Frank Beltrano starts his day with a gourmet cup of freshly hand-ground filter-dripped coffee, usually in a cup stamped with the word “create”. As he sips and writes his early morning pages, a drop or two of coffee slips between his lips and the lip of the cup, runs down over the word “create” creating a Jackson Pollack-ish masterpiece. Mr. Pollack rolls over in his grave, mumbles, “Great, you fucking thief” and Frank’s day moves on from there.
Lately his love, Marie-Claire Roussel, brings him a glass of “sunshine”, freshly squeezed orange juice sprinkled with coconut, in a glass decorated with Joan Miro-ish designs. Miro’s grave is not disturbed by this. The glass comes from a museum in Barcelona that honors him. It was given to Frank by his youngest daughter, Julia who greatly appreciates visual art and is a wizard…
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