First, let me wish everyone out there a VERY Happy Thanksgiving! It’s a wonderful time to be around family and friends and nessle in for the holidays. Bring on the cold, stay warm- plenty of hot toddies, apple cider, hot chocolate and whatever “toasts your buns”. It’s a time to wander around in the adoration of nature and appreciate havin a roof over your head, food on the plate, and fire in the fireplace or heat in your heart.
Most years my parents hosted a party of family and friends on New Years Eve. Everyone would be invited about 9pm, used to enjoy each others company and catch up on lost time. Usually most people assembled in the dining room with the piano and play… sing… dance in front of a burning fire in the fireplace. Always this would be accompanied by plenty of drink. About 10 minutes to midnight all the men assembled outside and sing, ”To all Acquiantence”. Often there would be close to about 20 very loud guys shakin up the neighborhood with their voices. Their wives, or girlfriends would stay inside and assemble in a line from the front door.
Every man would bring in a log, a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, symbolizing warmth, thirst and hunger. The point being each item was supposed to bring in wishes of warmth, plenty of food and drink for the new year.
The women would stay inside and assemble in a line from the front door. As host, my mother was usually the first. Each man would enter the door guided by my father and go down the line kissing the womens cheeks. When he came to his woman, he’d present her with the items and a big whopping kiss.
These parties founded such good memories. The music especially. My Uncle Clarence often took over the pianist position with another piano player, usually my Uncle Tony and play all evening. Perhaps it’s why music has come to mean so much to me, especially the piano, and history perserves memory.
This day in music history is probably the most significant to the progression of Electric Rock Guitar. Jimi Hendrix was born. His birth was the foundation for many rock guitarists including J.V. - Kid Sicily, fellow co-founder of Funk Thunder. Soooooo, if your raising your glasses and toasting today, remember to salute the rock God of guitar- Jimi Hendrix.
May you all be blessed with many beautiful memories, which you’ll recall today. Eat, drink and be merry! Happy Thanksgiving!
I think we’ve reached a pivotal point in America where the majority of people finally “get” supply and demand, BUT I think the government doesn’t realize we as a people DO get it. Let me explain why.
The billion dollar bailout initially was given to banks to buy up poor mortgages which THEY’D (the greedy ones- can’t put the blame on everyone) given out, and would allow the government to get the poor mortgages to hold over time until the financial mess eventually comes to an end. As a result of giving the mortgages to the government the banks could rid their books of these stupid loans which tied up their money and regain liquidity, thus lending money back to the people who gave them money in the first place. Ok, that was the concept- BUT we know that’s not happenin.
The government changed its mind and started giving some of this money to the businesses who faulted because of the mortgage mess. Billions and billions of dollars are reallocated. So when the banks get the money, they say- “Oh Shit- Joe Business is getting OUR money, we better hold on to what we have and not give it out.” The banks who were supposed to get more liquidity decide to keep the money in their own bank because of the financial mess. Can’t say I blame, ‘em. If you just crossed a desert and someone offered you some water, would you give it to someone else?
Now the government realizes this problem and tries to refocus their strategy. I understand they realize the people need the money, to buy more goods. Ha ha… now this is where it gets funny.
We’ve had monopoly money for years and years. We’ve spent for years and years. It’s our psychology and something we took for granted. All the banks just gave us money to spend, the government gave us money to spend and the economy did REALLY good.
All the credit cards and banks got greedy and again, they gave us the “fat kids” only candy to eat. No protein, just sweets. We ran around like nuts with this constant supply of candy until one day we started to get aches and pains cause our bones weren’t growing, our muscles were deteriorating and we got tired: we had to sit. The banks were the “sweet pushers”.
“I heard the government was going to give us more money! Hurray! I’m gonna spend it on more sweets so I can run around some more and have some more fun! Hurray!” and then the majority started thinking, but my body is aching and I’m really not healthy, I think I better grow up otherwise I could die- I mean ALL of these debts….
I don’t know about you, but I could use a few bucks- TO PAY DOWN MY DEBT. You see, what I just put here…. TO PAY DOWN MY DEBT.
Ok, most Americans have put out all this money ALREADY. They’ve spent money they DON’T have, and are stuck with bank debts in the form of credit cards, loans and such. I don’t think you really need a brain to figure out, people out there are losin jobs and we’re a little worried about all of this money we owe. I’m gonna take the money the government is gonna give me and try and do something constructive with it like, PAYING off stuff. I learned my lesson, and the smack on my hand is better than the bat on my head.
Soooooooo, if I’m one of a majority of thinkers who feel this way- the majority of money we’re gonna be getting isn’t ending up in the form of spending, like it used to. It’s goin back to the banks, who again are gonna be hording it like the bear who stored up food for hibernation. What do you get in this case? The SAME situation, a stalled up economy.
They always shoot the messenger, but some words need to be said.
Everyone says it’s got to get worse before it gets better. This is the truth. Everything about the economy is about psychology: Confidence=spending, Fear= hording. How do you change the national thinking? Damn fine question. Hopefully the new administration can reinvest it’s time and money back into the United States, fine tuning a patriotism which grew in the immediate aftermath of 9-11. We live in the finest country in the world, and every now and then, we gotta be reminded, WE make it that way. Sure, we have problems like everyone else, but we have an infinite potential of resources RIGHT HERE. Who needs outsourcing! Grow internally, not externally. Everything starts here, with your thoughts, your dreams, YOU’RE potential. If you believe- you can achieve. It’s all about
I’ve said my peace.
This morning I was a zombie. I had one of those moments in which I was completely blotto upstairs… mindless… not a thought in my head, but sleep.
I went to church on account I committed myself to doing so. Not because I particularly wanted to, but set in mind Sunday to go to the old church which is only limited to a few times of worship. It stands next to the more modern place of worship.
I’m strange when it comes to ritual. When I want to go to church it’s largely because I feel a need to spiritually. I look for inspiration in surmons and passages, but to me, it’s largely about the surroundings. If I’m going to be moved spiritually, I look to the structure, the wood of pews, the stained glass windows, the carvings, the marble- the aura.
I blame my English heritage for the desire to attend Gothic Cathedrals- places bound by historical tradition and have had a feeling of centuries of worship. I can’t really describe it, in any word except maybe “vibe”. Modern places must have a charasmatic leader- someone with passion about his/her faith and one who can convey that to their subjects. My enlightenment comes in the form of atmosphere which of course includes the people. For the modern church, that comes in the leader.
When I sat there listening, I thought about routine. I watched the practiced rituals, as I have done every Sunday I attend Mass. It’s a Catholic church, and I’m not Catholic. I thought to myself, many of these people may be here simply out of routine and not for a want to be there. I know people who find the routine of going to church more a hinderance than a desire. It’s not that they’re not passionate about their faith, but they’ve been “trained” into a routine which resembles the likes of a job and as any job becomes a job- people get lax. They don’t dress up, they think of other things they could be doing, they’re there physically, but not mentally.
When I make a commitment, I follow through. This morning was an example. I didn’t feel I should be there, but because it was an old church with the right aura (I’d gone there earlier in the week and felt it), I’d give it a chance today. As a result, I felt isolated, surrounded by the historical feeling, but not grouped with people of my own religion. I know it’s odd because I haven’t practiced my religion since I was a boy, but perhaps I’ve reached a point of exploration.
My father spent much of his adult life travelling. He spent probably the equivent to years in Asia and the Far East. To me, he’d always had a more spiritual presence, perhaps spread to him with in these areas he spent so much time. Like anyone who’s in a foreign environment, one tends to adapt to the ways of that country in more means that one. With that in mind, you might say that sense of spirituality came to me as a result. It’s as if I feel I’m only a small part of a much larger picture or wholality. Frankly, I could reason this or that, but I’m perfectly fine, happy and comfortable with my existance. I believe there should be places of worship and places to seek shelter to feel emotions and be guided however that may be. My opinion comes strongly with the urge that guides us there, whether it be from the hand of God, routine, or ritual- there’s a place where we find in ourselves to be one with the energies of the universe. Where ever that may be, when ever that may come, or what ever form it takes- it starts inside. Belief comes beneath the surface and blossoms with how it’s utilized. It’s there and shows itself when it needs and can show itself in the most unlikely places.
Writing is my solitude and my place to be one with the universe. I like to think it’s the reason I’ve come into existance, but what ever and where ever that path leads will always give me peace. I know from the depths inside, I’m a wheel and for this, I’ll always be thankful.
I woke this morning facing my bedroom wall. On that wall is a watercolor my friend Donald did http://dvaccino.com/ (go there and scroll through watercolors) of a black canvas in front of the light of a window. It’s an image in his studio and home.
He has one window which over looks a fire escape, with a view of buildings across the street. He’s on the third floor and can literally here the commotions below. The street is necessled between two avenues, which can both be seen from the window. Amidst the chaos of the area (busy, busy, busy), the light shines in.
I put the watercolor on the wall to the side of the bed because it was bare. I have paintings surrounding the other walls, and at one point this one was behind the bed. It doesn’t really go with the decor, but I really like it. It has yet to be framed.
This morning I realized I couldn’t have found a better place for it. Often I wake up facing that wall, and when I look at the “blank” canvas, I see it as a starting point. The beginning to a new day- every day- where the light comes in and shines on the black canvas (symbolic of the mind), and provides the inspiration needed to create for that day. The fact it’s a watercolor is a plus. Watercolors to me, always seemed to be “less” permanent- fragile if you will. They need more care, and can be damaged easily. The day hardens you and if you’re lucky, you’ll find peace in your dreams and wake to a blank canvas.
Representing today’s “spark” is my watercolor. It’s something I’m very honored and proud to have; every day I wake- I’ll realize it’s a new day, with new inspiration. My mind is a canvas- blank until, the day expires. The next day I get to do it all again.
Always look forward to tomorrow.
Tonight, I layed with my son in his bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, but I felt I wanted to read with him. I was focused and I felt it was time I’d spent a little mono a mono with the kid (he’s only 7).
He’s been practicing his reading. He sometimes struggles a bit, but he plods through like any boy learning to read. I let him read to me, then I switched it up and read to him- using more intonation and expression- then gave it back to him to read a little. It’s a simple exercise. He has the recognition of words, but sometimes doesn’t read it through and spits out something which appears to be similar in spelling, but not the right word. Something he recognizes.
As we went back and forth through this excercise, it got me thinkin about literacy and how important it is to normal every day function. I mean, here I’m typing to you and you’re reading it off a computer screen, which has most likely been taken for granted.
Only with in the past year and a half, I found out something REALLY shocking in my family. I call them my aunt and uncle, but they’ve always been my Godparents. They lived in Cambridge, England and my Godmother taught at one of the Universities there.
Since I was little I always called them Aunty Joyce & Uncle Den. My aunt being the teacher and my uncle being - well… my uncle. Since they lived in Cambridge and we only had limited time of contact growing up, I’d only grown close to them as you might a distant friend.
Well, my Aunty Joyce had retired from her university and spent most of her time with my Uncle Den. The most comical memory being his 6′3″ body getting into their car which was a Cooper Mini. It was like fitting a bread factory in a bread box. I’d always heard he was a little essentric and rode his bike everywhere.
Anyways, my Aunty Joyce passed away after getting cancer a year and half ago. It wasn’t until then that we learned my uncle, who was now in his late 80’s was illiterate. It turns out my aunty Joyce did EVERYTHING for him, down to the clothes he’d wear. When she passed, he didn’t quite know how to get on. Fortunately for him (as I believe God does in times of need), a workman who had known and worked with him some 40 years earlier crossed paths and now evidently takes care of him- as much as he can.
Well tonight, my little story time with Shane got me thinking about those people nowadays who have the problem of literacy. It seems like such a simple thing which is taken for granted, but can you imagine the torture of trying to hide the fact one could be illiterate for 70 years?
I spoke with my father who was very close to my Uncle, and even he was fooled. He’d known him eons, but never knew. When I asked him, “how didn’t you know? You must have been able to tell.” He told me when they were at restaurants together, he’d pick up the menu and pretend to read, then consult with my aunty Joyce- “What would you recommend Joyce?” he’d ask… and she would say…. “blah, blah, blah” and place the order. My Aunty Joyce was brilliant, and the fact she was able to hide his illiteracy was even more brilliant. It only made it terribly sad when she was lost. I mean, if you’d been illiterate and survived for over 50 years of marriage following a routine- HOW could you get on?
He’s been struggling for some time now. He’s one of those old fashioned types who’ll take no sympathy from others and will NOT let even my parents (his closest friends) come to see him, because he’s disgusted at the fact he’s lost a tremendous amount of weight, and is “half” of what he used to be. Some people you can’t talk to, and that’s my Uncle Den.. stubborn son of a bitch.
Regardless, when it comes to illiteracy- it exists… it exists NOW. So many take for granted words are simple and very explanitory, AND people over age 8 are expected to read. I must admit, he’s the first case I’ve come across, but he’s family. The fact he’s hidden it so well over 80 years is just mind boggling.
My point is three-fold. One- if you have kids pay attention to the habits they develop when their young- make sure they read, and read well. It’s these habits which will broaden their perspective on the world and indeed, teach them what others may not. Second- make sure you’re involved enough to know if there is a problem. If you catch a problem early, then your ahead of the game. Getting help early prevents future problems. Thirdly, be aware there are people who struggle with something we think is second nature. Be aware others need help to get through an article, a magazine, a book- because WHAT you know, may be a HELL of a lot more than someone else.
I love my son, and I love my Uncle- the fact my son can do something my Uncle can’t… well…. in this case, it’s kind of sad.
Remember to read.
It’s Easter 2007. I’ve just attended church and have walked away with an epiphany.
It’s not often I attend church, although with my children I have attended more church since the days of my pre-teen years. I’ve always found my content with working. It’s my belief that when you work hard and keep a decent life, that you’ll be rewarded after. I attend church when I feel there’s a need to pray for someone, or my prayer needs to be heard. I figure God’s got his own busy schedule and this guy (me) who is going to church after X period of time- MUST be goin there for a reason- so maybe he’ll pop by to have a look into what’s goin on with Steve. I do tend to go to church also on Christmas and Easter. Well… sometimes I think there’s reasons for being a place at a particular time, which maybe only you are meant to see.
Looking back, I’m not really sure where I was in the progress of my novel. I’m sure I must have been working on it, because this served as an inspiration. As I sat there and looked at the Cathedral from the back, I noticed something I hadn’t done before. It occurred to me that if you were to take the building and turn it upside down, it would resemble the hull of a ship. As I made these shapes in my mind, I noticed the stained glass windows, could have been representative of gun turrets in the hull of ship- a clipper ship or one of the many galleons which you’ve seen through time. It got me intregued and kept my mind active for the surmon the Bishop was to give.
At this mass, the Bishop of Metuchen decides to elaborate on a gift he received from a fellow priest who did a sabbatical in France. This particular priest had written a journal entitled “Pilgrim Road” and it was about his stay on the island of Honorat. Ile St. Honorat measures 800 yards by 500 yards and has been active in the monastic community for 1600 years (supposedly St. Patrick had been taught there). The reason of this island being so important was because of it’s water supply, and as small as the island is, its provided by an abundant supply of fresh water, which flows through from the main land.
In the surmon he describes the island of Honorat being symbolic of Christ’s resurrected life (I know because I kept the Easter summary) . He discusses the flowing waters of baptism. He relates by way of analogy it’s similarity to the movement of blood that flows from the heart to every part of the body. The monks tapped into the river to sustain their lives with it’s water so Christ’s resurrected life could flow into every aspect of our lives. He finishes it by asking if we’ll tap into the waters of Christ’s grace as they flow and states “it’s up to us to make it happen”.
Wow- it was pretty powerful to me. When I went home, I was inspired to sketch. I did a sketch of the Cathedral both right side up, and upside down. I penciled in a represative crowd who appeared like abstract marks in the church and when upside down they actually looked like waves of water. I wrote notes and questions regarding the surmon, and correlated it into one of the pivitol moments in my work. The strange thing is, I’d had a vision of where I was going in the novel, but not quite sure of how I was going to get there. So many things at the church that day “CLICKED”, I found it not to be coinsidental. It’s not something I can really elaborate on at this point in time, BUT I tell you this. The novel IS about SOUL. It’s taken some pretty interesting turns, of which I never question any more.
For whatever the reason, the idea of writing this came to me in a shallow sleep this morning, prior to getting up. Easter 2007. Maybe it’s a sign for me to really get back to the reason I need to work on this book- it EXCITED me.. Perhaps it’s a reminder to “tell me” this has got to get done.
Memories are amazing things. Sometimes they grab you, shake you around, and wake you up to the fact… we all have a mission.
Have a wonderful Sunday all! Rest today, for tomorrow there’s work to do.
I see the world quite differently than many. I believe in vision, more than anything else and I believe it brings permanency to life.
Being an art lover, and collector for some time, I see people who have put their hearts behind a pallet and painted what they believe to be vision. It’s been handed down through decades of belief. I watched a series today on the world’s worst jobs in history and a few of them belonged to painters and their models.
The model in the Renissance era had to often pose for 3 hours because of the details the painters were so obsessed with. Often these people were poor and earned very little. They were expected to maintain a pose without motion for hours, sometimes holding up their arms in various ways. They had to hold ropes to ease the pain in their limbs. One particularly well-known male model was found in a shelter and because of his bushy beard and muscular body, he was used many times by the great painters of the era. For women, it was worse than prostitution, and paid for less than males. Many of these people were chosen from the poor and paid little, but would do it nonetheless.
One particular painter had to paint the inside of the dome in one of Christopher Wren’s Cathedral’s in England being up 75 feet on very unsturdy scaffolding. Today, it still lasts and they’re doing restoration on the cathedral, so we could get a first hand look at it close up.
When you think of the permanency of paint, I think of the future. The painter is often doing a pictorial in time of their feelings, their perceptions, their beliefs and meshing them together with current events, situations, memories, readings and such. If they’re good, their paint lasts many generations, outlasts their certainly in life and many of their children’s children.
I never thought I’d last very long in life. There was a time I came very close to the end, which in retrospect could be told in a pretty funny story about Parrot Fever. Regardless, when you have a life altering experience as such, you begin to think about what it is you’d leave behind, what difference you’d make to the world, how is it you’d leave.
Painters are not just artists with a paintbrush… no sir… they’re artists with cameras, they’re artists with instruments and recordings, they’re artists with a gift for logic and perhaps a spoken word, they’re people who put together a future and paint it in the way they do it- Dance, plays, computer graphics, movies, a merge of many disciplines. Artists are believers- they bring forth new worlds- they paint pictures which alter perceptions, to indeed create exactly that.
I’ve commissioned a painting or two because I had a vision which I wanted to be a permanent reminder- something I wouldn’t forget and something to continue me on the struggle. I’m not one with a lot of vanity, but I believe in the good of making your visions come true. For me, painting is the first step. As one vision feeds into another, another is created somewhere else who may be inspired by the vision which preceded them. I hope in some ways to give the gifts of inspiration to those who truly need them, or cross them in passing. It’s all I ever really want. Poetic as that may be.
For if I died tomorrow, I think I feel I’ve done pretty well and painted a picture for others, who indeed painted pictures for me. Thank you readers, thank you friends … THANK YOU!
It’s Saturday morning. Early.
I’ve woken to the typical cough which has plagued me through the week, the same one which has filled my chest with the awful congestion of an on coming cold. Seems I can’t avoid this thing, as much as I’ve fought it all week. The hacking and headaches remind me of my youthful days when allergies and asthsma got the best of me. Perhaps it’s just a reminder how vulnerable the body can be to sickness.
Of all weeks this one was NOT the one to get the bug. From last Sunday, it seems I’ve been on a whirlwind of business, much of it networking and when you feel this way, the LAST thing you want to do is socialize. For the earlier part of the week there was the fund-raiser for a play Proof, who my friends daughter will play a part in in NYC. The same place I met an English professor who’s co-founded a magazine J Journal- one with criminal justice associations- and one I think I’d be a good fit for. Networking again on Tues, amidst a little fun for myself, which of course leads to a story or two (more details on blog earlier in week). Then there was my daughter’s project which plagued me for weeks to be given Friday morning, the same day I was having my friend Steve- a HUGELY talented painter up to catch up and inspire him with my new Hudson retreat. Thursday was THE fund-raiser for the disabled, blinded and hospitalized Veterans, again in NYC.
Now, although the hike into Manhattan seems to be straight forward there’s a little madness with TRAFFIC. It never ends and it’s downright aggravating. On top of it, you add Peasoup FOG and you have a receipe for a headache on top of the normal aches and pains associated with the cold symptoms. I think Thursday was the day I felt the worst and to try and network in a place where you feel OUT of place, by yourself… well, that’s another thing entirely.
The first five minutes you’re brimming with confidence, and within fifteen, you’re doubting you have any. It’s a strange road. Should I not have driven in, I could have probably had a few drinks and relaxed a little- been able to drum up some conversation, but knowing my car was parked on a sidestreet, and vulnerable to the NYPD towing it away- well, I’m never fully at ease unless I’m parked in a garage.
It was the first fund-raiser I’d been to of this type. It was at Manhattan Motor Car which sells Rolls Royce, Bentley, Lamborgini, Spyder, Porsche and such. At the event there were plenty of liquor vendors offering free wine, scotch, tequila, there was a specialty water company and a fashion show. The fashion show was the first I’d been to in years- three designers with very couture like pieces. The first I must say was eye catching to say the least. In the middle of a conversation on the edge of the crowd, I lost all conciousness (not realistically, but technically) when the first model made her way down in a sheer white see through dress, revealing almost all the “good bits”. As it happens I was in a conversation with a woman, who realized my distraction and bent down to try and get back in my view….. couldn’t help but laugh. If it was a guy, (several firefighters where on my other side and as blindsided as myself) the conversation would have ceased completely. This particular designer had these dresses which were more like negleges, much to my dismay (yeaaaaaaaaa, right……)
There was an assortment of very interesting people there. As I said, my confidence level decreased as I talked and people asked me your typical questions…. what company do you work for? (Uhhhhh, myself- writer/singer), who do you write for? (uhhhhh, myself- novelist), who are you here with? (uhhhhhh, myself- wait a minute, I’m seein a pattern here… I’m ALONE!!!!) Which of course means you must initiate conversation, should you want to make contacts. There was the car conversation which came up- what car do you drive? (uhhhhh, mazda protege and YES I’m standing in a LAMBORGINI dealer….)- the guy I was talking to replies “I had a convertible BMW, but I had to sell it when I moved from my Florida place to New York. I don’t need a car here.” There was the jewelry store owner who I could relate to on the jewelry side, but found out she lived on the upper West side and had little to say but derogatory remarks on the fashions. Eh, who needs ‘em.
One time I worked for a very fashion forward jewelry company, and attending these events was a more normal thing. It’s easy to be part of a company and with people to sell yourself and indeed your company. I tried to think that way, like writing is my own company, but until I’m making legitimate money or have something to promote. It’s an acting thing really. What was an ego again? I forgot.
Regardless, the event was filled with an art like atmosphere with four artists displaying their work, one in particular from Germany and I could go on and on about this interesting thing and that, but really …
I’m a bug… I’m feelin the bug… and it’s beatin me good and I think I’ll have to elaborate another day- maybe Monday. Have a fantastic weekend all!!
Last night I went into New York City. It’s my second home and one I miss tremendously. It was the second time this week- the first being a fund raiser for a play called “Proof” by David Auburn. It sounds like a sensational script and I believe the book won a pulitzer in 2003. In a nutshell it’s about a mathematical genius who is mentally unstable. When he passes a student under his tutiledge goes looking for the holy grail of math in his old notebooks. He finds it, but his daughter who also suffers from mental instability claims it to be hers. It’s definately something to check out, but I regress.
I went in last night to be entertained. One of our myspace friends Marina V. was in town from Los Angeles with her guitarist Nick and playing at a small cafe called Caffe Vivaldi located downtown near West 4th. Originally, I thought I’d need to drive in, which curtails any thoughts of having a drink. The last train of the afternoon was 3:50pm then it jumps to 9:40pm. The show being at 7:30. I was fortunate to be able to catch the 3:50 (which is a rarity) and arrive midtown at 5:15pm. (Not that this is important- but you can see the length of time and inconvenience factor) The good thing about the train is I can have a few drinks and not need to worry about it- unless of course you consider the obstacles in staying awake on such a ride.
I arrived downtown an hour and a half before the show. To me, this is an absolute treasure because I can “tool” about. Nothing to me is better than walking around this part of the Village. As I turned the corner, to get to Jones Street I found “The Slaughtered Lamb”. For those of you movie buffs, you may recognize it as the pub in “An American Werewolf in London” scene. It’s one of several “horror” pubs associated with each other- the second being an uptown place called “Jeckell and Hydes”. All have strange eclectic interiors of horror you might find in Jack the Ripper London- the attraction being not just the decor, but a happy hour special till 7pm for $4 drafts and 2 for 1 well drinks. I asked a guy in front about the chalk sign of happy hour- a heavily tattooed guy smokin a cigarette. He could barely talk with his heavy Irish accent and slur. It depicted his long stay at the bar- granted it’s only 6pm.
I found a seat, grabbed my Guiness and proceeded to watch an AC DC concert with no sound, but the background jukebox played classic rock. The tattooed guy reappeared next to me at the bar with his drink. He wore a short sleeved shirt with tattoos down to his wrists, several silver rings with one giant skull ring on his index finger. He told me he grew up listenin to AC DC. On the other end of a the bar was a young guy who I over heard worked at CNN with camera set ups and such. He was leaving for Indiana today to do something. Being a friend of the bartender I heard she too was taking a trip today to the MidWest where she was to play a lead role in a play. Not long after I’d arrived two fashion students originally from AL sat down next to me. They were in their last year before going off into the world of work.
I had an interesting conversation with Greta and her friend (SORRY- can’t remember- must have been that last Guiness). It was the contemplation of if she’d chosen the right career path. It’s a common thing to feel that, but the fact the person she worked for sounded like a manic depressant made an optimistic young woman unsure. I could get into a whole conversation about that itself- but again, it’s not why I’m writing this today. I feel confident if she can get past the toxins around her (which could include the uncertain thoughts), and proceeds with passion in what she chooses- she’ll be successful. Positivity attacts positivity.
Anyways, I went to see Marina and Nick before the show began, for a brief chat, then zoomed back to the Slaughtered Lamb for a last happy hour drink. In a place where your normal guiness can be $8, you can see my reasoning. It hurts the wallet folks. When I returned to Caffe Vivaldi, the place was packed and they were already a half hour into the set. It’s a wonderful thing when you have the sound of a grand piano accompanied by a beautiful voice, and I was happy I made the trip.
After my stay for the set, I trecked back out to walk around town before I was to get one of ONLY two trains which ran at 10:18 or 12:37- the first arriving home at 11:30ish the second close to 1:30ish. YIKES!
I walked around Carmine St. where a painter and writer friend of mine once lived, upon which I’d found both were gone. I went by the Blue Note- which gave host last night to Boz Skaggs! Really, I would have love to have gone in, but already my wallet was collapsing. I walked up 4th and found this groovy bar which I’d been to before on the corner of MacDougal called “Groove” where there was musicians setting up. I sat down and grabbed a corona. Two ”kids” returned to their beers at the bar next to me from a cigarette break. Their self entertainement was taking pictures of themselves kissing and hugging and being sweet. On the end of the bar with a couple of bags from Bloomingdales was a couple who must have been in their late 50’s who looked oddly familiar.
It’s not unusual to bump into people in this area of town. West 4th is a very hip place to be and with the music venues, tattoo parlors, cinemas and galleries, it’s not unsurprizing to see a star or two, outside of the homeless who sell records, books and toys on the curb to try and get by.
The band starts playin War’s Cisco Kidd- “the Cisco kid… was a friend of mine….” and I knew this place was good. Upon the many pictures which led down the hallways to the bathroom were stars such as Chaka Khan and James Brown, and paintings which were on the walls showed people like Isaac Hayes and Sly and Family Stone - which appeared as the next song- “Why Can’t we Be Friends”. Anyways….
The kids next door were in and out of the place havin smokes. Everytime they left I’d be lookin at this couple who I believe to be Joe Walsh and his woman.
You must understand, I have this bad habit of visual memory recall. It’s a memory prompt and where other people tend to remember by word association, I do it by visual prompts- but sometimes I’m ON and sometimes I’m OFF. I thought this time I was pretty on and the way his “girlfriend” was lookin down at me, I thought was the kicker ”they recognize, I know who he is”. They go back and forth with a conversation between them and he non-shalantly looks down at me. I nod my head as if to know- “Yea, I know who you are….”, tip my glass to him- and that should be enough. I mean, when you see someone you’re in awe with- any star- especially the guitarist for the Eagles- ya sorta give them their privacy and respect. I promised myself I’d say something like “thanks” just before I leave.
I attacted the attention of the bartender- a young woman who I’m not even sure would KNOW who Joe Walsh was. I say to her, “I think I know that guy down there- is his name Joe?” (careful not to give away to much info- respect of privacy..) She comes back, “well, he sounds Russian”. OK, I’m thinkin- he’s throwin her off with his fake Russian accent so he can maintain his privacy.
This summer I went to see the Police and saw a guy who looked exactly like Bono. Everyone thought the same and when I overheard these guys in a conversation with him, that JERSEY accent came out- and he pins himself as a Look alike. After there conversation this guy moved pretty quickly back to his seats and it occurred to me, wouldn’t it be the perfect cover for the real Bono to do a fake accent, to throw off pesky fans- play a look alike like Halloween. Yeaaaaaa, that’s it… that’s what Joe Walsh was doin.
It’s gettin late and I decide I should really get goin, but I’m gonna need to say something. So I get outta my seat and walk over to “Joe” and tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, do I know you? Is your name Joe?” (careful not to spill the beans and see how he comes back.)
This guys says “zpadddda gabba gola zpadda ge” and gives me this expression…. Confused (cause I already convinced myself this guy was Joe Walsh) I say, “Is your name Joe? I think I know you.”
Zpadddda gabba gula dabba do……
And I nod my head and go “oh shit.” then shake it again and wave my hand… “Nevermind.” It was the Russian Joe Walsh all right… now if only I had an interpreter….
I gotta remember to fix that visual memory detector. Before I know it, I’ll see Elvis.
If I was a pendulum, I’d find my greatest place at the epicenter of the swing. It’s only today I remembered that. I know myself well, and as the swing falls all the way to one side- we’ll name it sadness- the gears pull it back to the other, which we’ll call anger. I’ve always found, and I think most men do, find it’s easier to deal with anger than sadness. I have this “mind switch” which converts the doldrums to anger in order to be creative. Anger is my fuel. It puts the drive in full steam. I feel there’s this place at the epicenter of this conversion which is pure creativity. It’s pure thought, unabashed, and a place I’m lucky to get to on occasion.
I woke this morning uncertain of myself, lacking confidence and unguided, I sought to try and keep on some kind of routine. Only last week I started to get back to the gym and rid myself of bad habits. It’s not easy when you’re up late, drinking and snacking and attempting to write or listen, or do anything which will resemble “creative”. I fell off the wagon last night- got into a funk- and not a good one. It took me down a couple of notches.
There are times I forget my “safety zones” and my primary one is music. All through my initial routinization of “working out” I hadn’t brought my music- my focus- my intensity. Without which I found myself without a clearly good workout: a strong direction. Today, I found a playlist I titled Dark Rock and converted all this energy into the intensity I once knew. Music like Rage Against the Machine and Janes Addiction, Nine Inch Nails, and Tool. “Ohhhhh, yeaaaaaa- that’s right… anger… writing… music….
Along with anger comes the confidence, I felt flee last night. It’s a simple switch, like the one on your wall- ON- anger thus writing and confidence or OFF- sadness, withdrawl, melancoly and shut down. Some people wonder why the spin and HOW do you get the switch to turn- can you have the “Clapper” attached- clap on, clap off …. if only it was so simple… but for me- music is the trigger. I was lookin at the switch last night but couldn’t reach it, even first thing this morning I found it was still too far, then I found my playlist- CLICK. Yeaaaaa, there we go…. I see the light.
Now the plan has come back into view, and despite all my personal interuptions, I know what needs to be done. Long term projects suck cause they’re exactly that- LONG TERM. The satisfaction comes and goes in spurts, but as long as you recognize your commitment to it, it’ll eventually come to pass.
So for today, I leave you with a song by my favorite Rock band- Rage Against the Machine… Renegades of Funk and some lyrics to boot- good day to you all!
Since the Prehistoric ages and the days of ancient Greece
Right down through the Middle Ages
Planet earth kept going through changes
And then no renaissance came, and times continued to change
Nothing stayed the same, but there were always renegades
Like Chief Sitting Bull, Tom Paine
Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcom X
They were renegades of their time and age
So many renegades
We’re the renegades of funk