silver Medal of Bravery for carrying an Italian soldier to safety despite the shrapnel in both of his legs, courtesy of mortar fire. After spending sometime in America fishing with friends in Michigan, freelance writing for the Toronto Weekly, and working as editor for the Cooperative Commonwealth in Chicago, Hemmingway spent sometime in Paris, kicking it with James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and other awesome people. He wrote 88 stories during his first 20 months in Paris, and also spent some time covering the Greco-Turkish War, witnessing the buring of Smyrna. He safaried in East Africa. He survived two plane crashes in Uganda. He sailed the Caribbeanin his boat Pilar. He met Fidel Castro. He witnessed the liberation of Paris during WWII, and got himself into a little trouble for “assuming command of a small group of resistance militia in Rambouillet.” He covered the landing at D-Day, and The Battle of the Bulge.
The man lived, really lived, and regrettably he killed himself in 61, but he will always be one of my greatest heros. Here’s to you Ernest.
Damn good writing by Heather Minette. Took the words right out of my mouth. Give it a read. You wont regret it.
by Heather Minette.
Charlie’s here, talking about his story, about “how life’s an endless pit of chaotic bullshit, but every now and then it all makes sense, like there’s some kind of cosmic order, and that’s what makes life worth living, you know?” and Simon’s telling him, “it’s a substantial idea, but it’s already been done, man. It’s already been done.” It’s Wednesday so Joe and Chelsea are here – playing the same songs– she’s high on his guitar and he’s drunk on her voice and soon their composition will be careless and sloppy and they’ll leave as lovers and whoever is scheduled next, probably me, will be too plastered to perform, so the juke box will play Tom Waits. And there’s Alice, sitting by the piano again, that instrument she pretends to know how to play, wearing red high heels and matching lipstick, disguising her writer’s block and making herself available enough for another cheap story that will probably be published the same day she writes it. Michael’s on the patio with his legs crossed, rolling his own cigarettes, wearing that goddamn hat again like he’s some kind of fucking Hemingway in a French café. And Esmeralda’s pouring my drinks and I must say she’s damn good at her “transient position” and my disowned intemperance will miss her if she ever does make it to New York. Thank you, God. Here comes Olivia, being the ridiculously beautiful woman she is, dressed for a fucking Gatsby party, ignoring Michael, asking Charlie how his story is coming along, speaking Spanish to Esmeralda, pretending that she’s got somewhere better to go next. Jake and Allen stumbled in behind her, being assholes as usual. They’ve read so much existential and absurdist bullshit lately that now they’re convinced nothing matters, not even the fact that they’re fucking assholes. Jesus Christ, look at all these fucking assholes, all these goddamn beautiful fools. With their talents and critiques and theories and philosophies and hang-ups and bullshit. And I have to witness all of it. But really, I mean, really? Who am I to judge? I’m just some bastard, drunker than the rest of these bastards, sitting at the bar and scribbling about their lives on damp, used napkins. And in reality, now that I’m swaying on my bar stool, feeling all warm inside, and in such a state to choose my own reality, we’re no different from one another. We’re just a bunch of worried, hopeless, “starving,” artists and writers and musicians and fucking assholes that come to this wine bar for the exact same goddamn reason: it’s Wednesday.