I'm not out to hurt the poor asshole. I met the bossa nova scumbag in a New England capital city, in a rooming house. He was a food thief, eventually caught raiding the communal kitchen. He was also a young pervert, at the time, and I have a feeling he still is, after thirty two years.
The stretch in the twilight zone was during the first half of the 1980s. The attempt on my part to assimilate a new culture had its moments and pretty much failed, considering I went back to the jerkwater town I came from, mentally worse for wear. Recalling a disturbing twelve months as a neighbor of the musical scum, a google search finds W.B. alive, possibly in good health, possibly well regarded by a few people on the fringe of society, unless the exceptionally tall, gangly freak changed to a huge degree for the better, which I doubt.
His picture show him aged, arguably distinguished looking, and he had capitalized on a long, drawn oily face as twenty-nine year old wonder boy.. Scumbags are usually true to their scam, so he must still be a gnarled, pock marked guitar genius, a permanent babe in the woods, always looking for a victim. He liked to play sick head games against his victims, standing outside their doors, as he would do mine, eaves dropping. His room was right across the front hall in a huge Victorian mansion that had been cut down to a jillion single rooms. It was diverse and charmingly monastic, the jazz creep being one of a few notorious criminals that lived their.
I learned from his 'Linded In' page, and this is public, so I wasn't intruding, or at least not wrongfully, that he is trying to form a bossa nova band, hoping like Helen Keller's speech instructor meet up with professional musicians, like the ones Antonio Carlos Jobim tripped the lights with. He was a total parasite, when I know him, always seeking out people he can borrow from, or take sexual advantage of, or who he could perpetrate sick pranks against. He told once, with avuncular frankness, that he was a voyeur, liked to window peek, and to spy on people by any means possible.
Anyway, great to see he's still going.
The stretch in the twilight zone was during the first half of the 1980s. The attempt on my part to assimilate a new culture had its moments and pretty much failed, considering I went back to the jerkwater town I came from, mentally worse for wear. Recalling a disturbing twelve months as a neighbor of the musical scum, a google search finds W.B. alive, possibly in good health, possibly well regarded by a few people on the fringe of society, unless the exceptionally tall, gangly freak changed to a huge degree for the better, which I doubt.
His picture show him aged, arguably distinguished looking, and he had capitalized on a long, drawn oily face as twenty-nine year old wonder boy.. Scumbags are usually true to their scam, so he must still be a gnarled, pock marked guitar genius, a permanent babe in the woods, always looking for a victim. He liked to play sick head games against his victims, standing outside their doors, as he would do mine, eaves dropping. His room was right across the front hall in a huge Victorian mansion that had been cut down to a jillion single rooms. It was diverse and charmingly monastic, the jazz creep being one of a few notorious criminals that lived their.
I learned from his 'Linded In' page, and this is public, so I wasn't intruding, or at least not wrongfully, that he is trying to form a bossa nova band, hoping like Helen Keller's speech instructor meet up with professional musicians, like the ones Antonio Carlos Jobim tripped the lights with. He was a total parasite, when I know him, always seeking out people he can borrow from, or take sexual advantage of, or who he could perpetrate sick pranks against. He told once, with avuncular frankness, that he was a voyeur, liked to window peek, and to spy on people by any means possible.
Anyway, great to see he's still going.
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