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Gerry Katzman's Rebel Mansion Update (Installment II):

My feet fit snugly into the espadrilles that Janice has woven for me...

I have taken refuge from the climates here in the Rebel’s Winter Shelter.  Antibes France can be a harsh place in February.  Gone are the cabana boys, and John Parker and I are left to ourselves, forced to carry our own straw-mats down to the beach.   At night, Parker paces the third floor solarium muttering about Hercules and snorting obscene amounts of Nutrasweet®.   

Down at the beach Pat and I reminisce over a few cases of Grappa.  A native woman walks up carrying aloe plants to soothe our bronzed bodies, but no, it’s Norm Kelsey disguised in a colorful Sarong.  We laugh at his capers and settle down to the Ouzo.  The sunset at Cap d’Antibes is blood red.  The stains on the ocean remind me of that night in Dalgren Chapel.  All is well.  

A starlit ride up in the funicular reveals Orion’s constellation, immediately bringing thoughts of Shaun Haley.  The Moscow Ballet can be a difficult place for a westerner, and one wonders if they will ever be able to capture the nuance of square dance.   

This all reminds me of Gini Rio Branco, a Brazilian soccer player I knew in D.C. who showed me three very unconventional uses for Binaca.   

As Gates and Kirk telephone us from Miknos to reveal that the Cessna is not only grounded but out of fuel, Samira piles more Kabobs and roast meat on our ceremonial sandstone plates.  Can one have a Druid festival without Myrrh?  I gaze up to the heavens, over the parapets and onto the city below.  Julia and Melané have fallen asleep again and I watch their stomachs rise and fall in unison.  Perhaps this is what the prophet meant when he referred to “Carbuncle.”  I set the clay pigeon down next to Cynthia’s chaps, and stoke the fire... It occurs to me that we may be in for a long winter.

Installment I

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