Rhumba Quotes

India is constipated with a lot of humbug. Take modern Indian music of the films. It is all tango & rhumba or samba played on Hawaiian guitars, violins, accordions & clarinets. It is ugly. It must be scrapped like the rest.

Waltzing is not the same thing as dancing, since the rhumba is also a dance but it is not a waltz. It therefore follows that one can waltz without dancing the waltz.

A prickle of porcupines, a cackle of hyenas, a pounce of cats, a slither of snakes. But it’s a nest of vipers, a quiver of cobras, and a rhumba of rattlesnakes. They also have a parliament of owls and a congress of baboons, which I find insulting to baboons myself.

She leaned down until they were eye to eye. “His wife loved him. That’s no bullshit. I love you.” “That’s no bullshit.” “If I found out you were screwing around on me, could I off you?” He inclined his head. “I believe I’ve already been informed you’d be doing the rhumba—after appropriate lessons—on my cold, dead body.” “Yeah. Yeah.” It cheered her up. “Just not sure pink Jolene has the stones for that.” “Jimmy Jay was in violation of the . . . which commandment is it that deals with adultery?” “How the hell would I know, especially since I wouldn’t wait for you to face your eternal punishment, should you be in said violation, before I rhumba’d my ass off.” “Such is true love.” “Bet your excellent ass. I got the vibe he might’ve been screwing around, but maybe I’m just a cynical so-and-so.” Pleased with her, Roarke tapped a finger over the dent in her chin. “You are, but you’re my cynical so-and-so.

Lydia the Tattooed Lady" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia, the Tattooed Lady She has eyes that folks adore so And a torso even more so Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo On her back is the Battle of Waterloo Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La When her robe is unfurled, she will show you the world If you step up and tell her where For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paris Or Washington crossing the Delaware La, La, La La, La, La Oh Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Oh Lydia the Tattooed Lady When her muscles start relaxin' Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the queen of them all For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz With a view of Niagara that nobody has And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La Come along and see Buff'lo Bill with his lasso Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon Here's Godiva but with her pajamas on La, La, La La, La, La Here is Grover Whalen unveilin' the Trilon Over on the West Coast we have Treasure Island Here's Najinsky a-doin' the rhumba Here's her social security numba Oh Lydia, oh Lydia that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the champ of them all She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat And now the old boy's in command of the fleet For he went and married Lydia I said Lydia (He said Lydia) They said said Lydia (We said Lydia) Groucho Marx, At the Circus (1939) Written by Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen

benedict tips out the door. the night dour and skanky with a rhumba of traffic. warily adjusting a long s/lick multicolored patch-leather jacket to cover ears. collecting himself before tilting forward/falling into rain’s cool viola sting.

SLOWLY THE BOY SPUN the dial. He heard organ music playing on the Salt Lake City station. Then rhumba music. A swing band. An ad for Dr. Fisher’s tablets for intestinal sluggishness. “Folks,” a man asked, “do you feel headachy and pepless in the morning?” “Nope,” said the boy.

Uhn huh. You want it… ask for it. Tell me how you want me to fuck you, Judge and I promise I’ll blow your mind,” Michaels said, so sensually. Judge clawed at Michaels’ hip, pushing his ass into him. He wasn’t used to this. Asking to be fucked into unconsciousness. He was usually the aggressor; he didn’t trust those one-offs to fuck him, no way. Why did he have to talk? Just pound already. Judge shook with pent-up need, his ass clenching tight with anticipation. “Mmm,” Michaels moaned. “It’s alright. I can feel you, babe. I hear your body talking.” Judge might not be much of a dirty talker, but Michaels was damn pro. Judge’s cock leaked heavily, trapped beneath him; which was a good thing because if he touched it, this erotic rhumba would be over. Michaels slid both his arms underneath Judge’s armpits and hooked his shoulders for leverage. “You ready?” Judge

the addiction of the Spaniards of America to the dances of the jungle indicates a common ancestor to all the Latin-American dances that evolved in the ensuing centuries. Surely the earliest begetter of the rhumba, the samba, the son, and even the tango, can be none other than this calenda from the coast of Guinea? Even if its authentic African origin were not known, the description of the dance of the Congolese at once suggests to anybody who has seen it the Conga of the Negroes of Cuba.

I went into the bar and sank into a leather bar seat packed with down. Glasses tinkled gently, lights glowed softly, there were quiet voices whispering of love, or ten per cent, or whatever they whisper about in a place like that. A tall fine-looking man in a gray suit cut by an angel suddenly stood up from a small table by the wall and walked over to the bar and started to curse one of the barmen. He cursed him in a loud clear voice for a long minute, calling him about nine names that are not usually mentioned by tall fine-looking men in well cut gray suits. Everybody stopped talking and looked at him quietly. His voice cut through the muted rhumba music like a shovel through snow. The barman stood perfectly still, looking at the man. The barman had curly hair and a clear warm skin and wide-set careful eyes. He didn’t move or speak. The tall man stopped talking and stalked out of the bar. Everybody watched him out except the barman. The barman moved slowly along the bar to the end where I sat and stood looking away from me, with nothing in his face but pallor. Then he turned to me and said: “Yes, sir?” “I want to talk to a fellow named Eddie Prue.” “So?” “He works here,” I said. “Works here doing what?” His voice was perfectly level and as dry as dry sand. “I understand he’s the guy that walks behind the boss. If you know what I mean.” “Oh. Eddie Prue.” He moved one lip slowly over the other and made small tight circles on the bar with his bar cloth. “Your name?” “Marlowe.” “Marlowe. Drink while waiting?” “A dry martini will do.” “A martini. Dry. Veddy, veddy dry.” “Okay.” “Will you eat it with a spoon or a knife and fork?” “Cut it in strips,” I said. “I’ll just nibble it.” “On your way to school,” he said. “Should I put the olive in a bag for you?” “Sock me on the nose with it,” I said. “If it will make you feel any better.” “Thank you, sir,” he said. “A dry martini.” He took three steps away from me and then came back and leaned across the bar and said: “I made a mistake in a drink. The gentleman was telling me about it.” “I heard him.” “He was telling me about it as gentlemen tell you about things like that. As big shot directors like to point out to you your little errors. And you heard him.” “Yeah,” I said, wondering how long this was going to go on. “He made himself heard—the gentleman did. So I come over here and practically insult you.” “I got the idea,” I said. He held up one of his fingers and looked at it thoughtfully. “Just like that,” he said. “A perfect stranger.” “It’s my big brown eyes,” I said. “They have that gentle look.” “Thanks, chum,” he said, and quietly went away. I saw him talking into a phone at the end of the bar. Then I saw him working with a shaker. When he came back with the drink he was all right again.

This is where I am sitting, one evening in late May or early June, before that Sunday. I have finished my homework; there is a pervading sweetness in the air. I feel intoxicated by the future. It’s the same feeling I get when I sing Mexico and Miami Beach Rhumba in my bedroom at the top of my voice, the same feeling as when I marvel at the mystery of a whole lifetime stretching ahead of me.

Take art and music. Why has contemporary Indian painting, music, architecture and sculpture been such a flop? Because it keeps harking back to BC. Harking back would be all right if it did not become a pattern—a deadweight. If it does, then we are in a cul-de-sac of art forms. We explain the unattractive by pretending it is esoteric. Or we break out altogether—like modern Indian music of the films. It is all tango and rhumba or samba played on Hawaiian guitars, violins, accordions and clarinets. It is ugly. It must be scrapped like the rest.

part of a crash of rhinos, or a stubbornness of rhinos. “Phew,” my mom says when she hears the good lymph node news. “I couldn’t bear checking out of this life without knowing you were going to be okay.” A gaze of raccoons. A rhumba of rattlesnakes. A float of crocodiles. A rafter of turkeys. A business of ferrets. An exaltation of skylarks.

Another loop of influence and inspiration occurred when African musicians imitated the imported Cuban recordings they heard—which were themselves a mutation of African music. The African guitar-based rhumba that resulted was something new and wonderful, and most folks hearing it wouldn’t think it was a poor imitation of Cuban music at all. When I heard some of those African bands, I had no idea that Cuban music had been their inspiration. What they were doing sounded completely original to me, and I was naturally inspired, just as they had been. The process never stops. Contemporary European DJs were blown away when they heard Detroit techno.