Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Tubo Catodico

"Hai già visto questo stupido film dieci volte. Perché si vuole guardare di nuovo? " Chiara era arrabbiata.

"Perché mi piace!" ha detto Fabrizio con la saliva agli angoli della bocca.

"Ti piace!" rispose lei. "Credo che ti piace guardare Belen Rodriguez e il suo culo, suo culo grasso."

"E allora, quello che mi piace è i miei affari".

Sospirando, "Dovresti guardare il mio culo con desiderio?  Perché non fare - più?

"Aw, Chiara, non ora. Tu sai che io sono depresso dal mio infortunio alla gamba. Un uomo che non può fare il suo lavoro è solo un mezzo uomo. Non sei tu, sono io. Sei ancora sussuale. Inoltre mi fa impazzire come quasi svenire quando si vede Balotelli in TV.

"Ah - ah, Balotelli! No, io preferisco DiStefano. Ironico che lui è con quella puttana, tua puttana, Belen R-o-d-r-i-g-u-e-z. Odio Argentina!"

Infatti il rapporto tra Chiara e Fabi aveva colpito le rocce. Certo, per il momento due persone stanno guardando la TV insieme, il fuoco della passione si spegne. Tra due persone soltanto il calore è importante. Il resto è la jibber jabber di dentro e fuori della vita. Una televisione, in particolare, è una cattiva notizia. Il piccolo schermo è tossico, che tra l'altro è una buona ragione di non mettere uno in camera da letto.

Chiara Zilli aveva intenzione di rompere con il poverino, cercando le parole giuste. Purtroppo questo tipo di parole devono rabbia a loro carburante.

Rosso di fronte, i capelli scuri quasi rosso troppo, sbottò , "Forse dovremmo affrontare la realtà, il nostro matrimonio è morto! "

Due aborti spontanei e senza figli agiscono sempre a scapito di un matrimonio. I bambini sono la colla. Appiccicosa, colla tenace che tiene un uomo e una donna insieme al di là della infatuazione che incitava la febbre. E' il desiderio caldo, la cosiddetta prima fase, che è ricambiato con la nascita di un figlio. Senza il bambino, irrequietezza mette in relazione l' infatuazione svanisce come il blu, in jeans lavati . E la TV non può risolvere quell’agitazione.

Ogni rapporto guastato  può essere definita dal punto di rottura. Spesso si tratta di un evento insignificante come un tosse durante il coito o un debole sottile labbra bacio. A volte può essere una bistecca bruciata o una camicia perduto. Ma per Chiara e Fabi si tratta di un argomento insipida della TV. Così triste. (: (:

Alcuni dicono che la TV è il soporifero delle masse. In breve, un istupidimento di percezione per alleviare mezzo il dolore di vivere, il dolore della vita. Forse è così, con le immagini ei colori, i suoni e lo sfrigolio del "tubo catodico" è un ciuccio. Nessun pensiero necessaria è il motto del mezzo.



"You already have seen this stupid movie ten times. Why do you want to watch it again?" Chiara was angry.

"Because I like it!" Said Fabrizio with spittle in the corners of his mouth.

"You like it!" she retorted. "I think you like to look at Belen Rodriguez and her ass, her fat ass."

"So what, what I like is my business."

Sighing, "You should look at my ass with such desire. Why don't you - anymore?

"Aw, Chiara, not now. You know I am depressed from my leg injury. A man who can't do his job is only half a man. It's not you, it's me. Besides it makes me crazy how you almost pass out when you see Balotelli on TV.

"Ha-ha, Balotelli!! No, I prefer DiStefano. Ironic that he is with that whore, Belen."

Indeed their relationship had hit the rocks. Certainly by the time two people are watching TV together, the fire of the passion is extinguished. Between two people only the heat is important. The rest is the jibber jabber of life's in and out. A television, in particular, is bad news. The little screen is toxic, which by the way is a good reason never to put one in the bedroom.

Chiara Zilli was planning on breaking off with the poverino, searching for the right words. Unfortunately these kinds of words need anger to fuel them.

Red faced, her dark hair almost red too, she blurted, "Maybe we should face the reality, our marriage is dead!"i

Two miscarriages and no children always act to the detriment of a marriage. Children are glue. Sticky, tenacious glue which holds a man and a woman together beyond the infatuation which incited the fever. It is the hot yearning, the so called first step, which is requited with the birth of a child. Without the baby, restlessness sets into a relationship as the infatuation fades like the blue in washed jeans. And TV cannot solve that agitation.

Every failed relationship can identify the breaking point. Often it is an insignificant event like a cough during coitus or a weak, thin lipped kiss. Sometimes it can be a burnt steak or a lost shirt. But for Chiara and Fabi it is an insipid argument about TV. So sad.

Some say TV is the soporific of the masses. In short, a dumbing down of perception to ease the pain of living, the ache of life. Maybe so, with the images and colors, the sounds and the sizzle the "boob tube" is a pacifier. No thinking needed is the motto of the medium.

Monday, April 21, 2014


Solo sole solo, lei! Sometimes he thinks in Italian although he is not fluent. Half baked, potato, mostly sums him up. Nobody knows him or so he thinks. Nobody knows everything about him. Odd, a bit, but isn't everyone a bit odd. Why else would he come here ogni giorno to the rock ledge overlooking a Sargasso Sea of weeds, hoping for salvation. A place where he has always come...

The small beach is rocky, but people here in Essington think of this as Amalfi. Across from PHL, the air resonates with turbulent burps and it smells a little, too. Jet fuel is aromatic, more so on bright days. Has it something to do with ozone? Magical is the sun, indeed!

Principessa, he would call that if he could. Oh, she reflects the light, making it beautiful for the privilege of kissing her. So stunning, she dries his mouth as if he put pure desiccant up his nose. Cocaine. Looking, a-stare, speechlessness leads to his bereftment. Today he looks older and haggard-er. Men, like ladies, have short half lives. When the decrepitude of age makes brutto a middle name... Hobbled and ... Yeex!

Once in another lifetime he came here, skin supple, he hard at will; then he prowled like a feral cat. Then he never felt pain, no discomfort. You might say his body fit him, but now, well, a fat suit better said. Memories flood him, looking at these people thinking they are Europeans. In fact, he once thought that as well. Tight and contorted, do they eat? He moves his foot, a few pebbles cascade towards Principessa two meters hell-ward, beached below him. Unnoticed little stones still pitter. Patter.

Once, a while ago, he had a telepathic thing with a skinny sylph, who went by the name, Lisa. Really her given was Doris, but people from sensual European countries are not Dorisses. Is Doris a Greek name, Dorian derived? Certo! No matter, only a person with a small heart could be a Doris. Between them, Lisa and him, no words needed. Too bad she had a flag in her umbilicus, planted by some guy from Llanerch. Who knows, words might have been tossed between them leading to... Whenever he reached out to her telepathically, he squeezed his ears together and he thought his pituitary was an antenna. He forced his energy up into his noodle by Valsalva reversal.

Looking at Principessa he decided to try his telepathy. Ears tight in, forehead furrowed like a cold scrote, he thought. Ti amo! TI AMO! TI AMOOOO!!!! A man his age shouldn't telepath so hard. Push! Oh no! Woozy, first his bad knee buckled, then his head went forward and like those pebbles he went... Off the wall, onto the beach, arms and legs akimbo. Pitter. Patter. A face plant is quite a thing to watch.

Bleary eyed, he awoke in the emergency room, whereupon some green doctor told him he was lucky, nothing broken, just scrapes and contusions. Mostly il medico wanted to know about a tetanus immunization.

"Yes, yes last year when I slip stepped a rusty nail, yes!"

"Principessa, is she alright? Hurt? Oh did I hurt ...." he trailed off.

"What? Princip, what?

"My love, did I hurt her?"

An old man, seemingly confused, can't recover. Deemed pazzo, credibility is lost and everyone pets you as if you are a dog. Nobody to call, no friends, he had to stay the night for observation. So to speak. As for Principessa, she left the beach shortly after la stella è caduta dal paradiso. She is a dancer, lithe and quick. She and her friends are contracted ballare nel video di musica. Professionals, yes. If the old man YouTubed he would find here there, moving so deftly, tears would wash his face.

Purtroppo, there is no happy ending for him. Should there be? No! Each person gets a chance, some more, some less, lucky or luckless. Oh well, it always comes down to the small things, some irrelevancy or another, upon which life is fulcrum-ed. Boh! Maybe he should have talked with Doris. Telepathy be damned. Would she seen have him differently, say in red, green and white? Imagine! At least she or one of their kids could have come to get him after his o-b-s-e-r-v-a-t-i-o-n ended. He should have married, eh? He should have planted una bandiera. Ovunque...


Sunday, April 13, 2014

Occhi Scuri

Sunday evenings are the worst, the weekend is overrrr... La Scala is on play and replay and then againnnn. Little known here, here in Margate, Giusy Ferreri has the kind of voice a guy wants to hear at that moment, when there is a god. Oh yeah, that certain inflection, her burning occhi scuri, ehhhh.... Sicilians!

Finding himself here, still a little drunk, right next to a freakish beachfront elephant people make a big deal about. Tin and wood, the outlandish structure is a tourist attraction. Tourist, the word, always reminds him of diarrhea. Once Buford Peel got the shits so bad from a trip into Mexico that he blacked out in the aisle of return Flight 50 American - from dehydration. To this day he remembers some piano legged lady in aisle 6 saying he had turista. Funny how odd her legs looked with his nose an inch away from her right foot.

Oh, between lives, Buford wished things were better for him, but who doesn't? Mid life ennui is a hobgoblin. Nobody would sign up for the routine if the consequences were evident. No matter how much a guy thinks he knows, he is destined to repeat the mistakes and end result just like all of the skinners before him. Call it the way of the world, call it fate, call it bullshit. You call it!


Judy P's midwestern accent was cute once, not Sicilian inflected in a drawn out oh sort of way. Yet, that was then. Time is the ultimate saltpeter and 22 years is about enough in and out to render a carrot flaccid and numb. Now those oh's, her oh's, are askew chalk on a blackboard, not that anyone nowadays knows what a blackboard is and what chalk can do to the blood.

Getting on to 7:40, the light was fading, but the pachyderm's red carpet coat shone as bright as a heated woman's choch. Heh, yes indeed, if there had been enough light in the wee hours he might have seen hers, whatever her name. Shore pick-ups often go nameless or mis-named - to protect the innocents. The kids and the cuckolds need their anonymity. Certo!

Time was moving on, time to return to sobriety and ho-hum. But the ho-hum makes the thrill of the pick up all the more addicting, like the chocolate ice cream off of her belly. It ran into the cavity of her flatness, her button... he pushed it up into her thick hair, the salty heady her. The sweet of the chocolate still hung on his tongue. The feel of her softness, her natural self. Without recourse, he jerked the Toyota onto Atlantic Avenue. Bye Lucy...

With his egress from the beach, the insipid air of the mainland displaced the sea air, his life. In reality a guy's life is a long series of nothings, no accounts, with only a few uplifts. Sadly age dictates that those respites become fewer and fewer. On he moved back to oh, light after light, stop after stop. Seems as if a lot of other schmos were headed back to shirts and ties, when he spotted a sign - airport. Ever see a possession?

Buford turned right and he pulled into long term parking. Maybe he knew he wouldn't be back. Atlantic City has a rube airport and he was lucky to catch a last flight to Fort Lauderdale. There he will take a room, wait till the morning and take half of his and oh's savings and send them to a new solo account at Scotia Bank. Then the train to Miami, where he will jump to Rome and then a few days later, maybe by Thursday or Friday, Palermo. Sicily. Then... oh! No!


Saturday, March 22, 2014

Played Out

Played out is a term of hopelessness, senza speranza if you will. Life gets played out sooner or later even if a woman can live to 100. Eventually, give or take a few years, dust to dust as the saying goes. Recently reminded by her forehead splotch of an Ash Wednesday ago, her mortality was all too clear.

Perhaps the ticking of the clock and the shortening of a person's telomeres hearken the proverbial tunnel train. Who doesn't know the one with the single light pushing at each forward walking individual. Each in kind gets stuck in that narrow, a so narrow tube as they walk towards that beam. Is that light god? Each person gets to ponder the issue, but sadly nobody knows for sure. Where is Thomas Aquinas now, now that the world needs a deep thinker? By the way, Aquinas died in 1274 at the age of 49. Plenty of folks wish he would reappear!

With the world a-twitter... Malaysian planes vanishing and (the) Crimea going Russian... a rational person might think death dwelling would be apropos of less than nothing. Who has time to think of dying when any itchy triggered mahoff could spin the earth towards the sun. How many nuclear explosions would it take to off-orbit the third rock from the sun? But Grace Pike can't help herself in her maudlin mood. The blues are a powerful force.

Maybe if she had had kids... then grand kids... then... Once she had a husband, a fat no-goodnik, who had trouble earning and more than trouble making non paralytic, peppy sperms. Yes indeed, Grace called them sperms; in fact to this day she says that Beveredge Pike only made bad sperms. Weak, sidewinders were they, she tells friends and others, rattlesnakes... the besterd filled me with only rattlesnakes. If only she had taken Wilbur Reddy up on his offer. Why he said he would give her his swimmers for free, wanting only to touch her breasts as he released himself into an ashtray, clean of course. What she would do with his effulgement would be her business. Turkey baster? Men can be like that. Unaffected with their own spew.

Haunting her is the idea that she won't be here anymore, there will no more her, no nothing... gone. Being dead was making her stay up at night and sweat, night sweats; but not the kind she had few years back when her estrogen fell to negligible levels. This sweat was different, it smelled of nervous bitter, the kind that is full of pheromones. Was her body bonkers sending out sexuality signals? Maybe fear and sex go hand in hand, but physiology be damned.

At sixty-five she was old and dry. No longer did she get wet there, like she used to when Bev was a lot thinner; when he could trip her circuit, albeit the snakes. That was so many years ago, but memories linger like acrid cigarette smoke in a low ceilinged gin joint. Her body was still lithe and agile, thinness can take years from the reaper. Small titties are always a joy, as opposed to those generoso granny sagamores pointing south. Grace had and still has sweet little tomatoes.

Relationships are tethers or better yet life-lines. While tethers keep a person grounded and stable, the vital nutrients of life-lines are the ticket to health and sanity. Poverina Grace had neither and consequently her life will likely be foreshortened at least ten years, maybe more. Be clear, foreshortening is in no way akin to a foreskin which is a whole other matter of vitality, This nerve rich scabbard is often times peeled off like a banana skin, cut really, from those unable to protect themselves. Whether a foreshortened or a foreskin-less life is the worse is debatable, depending...

A few nights back Grace, who was thinking more clearly and certainly not in her dusty-ash fugue, met a man named Hugo. Names can be false in promise, but Hugo was as genuine as Lebanon bologna. Although she had never done it before, a bingo night at St. Swarthers turned into what the old people called and still call a one night stand. A few niceties back and forth and before you could say Hop-a-Long Cassidy, Grace was lost in the longest foreskin she had ever seen. That isn't saying that much since Bev had been circumcised and her two other lovers were mere, now nameless, boys taken in the 1960's. Smooth and silky, moist good, she slid into that wonderland feeling the head, equally soft and inviting. Ample Hugo took her there and there and there, three theres... Who said old people can't have new experiences?

Too bad the sweats and the dreams of doom returned a night later, for on Hugo's night she had slept like a log or a baby or the dead. In short, she reached the stage of sleep when the eyes move rapidly from side to side, a time where neural transmitters are replenished and the brain rejuvenates. Could it have been related to Hugo and his adventures, his Cialis? Indeed... Sex is a soporific stupendo.

Well, it is another cold, damp early Spring day in New Jersey, an ugly state all in all. But Grace lived in Atlantic City, where the beaches and boardwalk were precious and lovely. As she walks down the open wide wooden expanse, she sees no single beam light ahead; there is no close quartered tunnel. Remarkably, with the Atlantic Sea to her right she could see forever. She rolled her right index finger against her thumb, smooth silky, slightly lubricated. The mystery and joy of the uncut Hugo surged into her brain like a hard breaking wave floods the shoreline. She stopped and turned right to look out to the horizon. Feeling oddly excited down below, she carefully moved that index finger and that thumb to herself. Skinny people can always touch themselves with ease, jeans be damned. She was wet, wet and slippery... cummy. Youth springs eternal!


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Fake Balls



Some days... Some days a guy can bite off more than he can swallow. Not to be political, but PObama sure has and continues to do so. But what could he have done? A fractious gun toting country is doubtless a testy tailed tiger. Especially for a mixed man in a creamery.

To heck with that stuff says Mark from the bank. Politics be damned. Diebold is his last name, but for most of his acquaintances it is from the bank. Pizzle is a small town, rural, lots of farms and pigs. When the wind is right in the summer the flies and smell can make a man want to slap his cock head red. Pizzle!

Taking her on was a mistake. Now he knows it, yet that was some 1000 days ago. Three years is a long time for clandestine lunches and faux business meetings. My god she was and still is so hot that the bespectacled baldie still steams with excitement with the thought of her. If only... Brianna weren't so passive, needy and the mom of the triplets. If only... he didn't agree to the in vitro. If only he hadn't bitten in...

Stacy Bergen knew he was married, all the better for johns are so docile when wifey trims their generoso. While she sensed that the fool banker was, to be trite, falling for her; she ate his food and took her tithe once or twice a week. Some guys though are unpredictable, hard to read even for una puttana.

Mark from the bank has been restive of late. Thoughts of marrying Stacy have flooded his head like the crescendo sounds in the 17th year of the 17 year cicada cycle. Smitten men suffer disordered thinking, a vestigial adaptation of procreative drive. Surely Brianna's 150 pound weight gain hasn't been much of boon to his marriage, especially since she now always smells like bad fish. Swamp ass, ripe 'swa... ? Mr. Peepers had no proof, ass or 'swa, but it mattered little. His pizzle was not headed into those parts either way!


Today is warm for March, 72 degrees and a touch humid. She never wears deodorant for Stacy understands men, she understands pheromones... She keeps a little stubble there, enough to shadow herself. Mark, timid and milquetoast, would not be the kind of guy suspect for nuzzling an armpit. Pure energy! As he pulls her chair out, she brushes up against him and her body odor nearly flattens him. Erected, he sits quickly as if he wants to hide himself from the noontime patrons of this freaky restaurant called Flush.

Besides having his cock engorged, his jeans were taut from his other piece, the Glock 19. Composite, not cold like steel, it fit into the small of his back, the barrel into his crease a bit. Oddly it felt good there, titillating. Why he was packing today... Oh it's America! He had been thinking of showing it to her, to hear her ooh and aw. Penises and pistols are somehow alike.

Earlier he had argued with Brit and his neck felt stuffed like a pelican who caught a fish too big to esophagize. Stacy recoiled when he blurted out that he wanted to tell his fat wife about them. THEM she thought, THEM. Mark was worming around in his chair, the kind of old wicker rester with the back support which almost reached the brocade covered seat. That little gap was just big enough to grab handle the gat and as he jerked forward as she repeated THEM... Pop!

A gunshot sounds more like a cap gun than the cinema enhanced sound familiar to all. Pop, pause and then YEOW. The bullet burned his his butt fissure before penetrating his scrotum. Mark has, er had, a big set of balls, a scrotum sitter was he. With his coin purse tauted and tense, the slug minced his nuts like a juicer reduces an apple to a mess. Off the chair, blue jeans red, and rolling on the floor, Stacy calmly excused herself and left in the ensuing hub-bub.

Flies followed her into the Emergency Room. Nonplussed, Bree acted like a woman whose husband blows off his scrotum as a matter of fact. No questions were asked other than an inquiry or two about why the lock was not engaged. In pain from his scrotectomy, he was without other emotion. Lying there, waiting for surgery, her piscine smell, her from the deep BO nauseated him. Little relief was in order for Mark from the bank on this swell day other than the fact that he would be a candidate for reconstruction at a later date...

He swallowed without success when the surgeon told him about fake balls... Fake balls! Fake life, damn! Gulp, gulp, gulp... No swallow!!





Saturday, March 8, 2014

So Done

So she told me.... the sound of too loud music from a too bad beat out group drowned her sound... "Done, So Done." Why 4 old men with bankrupt pony tails and a springy young girl insist on singing songs from earthy times remains a present day mystery. Why were they so loud, intrusively loud? Sometimes loud covers disharmony...

Life can be viewed as one long entropic lub-dub with a few moments of lucidity and fewer moments of sheer joy. The kind of joy when two hearts beat as one and the union of two souls is the most powerful force EVER! If you ever have had it, felt it, then even a cretino like me can see that words are not enough to define such an emotional force. Alternatively, this brass ring might simply be better defined as a snootful of pheromones. Ohhhh...

I had known her from a different spin, not one where she or me could ever have been a we making me a confessor, a priest named Cohen, Irv. Her eyes, eyes always with a sparkle and smile that could stop traffic or better yet illuminate a small city, like Chicago, did indeed make me want to go deeper in there. Perhaps it was our same charge passing through that led to this soave informality, this let down of pretense and game facing. Or yet again, my avuncularity or my non-judgmental way tempered with compassion and a low T could be the ticket of a successful healer. Bosh! Truth be told, my schmooze is mostly the result of advancing age and the humbling recent project of learning to speak Italian.  Che cazzo!!

Women often use the term "So Done"... Men seem to be less done as if to say that the genders give up on a relationship in different ways. Actually that comes as no surprise to anyone with half a brain. For their part men are not so much "So Done" as they are hungry for more of what they already have. Damn wiring... especially considering the overall sameness of wet. But biology is a miserable task master, inasmuch as procreation seems to be the paretic drummer, who by the way right now is trying his hand in a cover of Toxic. "I'm addicted to you but you know that you're toxic..." resounded. Che cazzo!

Carefully she explained to me that she had been through the throes of too many levels of life rehabilitation with him, he with so many reasons not to earn that he could be a Louis Black rant runyon. Short shrift cannot be given to the alcohol and the drugs and the injuries... So many achy legs and creaky hips and other stuff with names ending in "itis" were like his trump cards. Work for him was a sham act, lucky he had her... she worked jobs, two and more. Oh she looked so tired and pained and so pretty that a clergyman would be tempted to offer her tenderness.

Not that little Irv knew anything about women, he, er I, being an exemplar of vanilla shoo-whop. Yeow, the notion of self esteem or lack thereof crashed me on my calvarium like bolted electricity. Thwap!!! How could a woman of this caliber settle for an unrewarding partner? Couldn't she see just how worth it she was? Why a man in the same position would toss an unproductive and using troia out the door... followed by her corner-worn valise... Che palle!!

Filled with dreams and hopes, everybody wishes that they could feel the joy of a new engagement ring. Oh yes, a new life, dreams and a lazy boy recliner on the horizonnnn. So exciting, the notion of an endless day, like June 21st in Anchorage AK. But for her, there, sitting across from me so vulnerable and so hurt, her finger 4th sinistra was bare, nude. No ring, not as if it could ever stay there... davvero!

Ah, she needed me to tell her it was "So Done", as if I really knew. They say there are two sides to every story, but in matters of the heart that is poppycock. Unless a person feels it, for him, for her, both, there is nothing. Niente! So that for every love thump out there, only one side really matters and unless two sides of oneness can equal the in tune two, they equal zerooooo.

Old bands tire easily (mercifully) and the Conchs were done for the night. It was 9 PM, time too early and too late. Only a few happy hour dreamers were left, here and there, bereft by definition. I yearned to say wanna get a bite, but milquetoasts have no trigger finger, besides... Grateful was she for the support, she knew I would be there no matter. Two friends, no more for now... A wink and a smile, gone, poof, her way, my way...seatbelt clickkkk... that's when Emma began to sing...


I hold my breath
In this sea of words
As much as it takes
To not think
You are not invited
To this next mistake of mine
How much it costs
To give up
But I already feel inside another life
I know well what you mean
The difference is clear
Between you living my senses
You living my senses

Between those things that every day
Disappoint's in life
There's enough space even for those you knew to give
To make so big your street (to become someone)
I've made my heart so little
Even your smile, your trail
Remake myself and go away

I hold my breath
On purpose to not make noise
As much as it takes
To hurt
And I allow myself
To another risk to deal with
Because sometimes a door
Can look like a turn-side
But you've closed it all the times
Challenging all the prejudices
I had my consents
But now are too far away
You living my senses
You living my senses

Between those things that every day
Disappoint's in life
There's enough space even for those you knew to give
To make so big your street (to become someone)
I've made my heart so little
Even your smile, your trail
Remake myself and go away

And I may have even lost the chance to live every day together
But behind so much indifference
Light comes inside this room
And I know you love me

Between those things that every day
Disappoint's in life
There's enough space even for those you knew to give
To make so big your street (to become someone)
I've made my heart so little
Even your smile, your trail
Remake myself and go away
Even your smile, your trail
Remake myself and go away

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Ponti di Merritt Parkway (CT)

Bridges of the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut are interesting. Different as anatomic wonders, these overpasses are as notable for their variability. None the same as the other, somebody had a sense of humor as well as artistry. For no reason in particular here are a few more up and down images to share. Nothing like a little snow in February in the Northeast to get a motor going. Well, enjoy the ride...