dred scott dispatches

nyc dispatch 10.11.11

i’m standing on the f train heading into manhattan.  i call it ‘chasing after that 50 bucks.’  one dance class.  one hour, twenty minutes.  and a 45 minute commute to the ailey school each way.  i don’t know why i do it.  i like the teacher.  it’s easy.  $50 can add up, especially when i can string them together.  but that doesn’t always happen.  i like having the time alone on the subway. right now i’m going through the michel thomas spanish language app i put on my iphone.  it’s great.  i feel like i am making progress.  and there are many people in my neighborhood to practice with.  when i go to baja and mexico city and oaxaca next month, i hope to be ready.

the train stops at carroll st. and people get on.  the train is standing room only but not packed.  a recorded announcement comes on - something about the mta reserves the right to inspect your bags at anytime.  thank you for riding the mta.  i used to just give the announcement the finger but i’m busy on my flashcards.  some guy stands up and says loudly and articulately,

‘excuse me, but in response to that announcement you should as citizens of this country know that the 4th amendment has not been repealed and no law enforcement agency has the right to search you or your belongings without your consent unless you are being arrested or there is probable cause and refusing to give you consent does not constitute probable cause.’

and then he just sat down.  i put my iphone in my pocket and applauded.  others joined in and some people were shouting, ‘power to the people.’  still others were completely stone faced,

unaffected.  i put my fist in the air and felt my blood.  could the times be a-changin’….back?

wildwood dispatch

i had no idea.  it seemed like a good plan.  take off early from virginia beach and head up the eastern shore to lewes and take the ferry to cape may.  perfect timing, the sun will be setting during the crossing.  we stopped along the way at a nice restaurant and picked up some salads, fried oysters and some bacon wrapped scallops to eat on the ferry.  the drive up the 113 was mellow and rural.  the ferry crossing was perfect.  we drove over to cape may and headed north to the hotel i’d bought online earlier, the casa del sol.  it was right on the beach.  $75 including tax.  driving north on ocean ave was like a 50’s time capsule.  all the hotels looked hip and groovy.  like the 50’s, man.  quasi space age, art deco. the matador, the acropolis, the roman holiday motel, the monaco hotel, the sandpiper, the pan american (which had a giant space needle looking minaret with a rotating, neon ‘PA’ sign out front), the stardust, the lotus, the jade, the bel air.

this was kitschy motel heaven.  but our hotel was further up the strip.  further and further.  till a big amusement park came into view.  i pulled over to check the gps on my phone.  a little further.  shit.  and then we saw it.  or rather my wife saw it because the light was out.  i pulled up outside and went to the office which was closed.  a sign said the clerk was across the street at the nantucket.  i went across and got a room on the first floor.  my wife was 8 months pregnant and i had a broken foot so i wanted to be on the first floor.  i hobbled back across the street and we went to our room.  my wife opened the door and said,

‘man, this is pretty ghetto.’

it was like renting a room next to the boardwalk at coney island.  but we like the boardwalk at coney island so we went for a walk anyway.  we got some ice cream and walked around.  we were the oldest people in sight.  i actually felt like we were sticking out.  it was weird.  i thought we were going to a peaceful seaside scene and instead we dropped down in the middle of a jersey shore episode.  i got some peanut brittle that was stale but i ate it anyway.

ode to sofia’s

there’s the down-trodden guy.  he always has on a black t-shirt under a gray suit.  he looks rumpled.  he looks tired.  his black hair is greasy.  he doesn’t smile much or get involved in the discussions between the other regulars.  he’s more of a watcher.  i’ve run into him once or twice around times square.  each time he was just standing there on the sidewalk not doing anything.  he recognized me as that piano player guy and gave me an awkward head nod as i walked by.   one time i asked roger, the biker bartender with the 200 i.q., what the guy did.  told me he was an entertainment lawyer.
 
there’s the guy-who’s-always-here guy and he is always here.  or will be arriving shortly.  he’s a tall, indian guy of about 50.   a little salt and pepper at the temples.  his eyes are deep set and the dark circles around them give him a slight raccoonish appearance.  he is always dressed well. like a gentleman.  a nice, open-collared shirt (with a sweater in the winter) and a sport coat with slacks.  never a suit.  no tie.  simple brown loafers for shoes. without the tassels. he drinks white wine.  he always claps for the band.  if there is a single woman sitting at the bar, he will be on her.  he chatted up my girlfriend once and she found out he played basketball,
‘back in india where i’m from,’ as he put it.
one time he came in and sat down next to me at the bar so i asked him,
‘damn, dude.  what do you live upstairs or something?  you’re like the guy-who’s-always-here guy.’
he picked up his sports section and snapped it open and with out looking at me said,
‘leave me alone.’
 
there’s the loud guy.  thin.  wiry.  the way his close-cropped hair exposes his forehead and his taut, tan skin stretches across his face and with his hooked nose, when he cocks his head up and laughs that high staccato laugh whenever he tells a joke makes him resemble a baby eagle.  he’s the kind of guy who puts his arm around you when he’s talking to you.  and will interrupt himself to yell across the bar,
‘HEY JIMMY!  OVER HERE!!’  
waving the friend over with a sharp hand gesture and then going back to his conversation,
‘what was i saying??…..oh yeah.  so donny says to joey and get this…..you’re not going to believe this……….’
he seems like he could be a coke dealer.  but i overheard him talking about some golf rules dispute in last week’s weekend foursome.  golf and blow.  i don’t see it.  maybe he’s a stage manager.
 
there’s the stage hand i occasionally smoke weed with.  shoulder length red hair parted down the middle.  a wispy mustache and goatee and a gap in his teeth that shows when he crinkles up his face and laughs that burn-out laugh,
‘a-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.’
i think he’s a friend of roger’s.  he seems a little out of place here.  he always seems distracted. like he’s thinking about something.  or nothing.
 
there’s the cop who moonlights at the sheraton across the street. he comes in to eat the free bar munchies.  he looks like a cop. he has to wear a suit for his after hours gig in security but he always looks uncomfortable.  like the suit doesn’t fit quite right. i asked mike, the maitre d’ where the cop was.  hadn’t seen him in awhile and mike told me he retired and lives on his boat in florida. he couldn’t have been more than 45.
 
there’s the gay guy.  that might not seem like much of a distinction  and he might not even be the only gay regular - sofia’s is not a gay bar, per se- but he is the most flamboyantly gay, gay guy.  he is always impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed.  he extends his pinky when he sips his fruity blender drink revealing a beautiful star sapphire pinky ring.  my dad had one like it that i wear on my index finger sometimes.  we had a conversation about it once and he is very nice but i never got his name.
 
there’s nick the metal-head bartender.  he is a stocky guy with a modest mullet.  he has a boat and loves to fish and lives in jersey.  one time i got it wrong and asked him where out on long island  he lived.  (jersey….long island…it’s easy to mix them up.)  he made a face and said,
‘i don’t live on long island.  fuck long island.’
he has a kid who’s the most important thing in his life.  i’ve heard him talking to her on his cell phone during his shift.  he is a good father - reassuring and encouraging and full of love.  one time after he hung up with her i asked him if that was his daughter.  he said,
‘yeah.’  and then looked past me and smiled to himself,
‘she’s a good kid.’
he split with the mother a few years ago.
‘she’s a little crazy,’ he told me once.
nick is understated but becomes animated when we talk about metal bands we like or have seen.
we agree on most things:
sabbath isn’t sabbath without ozzy no matter how much we liked the mob rules with dio.
that the guy after bon in ac/dc is good but bon was the shit.
that michael schenker’s solo stuff wasn’t as good as the scorpions.
that def leppard didn’t rock as hard after the drummer lost his arm in a car wreck.
and we were both surprised when rob halford came out.  d’uh.  hell bent for leather?
but we disagree on metallica.  i think they sound better since they changed producers and cut their hair off.  he likes the old stuff and was appalled by the some kind of monster documentary.  that documentary was pretty ridiculous.
 
there’s the kitchen.  to get fed on your gig at sofia’s it is necessary to go into the kitchen, order it and get it yourself.  i love to cook and i love kitchens but i am afraid to go back there.  it’s like a pirate ship.  after going through the unmarked, swinging double doors that servers will go in or out of either way,  the first thing you see is the dishwasher to the left.  a blast of steamy, soapy air hits your face and you see through the mist behind the stacks of dirty dishes a sad figure leg ironed to the base of the dishwasher.  a constant reminder to all who pass that one fuck up could land you here.  across from the dishwasher, the bread steamer.  here is where they turn old bread into perfectly presentable and possibly edible fresher bread.  just past the bread machine there are three treacherous steps always slick with i don’t know what leading back to the line and the salad guy.  the last time i went back there went something like this:
i order my salad without dressing and the guy never looks up. i have come to know he has heard me because my salad always appears wordlessly and without recognition.
‘thank you,’  i say anyway.
i turn around and bend down so i can see the cook through the stainless steel window where the food comes out.  i tell him, 

‘spaghetti and meatballs, please.’
and he squints at me, replying,  ‘you got it, boss.’
he smiles or picks something out of his gold tooth with the inside of his cheek. he has a mustache that has exactly 12 hairs.  he is fat and sweating profusely.  he wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. i look around.  across the room, two guys are doing some prep work at a table  and there are two other guys sitting on chairs peeling potatoes and watching a soccer game with the sound off. there is only the sound of sizzling or boiling or dishes, pots or pans clattering.  no music.  little talking.  after just a few minutes, i see the cook combining the pasta with the sauce and putting it over the stove.  he whips around to plate the dish, deftly sliding the contents of the pan onto a plate just as another cook passes behind him slapping him on the back and saying,
‘cuidado!’
the cook shoves my food through the opening and he seems to be winking at me. i do a double take and realize he’s not winking, his left eye socket is missing its eye.  he must notice the horrified look on my face because he reaches up to his face, fingering the empty socket and furrowing his brow which he nervously wipes with his sleeve as he looks down at the floor, searching for something. i have the plate in my hand and am pulling it through the service window when he grabs the plate back from me and holds it up a couple of inches from his face while he digs through my pasta with his other hand. his eyebrows raise and he smiles and i catch a glimpse of the gold tooth again.  he pulls the eyeball dripping with tomato sauce out of my dish and pops it into his mouth, swirling it around while wiping his hands on the front of his apron.  he spits it out into his palm and in one motion, pops it back into the whole in his head.  he pushes the plate back through the window, giving me a satisfied look, but i just say,
‘no thanks.  i’m not hungry now.’
and i scramble out of there, slipping on the steps but catching myself to a chorus of laughter behind me.  i never went back there again.  now i just eat the free bar food which if it’s meatballs or the baked ziti, is good.  and if it’s the pizza or sausage and peppers, is not.
 
there’s mike the maitre d’. mike loves teddy wilson and is an avid sports fan favoring tennis.  he is disgusted by just about everything else.  one time roger got me drunk and talked me into playing some hendrix tunes.  mike didn’t call me for five years.  now i play in a style that doesn’t go past the 1950’s and he hires me all the time.  we have had many discussions about tennis - an old passion of mine. he thinks i am a character but tolerates me anyway.  if i am dressed in a way that is not to his liking, he’ll smile and shake his head when he sees me,
‘hullo, dred.’
i just recently found out he plays the saxophone.  one time i asked roger where mike lived.  and if he lived alone.  he seems like he’s alone.
‘how the fuck should i know?’  was what he said.
in 8 years of bar tending there, roger told me he never had one personal conversation with mike.
‘he’s kind of a strange guy,’ he added.
but i like the strange people.  the loners.  the wounded. it makes me feel good to make mike laugh - seems to me his life could use more humor.  new york city can wear you down to a nub.
 
there’s roger the biker bartender with the 200 i.q.   he does the saturday times crossword puzzle like nothing.  speaks five languages, including latin. has a nice harley.  roger is 6’3 and about 210 but he gracefully vaults over the  bar to go outside and smoke. i would not want to piss him off.  one time i forgot to pay my bar tab and the next time i saw  him he flashed on me pretty hard.  but he got over it.  some musicians can’t stand him.  he has told many drummers to play softer in no uncertain terms,
‘this ain’t fucking carnegie hall!!’
but i think roger is one of the most interesting people i’ve ever known.  he’s a biker with a 200 i.q.  one day roger bought a bar in ft. myers and now he lives down there.  he runs the place with his son.  my mother and her old lady friends go there for lunch all the time.  they love the truffled mac and cheese.  the burgers are good, too. she’s having her 89^th birthday party there.  she knows if he’s not in when she stops by how to find him. if the bike’s in the foyer of the bar he’s around the corner at the cigar bar smoking.  if it isn’t, he’s riding around.

cannes 2010

‘oh, my god.  i am so out of my element.  i don’t have a t.v., i don’t speak french and i don’t know who any of these people are…’

we are standing outside our dressing room, which is next to the stage, talking to a young, straight-haired, blonde, american girl from indiana who is guarding the door.  she is confident in a way that only young girls are.  she prattles on without pause or regard or question.  we stare at her and listen because she is very cute.  as i drift in and out of what she is saying, i notice the way the artificial light of the deck we are standing on outside the tent shadows her arms, sleeveless in her black cocktail dress.  there is a peachy fuzz covering the length of her arms and i wonder if her entire body is lichen-like as well.

‘so can i go in and get my bag, at least?’ i ask.

‘yeah, my glass of champagne is in there, too,’ ben adds.

she crosses her fuzzy arms and says,

‘they told me not to let anyone in there.’

audrey bursts through the other door that leads into the main room.

‘we need you guys onstage, NOW!’

shit, my music is in there.  they told us to prepare songs for grace jones, joss stone, mick, bono, jay z, lionel ritchie (who didn’t show) and marc anthony and jlo (who just left together out the back where we were standing – marc anthony pausing to say goodbye to us, ‘take care guys, sorry we didn’t get a chance to play together.  next time.’  and as he passed, looked back over his shoulder and nodded towards jlo and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘she’s the boss, right?’).  so i’m not sure whom they are calling us to back up, but if it’s one of those people i’m going to need the music.  i go around to the other door and go in.  i see my bag against the wall and grab it.  she doesn’t look up.  she’s just sitting there alone with her head down, drinking the belvedere and cranberry they brought in for her while we were still in the dressing room.  i get to the side of the stage and am introduced to chris tucker.

‘what’s up, you guys?  i’m going to need some frank, uh, best is yet to come??…..and………what a wonderful world.  and what michael you know?’

ben and i look at each other and say simultaneously,

‘billie jean?’

‘yeah.  that’s great…..let’s go.’

 ben hands me his iphone with the changes to ‘the best is yet to come’ and i’m thinking, man that was weird.  he didn’t sound like chris tucker.  the chris tucker from the movies with the squeeky, high-pitched voice.   he just sounded like, i don’t know, normal.  like does gilbert godfrey always talk that way he talks?  shouting and squinting,

‘honey, would you please get out and move megan’s tricycle so i can back up?’ or

‘just take a little off the top, billy and not too short in the back this time.’

i remember the first time is saw you bet your life, grouchos’ game show.  i couldn’t believe he sounded just like the groucho from the movies.  toned down, of course, and with his own moustache, but that unmistakable groucho sarcasm and smart ass.  that way of talking that barbra streisand and alan alda have imitated in their comic acting.  i read some of groucho’s personal letters and he writes the way he talks.  in one postscript he writes,

‘by the way, did you know peter o’toole is a double phallic name?’

 ‘where’s my french people at? y’all got a beautiful country but why you always got to be like, eet eez not possible?’

chris tucker is being the chris tucker from his movies.  he leads us through the tunes,

‘here’s a song a wrote.  i think you’ll recognize it.’

and he does some bits.

‘where’s my english people at?  y’all ain’t better than everybody else so just relax. ok?’

he’s a good singer and his michael is dead on.  he does the moonwalk.  woo-hoo.  shamona.  and we’re off.

backstage chris tucker finds us.

‘thanks, guys.  nice job.  that was fun.’

and he’s regular voice guy again.  i told him i loved that french bit.  that i’d been on about it since we got here.  ‘le pays de non,’  i kept saying.

‘excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ou se trouve le sunset jazz club, s’il vous plait?’

‘hmm. je ne sais pas.’

it sounds like ‘jeune sais pas,’ and i think of correcting him.  the ultimate insult.

‘man, these mother fuckers know where it is,’ tony says as we’re walking away.

we have stopped at literally a dozen places along the rue denis.  the cab driver did not know where the club was and took us in a big circle to where rue denis begins.  i said i thought it was much farther down towards the seine but he pointed to the pedestrian mall that is rue denis and said,

‘ce n’est pas possible.’

so we got out. 

i looked at where the club was on the map before we left the hotel and it seemed so easy, i didn’t bother to get the address.  we’ve asked ten merchants, two cops, two very nice guys who were opening up their bar – we sat and had a coffee and chatted with them.  they didn’t know where it was.  i went to another bar and asked these two guys.  one of the guys says he works there and sends us down the wrong street in the wrong direction.

‘man, this doesn’t look right.’  tony’s been there before. ‘that dude was fucking with us.’

we see a guy with an iphone.  he can’t find it.  we go back to rue denis.  there are a lot of sex shops.  good place for a jazz club.  i ask two more guys in a clothing store.  non.  my phone i just fucking bought for the express purpose of popping a sim card into it and using it here in a situation exactly like this one isn’t working.  i will find out later when i try to return it to the shop in my neighborhood, that the phone i bought IS unlocked.

‘i only sell unlocked phones.  i’m not lying.’

‘well i’m not lying either.  that phone is locked in europe.  and it’s not the sim card because it worked on my friend’s phone.’

‘look.’  he has taken my phone apart, replaced the french sim card with a local sim card.

‘see, it’s working.  it’s not locked.’

‘you told me the phone would work in france.’

‘france?  i don’t know what kind of system they have over there, but it’s working.  see?’

‘dude, you TOLD me this phone-‘

‘hey! don’t dude me!! don’t you fucking dude me!!’  and the dude turns into a chubby, spikey-haired rosie perez.  ‘i don’t have to take this shit from you!’  pointing his finger at me and i know this is going to go nowhere.  i thought maybe he’d give me the 15 bucks i spent on the sim card and give me a different phone.  that is not going to happen.

‘just give me the phone.’  and he tosses my phone in pieces across the counter and folds his arms.  i put it back together and consider my options:

throw the phone at him as hard as i can,

throw the phone against the wall behind him,

come back at nite and throw the phone through the store window.

good thing that weed’s working and i don’t do anything.  i hate to think what would’ve happened if i hadn’t smoked those two bong hits before i left the house.

‘man, if that’s how you roll,’ i say and start walking out.

‘yeah, that’s how i roll, papi.  get the fuck out of here.  you yuppiemother….’  and the door closes behind me.

‘non. si vous fumez sans tabac, vous avez le mal a la tete.’

‘i know what’ll happen if i smoke that shit without the tobacco,’ i whisper to tony, ‘i’ll fucking get high.’

i take a hit off the hash/tobacco joint anyway.  it’s after the paris gig at the sunside and the bartender is smoking us out.  i’m getting a headache alright -  from smoking tobacco without a filter.

we found the club and had some decent thai food around the corner.  played two sets to a decent size crowd (for a monday nite).  one couple left because of tony’s ‘drumming style’ (a french reviewer told me he heard them muttering about it as they walked out) but the rest of the crowd was very attentive and appreciative.  one woman came alone and laughed at all the jokes.  i found out she was the wife of a pianist friend of mine who just happened to be in paris.  i thought my patter was dying, but she explained to me that the french are kind of a stoic audience and that it takes a lot to get them to laugh.  like jerry lewis.  that explains it.  the piano bench was on it’s own box not connected to the stage and a couple of times i nearly fell off.  big laughs.

in the morning, i poke some holes in an orangina can and smoke the little chunk of hash the bartender laid on me.  it seems like it’s been days since i got high, but it’s only been a little more than 24 hours since the cookie i ate on the plane.  we muster in the lobby and go out to the boulevard to find a taxi.  it’s an extra 15 euro to call one that will show up at the hotel so we go to the corner and catch one right away.  right away after the first cab stopped, asked where we were going, saw our luggage and sped off.

the taxi driver is a big african dude.  nigerian?  his neck is a ring of bulges and his sportcoat is too small.  we put the luggage in the trunk and ben and i sit in the back seat.  tony’s opening the door to the front seat and the driver says,

‘non.  ce n’est pas possible,’  sticking his thumb out and without looking at him, motioning tony to the back seat.

‘non!  il n’y a pas l’espace ici,’  and i motion to the tiny space between ben and i.  he pauses for a second, staring me down.  before he can say anything else i sternly say,

‘non!’

i can see ben trying not to laugh out of the corner of my eye.

‘non!’  i say again motioning again to the space between us.

the driver exhales dramatically and removes his personal items from the front seat so tony can sit down.   and we’re off.

‘i’m going to say hello to lenny kaye.  he comes down to banjo jim’s to hear adam’s band all the time.  he’ll remember me.’  

tony stands up from his seat in the ultra-modern wating area outside our gate in charles de gaulle.  he slips his cymbal bag around one shoulder, stops, takes the bag off his shoulder and sits back down.

‘man, fuck that.  i’m not doing that.’

we board the plane and my seat is just two seats behind her.  the person in front of me is having trouble with the overhead bin - trying to stuff a suitcase in there he should’ve checked - and i’m standing over patti smith.  she’s flipping through a magazine.

‘ms. smith, thanks for rocking,’ i say.

‘oh?  yeah…..sure.’

and i introduce myself to her and lenny saying we are the house band at the amfar event and that if she wants us to back them up on a tune to just say the word.

‘ember?’  she squints up at me.

‘amfar,’ lenny says.

‘oh…cool,’ she says. ‘it’s only one song, but if they ask us to do more, yeah, sure, that would be great.’

and i sit down next to melissa, married to bill, the older gentleman across the aisle.  they are from new orleans.  he was in textiles and is now retired.  her family business takes used concrete and turns it into roadbed.  we talk about new orleans.  i ask her to name her favorite restaurants and all the ones she names, i know.  and her favorite of all is mine as well, jacque-imo’s.  we go on for awhile about the alligator cheesecake and the fried roast beef po’ boy.  and how the maple leaf bar is right next door.  about how jack tried one on the upper west side which i did patronize often but that didn’t make it.  we agree he’s no emeril. and for that we are thankful.  

 it is a beautiful spring day as we fly over the french countryside.  it’s a short flight and soon we are out over the med and landing in nice.  we collect our bags and make our way over to the the car rental where i expect to encounter obstacles.  my credit card is the wrong kind. we can’t find your reservation.  my driver’s license is not something.  i am uninsurable.  but to my surprise and delight, there is no line and we get the car without  incident and are zipping away in a sweet audi a3 in no time.  i want to see how fast it will go but for the moment am content to whip around the roundabouts and downshift into turns.  

‘you’re having fun, aren’t you, dred?’  tony says from the back seat.  i smile and meet his eyes in the rear view mirror.

‘suck the cock and lick the balls,’  i sing.

i click on my inbox and see there is a message from ben.  he sent it at 4am.  the subject line reads, 

‘i need your help in the morning.’

cryptic.  he’s just in the room downstairs and i’m thinking what the fuck as i open it up.

‘dude.  some guy came through the window into my room last nite and stole my wallet.  i have to go to the cop station this morning before noon and file a report.  can you drive me?’

i look at the clock in the top right corner of my mac - 10am.  i run downstairs to ben’s room and knock on the door.

‘who is it?’

‘inspector clouseau!”

ben opens the door.  he’s laughing.  good sign.  i go in and see a room in disarray.

‘what the hell happened?’

ben tells me how he woke up at 3am to see some dude coming through his window.  he jumped out of bed.  there was a struggle.  he was able to shove the guy into the mirror (i notice a clump of curly, black hair stuck in some broken cracks) and get in a couple of body shots, but the dude dove out the window where an accomplice was waiting.  being barefoot and there now being two of them, ben wisely did not give chase.  it was only after that he realized the guy got his wallet off the table.

‘well, at least he didn’t get your iphone.’

‘no shit.  that would’ve sucked way worse.  it’s just a little cash and my credit cards which i cancelled immediately.’

‘did you call les cochons?’

‘yeah, they came and met me outside.’

‘they didn’t even come in?  what about the dna evidence?’  i point to the cracked mirror.  ’and there’s got to be some prints on the window sill.’

‘nah, they just said come in the morning and fill out a report.’

‘what about down there?’  i say pointing to the gravel below the window.  ’maybe there’s a shoe print they can make a plaster cast of.’

we got to the cop station.  they tell us to wait.  we wait.  they tell us to come back in the afternoon.  this, we do not do.  instead, we wander around the old city of antibes.  we come across an open air market where i find some corsican sausage.  i did not know the corsicans were famous for their sausage.  i tried some that the pigs were only fed day old baguette and chestnuts.  best ever.  we come across a guy selling lp’s and i buy a nino rota record.  we walk back to the car along the sea atop the walled city and it is just beautiful.

‘all right.  who’s gonna bid 50 grand to hear patti smith sing my favorite song, because the nite?’  harvey weinstein sounds a little like harvey fierstein.  earlier at the soundcheck he brought marc anthony in to hear us.  we played the montuno from his hit song, i need to know.  harvey stopped us and said,

‘guys, meet marc anthony.’

we all waved from the stage.

‘no, guys. come down here and meet marc anthony.’

and so we jumped down from the stage and met marc anthony.

‘hey guys.  how you doing?’

‘great.  great.  how about you?’

‘awe, man,  i’m fried.  you know….kids.  and i have a big kid to take care of too, you know?’

and we all laughed like we knew what it must be like to be married to jlo.

‘so where you guys from?’

‘we all live in brooklyn.’

‘brooklyn?!!  get the fuck out of here!  brooklyn?  all right!!’   and he started giving us the cool bro hand shake with the half hug.  wow.  super nice cat.  

‘you guys read?’  he asks us.

‘yeah, yeah.  sure.  no problem.’

‘cool.  i’ll have them fax you the arrangement.  there’s not much to it, so those little parts are important, you know?’

‘yeah.  totally.  cool.’

‘i got to play that one, you know?….it’s like my suit.’

‘hell yeah,’ i say.  ’if i had a suit that shot money out of it like that one, i’d never take it off.’

‘exactly,’  marc anthony says. ‘we’ll see you guys later.  thanks, harvey.’

‘yeah.  nice to meet you.  thanks harvey,’  we say.

patti smith steps up to the mic. 

‘if it was a man who bid the 50,000 euro, i’ll see you in the men’s room later.  and if it was a woman, i’ll see you in the ladies’ room later.’

and patti and lenny launch into because the nite.  it ‘s awesome.  the first song they played, the people have the power moved me to tears.  no shit.  i spent some years being involved in marxist, collective theater in san francisco (sfmt.org) and the power of the people has always been an awe inspiring thing to me.  i couldn’t believe the intensity of their performance.  raw, visceral and political.  a dramatic song may be the most powerful medium of expression.  it had a sense of truth that was undeniable to me.  it blew me away.  just her and lenny.  i told him so after they came off.

‘man. that was unbelievably moving.’

he noticed my teary eye.

‘man, thanks a lot.  wow.  that’s really nice of you to say.’

‘i’m not bullshitting you!  i was totally blind sided by the emotion you guys put out.’

‘oh man, i’m just trying to rock, you know?’

‘yeah, well, mission accomplished.’

‘haha.  thanks.  now i can drink.  where’s the bar?’

and off he went.  he would later tell us this is the fanciest party he’s ever been to and that he couldn’t wait to get back to the lower east side -  to something he could understand.  i hope i run into lenny again.  he is the coolest. 

the nite winds down.  mary k. bilge comes out of our dressing room and sings two numbers to tracks.  her first words on stage,

‘i know you’d get on your feet if bono was here, so get on your feet for me.’

yeah, bono – rock ‘n’ roll legend and world famous humanitarian……and her.  i think the comparison is apt.

during her first song i am entertained by watching grace jones at a nearby table grind her ass into the crotch of her young white boy date (she looks amazing – what is she like 60?) and by my close proximity to jean luc goddard who sat with them with his wife looking non-plussed all evening. 

russel crowe auctions off a fighter jet flight that he jokingly says will be armed with missiles that the winner can use to blow up anyone they like and some model auctions off a photo shoot with karl lagerfeld that goes for 600,000 euro.  and michell phillips is really cute. 

there’s some buzzing at the side of the stage.  it looks like the guy they are calling the fastest violinist in the world might go up and play to some tracks he brought with him.  we met him earlier in the first dressing room we were assigned.  one with patti and lenny and david.  he gave us all a little concert and he is amazing.  fast and clean and his playing sings in that way that the profoundly gifted just take for granted.  he and patti got into a conversation about pagganini.  i interrupted and asked him,

‘do you know the devil went down to georgia?’

‘everybody always asks me that!’ he exclaims.  ‘that’s like charlie daniels, right?  man it’s crazy how often i get that.’

a perfect comedic beat goes by and ben says,

‘so…..do you know it?’

and i feel a special pride.  ben would not have said something so sarcastic when i met him some 15 years ago and i can’t help but feeling my smart ass ways have rubbed off on him.  everyone laughed and david said, laughing as well,

‘no.  but i’m going to learn it tomorrow!’

it doesn’t look like david is going to get to play.  turns out we know all the guys in his stateside band and he tells us he would’ve preferred to play with us live, but that he didn’t know we would be here.

‘so, it looks like you’re not going to get to play,’ i say. ‘bummer.’

‘oh man, it’s cool.  i just want to do my part and support the cause and if that means not playing, that’s fine.’

wow.  very talented dude wih his head on straight.  andy comes up to us.

‘so, harvey wants you guys to do another song with patti.  cool?’’

‘yeah!  that would be awesome.’  and we go up to the stage.  someone has bid 200,000 euro to hear patti do a song with the band.  she grabs the mic and bellows,

‘sure for another 200,000 euro we’ll do another fucking song!’ and the crowd goes wild.

lenny gets on the guitar and leads us through gloria.  i forgot there was so much to it.  it starts slow. gets faster.  ha a bunch of hits.  lenny tells us before hand,

‘it’s e to d for a really long time.  then e-a-d.  just watch me.’

and we do and we kill.  unbelievable.  top ten highlights of my life.  unbelievable.

after, we are hugging each other as we walk off the stage and here comes mary k. bilge.    earlier, andy had asked me if i knew stairway to heaven and i said of course, but i didn’t imagine it would be with her.  it’s cool.  i’ve got steve elliot.  we can deal.

the battle of the bilge.

she begins,’there’s a lady who’s sure…’  and it’s not in the original key.  she says into the mic, ‘i need it in this key.’  and steve is right there.  d minor.  it could’ve been worse.  he’s backing her up nicely when she turns and cuts him off.  next verse we sneak back in and she cuts us off again.  we get to the next part,’and it makes me wonder’ and we creep in again.  and again she cuts us off.  this time saying into the mic,

‘i’m sorry, but i just can’t do this with the band.’

and she continues a capella, turning the song into a melismatic ocean of filigree.  i look to the side of the stage and her husband/manager catches my eye.  he’s yelling at me to play.

‘you play!! just you and nobody else!!’  he’s jabbing his finger at me and sweating profusely. he has a bright red sport jacket on and a bowler hat.  mr. bilge.

i look at him, point at her and shrug my shoulders, folding my arms across my chest.

he is still screaming but i ignore him.  the guitar solo heading into the last section (‘and as we wind on down the road…’) comes up.  i look at tony and nod my head.  he plays a great fill and we are all in playing those last three chords that are the last section.  she stops us again. it’s a joke.  she does a long,

‘woo-woo-woo-ooo and she’s b;uy-i-i-i-i-i-i-ing……..a…..staaaaaaaaaaaaaarrway-ay-ay-ay-ooo-oo-yeah whoah oh no yeah stairway-oh-way-oh-way-no……..to…….heavennnnnnnnnnn.’

there is a smattering of applause.  the guests had begun to leave after the patti smith number, making their way down the hill to the after party at the eden roc.  mary k. bilge says into the mic,

‘if these people were not my friends i would’ve never put myself through that!

and we’re off.

after, i’m talking to andy over a drink.  he works very hard to put all this together.  i feel bad the last tune was a train wreck.

‘what could i have done differently?’  i ask him and myself.

‘i don’t know but that patti smith shit was killing!’  he says raising his glass.

oh man.  it sure was.

swimming in the coloosahatchee

i’ve passed this spot hundreds of times since my mom moved down here 20 years ago.  at the north end of the bridge there is a small park.  room for maybe 5 or 6 cars.  and there is a tiny strip of sand leading into the river which at this point is more of a bay.  i’ve wondered what it would be like to swim there.  the water is so often like glass, the way it is tonite.  i’m coming back over from downtown where i was hanging out with roger at the cigar bar around the corner from the bar he just bought.  i just had a couple of drinks and smoked some herb with one of the bartenders, so i don’t feel that fucked up as i make it to the north side of the bridge where i see the little park.  it is empty and the water is perfectly still.  fuck it.  this time i’m doing it and i go to the next intersection, turn around and pull into the park, leaving the car in the spot least visible from the road.  i switch off the lights and get out. 
the lights of ft. myers are far off across the river but it is dark and still here.  i open the trunk and find the towel i figured my mom would have in there.  i strip down to my briefs and go to the water’s edge.  the water is not that cold but i want to get it over with so once i’m up to my knees, i dive in headlong.  i break the surface and roll over onto my back, floating as i kick away from the shore.  the sky is clear and there are stars.  the hulking bridge is a little unnerving and i tell myslef to relax.  there are no boats out here.  i am alone.
after what seemed like a long time but probably wasn’t, i decided to swim for shore.  the beach is dark, so i kept the car in sight and i couldn’t be more than 50 yards off shore.  i’m just to where i can stand up when a police car pulls into the lot.  great.  instinctively, i push off the bottom and start kicking away from the beach.  too late, the cop light on the driver’s side door has found me.  i can feelthe light on my face and it is blinding me, as well.  there are two of them and they’ve come down to the shore, their silhouettes shouting and waving,’GET INTO SHORE, NOW!!”YOU CAN’T BE SWIMMING HERE!!’yeah, no shit……………cops.
i breast stroke in and my heart is racing.  i’ll be spending the nite in jail because i’m not calling my 88 year old mother to come and bail me out at one in the morning.  just great.  i hope they let me put my clothes on.’c’mon out of there,’  the fat one says.’are you o.k.” says the other one.’yeah.  i just wanted to go for a swim.  the water looked so nice.’they exchange glances.  i thought they would be more agro.  it seems they are not sure what to do.’uh, do you guys mind if i dry off?’and i reach for the pink beach towel i left in the grass where the sand stops.  the towel.  stupid.  that’s how they knew i was in the water.’dry off?’  the fat one says.’you’re going to need to hose off!’  the other one says.  ’how long were you in there?”i don’t know…….15 minutes?”shit.  did you swallow any?’  the fat one asks.i am wondering what the fuck these guys are talking about and i look down at the towel i’ve just dried my face on and there’s a smudgy, imprint of my face looking back at me.  like the shroud of turin.  i look up at the cops and then down at my arms and legs.  they are completely black with oil.  my whole body is covered with oil and now i can smell it and even taste it.  and i realize what has happened.  i try to wipe my arms with the towel but it just kind of rubs the oil into my skin.  i look at the cops, then back at the blackened beach towel.’my mom is going to be pissed i ruined her towel.’

san fransicso dispatch 3-15-10 

the jet blue terminal at jfk is insanely crowded and chaotic but i make my flight.  i try to sleep but i am mesmerized by the television.  it’s been 7 months since i got rid of my t.v. and anytime a t.v. is even on i can’t take my eyes of it.  i watch two law and order episodes simultaneously, twice.  i watch the in flight movie - a not so bad picture about a guy who flies ten million miles.  appropriate.  i watch sportscenter not really giving a shit.  i watch the news till i can’t stand it anymore.  the cartoons nowadays suck so i skip those three channels.  i watch a show about the loch ness monster i have already seen three times, one about a super flaming, asshole dude trying to flip some property and one about juveniles in detention.  and before i know it, i am there.

i collect my golf clubs, meet ben who was on another flight and get my rental easily.  first stop - a corner store were i can buy some papers or a pipe to smoke the weed i brought with me.  i don’t know why i brought it.  everyone i see will probably give me weed.  i just wanted to make sure i could get high the second i left the airport.  not that it matters.  we go straight over to jeff’s who has strangely just called me.  i didn’t know he knew when i was coming.  but i’m sitting in the rental thinking we should go visit him when he up and calls me.  weird.  anyway, he lives in south city so we are there in minutes.  

we hang for awhile, talk and smoke and have a beer.  then we head out.  from jeff’s it’s just a short ride around the hill, up bayshore, then through the sunnydale projects toe the holy grail of san francisco golf, glen eagles.

we have a beer at the bar overlooking the bay.  the weather is perfect.  it is a cloudless, spring day.
‘i can see why you like it here,’ ben says.
ben and golf are two.  but while we are there a half dozen guys walk up and say ‘hi-how’ve-you-been’s’ and ‘where you playing?’ and ‘let’s play while you’re here’ and inevitably, ‘want to smoke some weed?’the golf course is awesome enough, but the community of golfers who hang out there is truly unique.  and you don’t need to play golf to appreciate that.

we smoke some weed in the parking lot.  pinkie’s always got that little bong in his golf bag, so we use that, each person insisting on filling the bowl for the next person.  i mention i have some weed i brought from new york and everyone is curious to try it.  except dickie.  he doesn’t think it is as good as the weed we are smoking so what’s the point.  he’s right.  it’s not.

i call graham.  he will be home in an hour, so we go down the hill to mission street and get a burrito at el farolito.  i miss burritos.  when i lived here i would stop here on the way to the golf course and one burrito would last me all day.  ben gets a veggie.  i get carnitas.

we go to graham’s.  it’s the shortest drive yet.  he lives in a store front and after saying hello i sit down at the piano to ask him about a tune i’m learning which he of course knows and has totally cool changes to.  a bass player drops by to pick up some music.  i know her from a jazz camp i taught at in la honda some years back.  shit.  a lot of years back.  over ten.  that’s a lot.  not some.  some is more like five.  because a few is like three, maybe four.  

i see a nord electro in the corner and remember i need a keyboard for two of my gigs this week.  graham graciously offers to let me use it.  he will be in baja all week and won’t be needing it. 

after awhile, we split.  ben is borrowing a bass from this cool symphony cat named larry we’ve known on the scene for years.ben is also staying with him for a couple of days so we go over to his pad.  he lives in bernal heights and we are there in five minutes.  larry is the coolest.  mahler.  miles.  it’s all music.  we hang out and talk about the symphony.  where they are going next and what they are playing.  he puts on this record by this french bass player.  it was on ecm.  totally vibey and cool.we leave larry and head over to my housing.

i’ve traded apartments with some friends for the week and am staying on 16th at dolores.  it’s a fourth floor walk-up railroad.  kitchen in the back.  bedroom.  bathroom.  the bedroom i will use and the living room in front.  my friends are in theater.  he a director and she an actor and their apartment reflects a life in the arts in posters and books and lps.  they have a roommate that apparently keeps strange hours.  he’s gay and i am intrigued and wonder what he does at strange hours in this town that shuts at 2am.  but during the few days i am there i never run into him.

it’s monday nite and that means jojo’s cooking in the bus.  it’s past 6pm so i’m thinking it’s safe to try the bay bridge.  the traffic isn’t lite, but it isn’t too heavy either and we get over to the 5th avenue marina in half an hour.  dinner is excellent, as usual.  he was doing an irish nite - corned beef and cabbage.  he’s got some split pea soup, too, because it’s green.  jojo is one of my oldest friends and we figure during dinner that he has lived in the caboose next to the bus for 21 years.  it seems like no time has passed since i dropped him off after our last gig together the nite before i left for new york.  we got drunk on the bus and played music all night and i cried when i left.  it also seems so long ago at the same time.

we have to eat up and get out to make room for the next seating and i tell jojo i’ll see him again while i’m in town.
‘yeah, dredly,’ he says. ‘i’ll see you.’
 in 10 minutes we are getting off the bay bridge and heading up to north beach.

ben has never been to specs so we start there.  i see vesuvio’s across the street.  i never liked it much in there.  maybe because kerouac used to drink there.  after a round at specs we go up the street and i run across to city lights to see if my friend, scott, is working.  he’s not there so i leave him a message.  scott introduced me to the grimy pulp of james ellroy and is a huge cecil taylor fan.  i cross back over columbus and meet ben on the corner across from big al’s.  we decide to go over to enrico’s but at the next corner i suggest we go down to the lusty lady and check out the talent.  ben is not interested in looking at naked women and says,
‘meet me at enrico’s in five minutes.’
 that’s a line from the steve mcqueen movie, bullitt.  i laugh and say.
‘i’m sure it won’t even take me that long.’  
 dick jokes.  the gold standard of comedy.

he doesn’t miss much.  unless you like chicks that look like they’ve been competing on survivor for two weeks.  they were all very hairy, heavily tattooed, pierced (everywhere) and favored the banshee hairstyle.  maybe it was modern primitive nite and i missed that.  i’m not much turned on so i head up to enrico’s where my old friends, lavey and chris are playing with san francisco saxophone legend, jules brussard.  i played a gig with jules once and the bread was not right at the end.  i overheard him complaining to the band leader,
‘man, this is bullshit!  i could’ve been home fucking my wife!’

the first time i ever met jules, i had been in san francisco for just a few weeks.  he was hosting a jam session and i and the other guys i moved to san francisco with (jojo being one of them) went to check it out.  jules played a one note solo over some tune that blew us away.  one note held through 2 or 3 choruses.  it was awesome.  till he did it again the very next set.  we thought he was still cool, though, the way he sat down when he played.  he had a very blase attitude like he didn’t give a fuck about anything.

he doesn’t remember any of that.  ben and i sit in.  lavey sounds great and so does jules.  i am very nostalgic about enrico’s.  less so now that the old timers are gone and ward is no longer behind the bar.  and i am no longer married to the girl i met there.  and the piano that bill cosby gave enrico back in the day has been replaced by some piece of shit that won’t stay in tune or that the new mangement won’t tune. like the song says, you can’t go back.  i guess it’s true.  i like it here anyway and we stay for awhile and have a bite.  the food is also not what it was.  there is barely a menu.  but it is great talking to chris and lavey.  they have the same two swing dancers i remember seeing years ago still dancing around the room while they play.  it’s a little surreal.  they are very good dancers.

there is a session happening over at the grant and green so we go over there.  we pass the saloon, an old blues bar that i peek into and see is exactly the same.  i’d rather go in there, i think, but there are a lot of new players on the scene and i want to hear them and meet them.  some of them i met last time i was here at this same session.

and it’s fun.  good players all of them.  except the crazy dude who was actually pretty swinging on the drums.  you know the guy who always comes and stays the whole time and you have to let him play a tune at some point but he’s just missing something. like he’s crazy.  everyone’s nice and i am flattered dudes know who i am.  i guess if you hang around long enough….ben and i play a couple of tunes and it’s a good time.

 before long the bar shuts and we are walking back to the car.  ben decides to walk thinking it safer on the streets of san francisco than the drive in my car.
‘well then you drive.’  i offer.
‘but i’m drunk, too.’  he says laughing.
‘oh yeah.  and you’re not a very good driver in the first place.’
it’s a nice nite.  he’ll be fine walking.  and i’m not that drunk.i get back to the mission in five minutes.  park.  climb the stairs and crash.

lawyers, guns and money

my friend tells me about this divorce lawyer.  she’s good.  she’s expensive, but she’s good. 
‘cost me two grand and i was divorced in a few months,’ he tells me. 
that’s great, because new york is the only state where there is no such thing as no-fault divorce.  meaning two adults can’t decide they want to part ways and commence doing so.  they have to file for separation and wait a year.  then they can file for divorce.  so how did this friend of mine get divorced so fast?  a little known loophole called ‘constructive abandonment.’  one spouse sues the other for not fulfilling the basic obligations arising from the marriage contract.  read:  sexual relations.  so spouses agree they have not screwed for a year and then they may proceed.

enter the lawyer
she is a fast talking, coffee-wired spitfire with long straight hair and big eyes.  she wears a smart business suit.  she escorts me into a conference room.  she tells me she is going to need a $4000 retainer plus a $400 filing fee to get started.  i tell her that’s a lot of money and that’s not how much it cost my friend and she tells me that was years ago (it was) and that her fees have gone up.  she also explains to me the amount of drafting, emailing, faxing, phoning and filing that will be required and that at $400/hour it will add up quickly.  BUT, that because our divorce is uncontested (my ex didn’t even hire a lawyer), there are no kids, no property, no spousal support requested and no depositions to take, the bill should come in at around four grand.  i ask her how she can be sure and she tells me,
‘dred, i’ve been doing this for fifteen years.  look it if it goes over a little, i’ll throw that in.’
so i give her a check.
when i get home i call the real estate lawyer we used to sell our house and he tells me $400/hr ain’t cheap. but it’s not expensive, either.  somewhere in the middle.  so i figure, fuck it, that’s the way it is.

a few weeks go by and it’s time to assemble in the conference room again, this time with my ex to sign all the documents.  which we do.
‘dred, the next step is, you’re divorced.  it will be two or three months.  see, wasn’t that easy?’

a few more weeks go by and i get a letter with an invoice attached.  the invoice lists services in one column - draft doc, draft doc, draft doc, review email, finalize doc, finalize doc, finalize doc, assemble docs, email to cl, review email, conferce/mtg - and the corresponding hours, dates of service and amounts.  there is a balance of $1,433.33.  there is also a letter.

after some introductory pleasantries - ‘dear dred, enclosed please find a copy of your most recent invoice…..’  she gets down to business.  the business of lawyering.  or is it extortion?
‘of course, i acknowledge recept of the initial retainer payment in the amoung of $4000.  kindly be advised that i have extended you a very special courtesy (her itlaics) discount in the sum of $833.33 reducing you balance to $600 only if  (her underline, too) full payment is received in my office on or by monday, march 8; otherwise the entire sum of $1,433.33 (without discount) is due.  in addition to the above discount, i removed many items off your bill.’    she goes on to write that she has made my case a ‘high priority’ (she likes italics) and that she will ‘make every effort to bring this matter to a close.’
i receive this letter on a thursday.  i have till monday to get her the money.  i call her up friday and leave a message that i have a couple of questions about the invoice.  she gets back to me around 7pm friday evening but i can’t pick up.  monday i call her several times and around 3pm she gets back to me.  i ask her if i can just send her the $600 today in the mail without having to make a special trip to her office in midtown and she says that’s fine.  i’m ready to let the whole thing go just to be done (my ex does not want a lawyer pissed at us and neither do i) when she asks me what other questions i had about the bill.   ’you know, ms. delgado, when i first came to your office and gave you the retainer, you gave me the distinct impression that i would not be owing you any more money.  you said you had been doing this fifteen years and you knew what you were doing and that our divorce was uncomplicated and not acrimonious and that even if you went over an hour or two that you would throw that in.  furthermore, the wording of your letter suggests that you think if you present me with a large bill then cut it more than in half that i will be only too happy to pay it.  which i am, by the way.’  i’m also curious about why our little, nothing divorce case was a ‘high priority’ but i decide to let that go.  that is obviously some lawyer bullshit.  
she talks.  and she talks.  and she talks.i can’t get a word in and i wish i could have recorded her i because it was really an insight into how the lawyer thinks. maybe not so insightful, but you can’t believe it when you hear it.  she says things like,’dred, i like you.  that’s why i gave you the discount.’and later,’dred, once a month i give someone a discount and this month you are it.’and still later,’you know, i just feel like rewarding you two because you are being civil to each other and handling this so well.’all the while describing all the work she has done in minute detail.she says at one point,’dred, i don’t want any ill feelings, here.’  and i want to make sure she doesn’t get pissed, too and do i don’t know what.  so i  finally get in that all i wanted to say was that the impression you gave me was that it would not take more than ten hours based on your lengthy experience. she replies,’yes dred, but things come up.  it usually takes one hour to file at the courthouse and it took me two because they were backed up.  and i didn’t charge for that extra hour and i could have.  in fact, i can charge you for everything, which i didn’t.  and i could charge you for this phone call, which i won’t.”so you’re saying that the bill could be a whole lot more than what you professionally estimated to me when i gave you the retainer.”exactly.  i am extending you a very special courtesy by doing this.’during the course of our conversation she says, ‘very special courtesy’ at least a half a dozen times.she starts to sound like a broken record so i interrupt her and ask her if this is the last money we are going to have to pay her. she then tells me about how the papers had to picked up and assembled and mailed to us and that she could extend us a very special courtesy and not charge us but she couldn’t tell me for sure.her exact words were,’it depends on how i feel that day.’  i hope to christ she’s not pms-ing that day.then she says to me,’we can go around and around about this all day till we’re blue in the face.’i wasn’t aware we were going around and around.  she was doing all the talking.’not me,’ i reply. ‘i’m not going any rounds with you.  you’re a lawyer.”well, i just don’t want there to be any bad feelings, ok?”no bad feelings here.  i just put the stamp on the envelope.”that’s fine. you can put it in the mail today or tomorrow. that will be fine.  and you’ll hear from me in a month or two when the judgement is final.’i’ll start saving my money.

the best bass player in canada

it is a friday nite in the village.  i don’t need to worry about parking because i rode in with the drummer who also lives in my brooklyn neighborhood.  he’s a chatty fellow and on the way he told me all about the new bass player.  how he’s the best bass player in canada and has won canadian national music awards and plays in this mahavishnu cover band.  this doesn’t impress me because i also know this new bass player has been helping the drummer with his computer and said drummer is trying to do him a solid by getting him in this band – a roots, americana, blues band in the style of mose alison or taj mahal.  so i’m also thinking the mahvishnu experience might actually be a liability.

i’m setting up the electric piano and i look over to see the bass player pull out a nine string bass.

‘what are you going to do with that?’  i ask him.

‘eh?’  he says.

‘i said, is that the bass you’re going to use on this gig?’

‘um, yeah.’

‘well if that low string’s a b, you can just forget about that and there’s no bass soloing so you’re not going to need those top strings either.’

and that was the first time i met chris tarry.

‘goddammit!!  stay on the one chord!’  the band leader screamed back at us.

we were playing a tune that for the sax solo the band just vamps on the one chord but chris couldn’t have known that.  it wasn’t in the chart.

‘what the fuck!  help the greenhorn out you mother fuckers!’  this particular bandleader communicates his intentions by yelling them in a condescending tone back at his sidemen.

‘aye aye, cap’n!’  i shout.  ‘she’s taking on water but we’ll be able to fire another volley when we come about!’

i reach into my bag, pull out a wire cutter, lean over and cut through 5 of chris’ strings.

‘that should keep us afloat till the end of the set, sir!’

‘well allright, then!’  the captain replies.

on the set break i buy chris a drink and try to get him to tell me about his roommate who is there and is a dead ringer for my wife.  i ask him if he’s heard her getting it on with anyone and if she’s loud about it.

‘we’re just friends,’  he says.

‘i didn’t ask if you were fucking her.  i just want to hear some salacious details.  get a cheap vicarious thrill.  you know?’

‘well, i couldn’t really….uh….’

‘fine.  you’re no help.’  and my voyeuristic fantasy gets shot down like a migrating canadian goose.

‘i don’t think my bass is going to play in tune without those strings you cut off.’

‘just stay in first position.  you’ll be fine.’  and we get ready to play the second set.

‘goddammit!!  now let’s stop fucking everything up!’  the band leader gives us a pre set pep talk.

i pull chris aside.

‘dude, do you have a pick?’

‘what for?’

‘it’s hard to play too much bass with a pick.  you might try that.’

‘well i know geddy lee used to use a quarter sometimes.’

‘never mind.’

chris lasted a few more gigs with that band and even showed up with a proper four string bass after that.  but he just didn’t have the grease you need for that style of music.  it takes years of getting  inside a particular way of playing.  just like it takes years to feel comfortable playing mahavishnu time signatures and playing lightning fast fusion lines.  and it’s experiences like this that make all of us musicians who we are and if there’s a musician who doesn’t have stories like this one with him in the role of chris, i guarantee they suck and don’t even know it.  and chris doesn’t suck.  he’s a damn fine musician.

cruise ship

it was the end of my third year of college and i needed some work for the summer.  you couldn’t really call it my junior year because i was kind of making it up as i went along.  the second i left high school in st. louis i moved to cleveland to play bass in my brother’s trio six nites a week at a holiday inn in eastlake.  i went half a semester at john carroll that fall and might’ve continued but my parents pulled the plug on the tuition when i wouldn’t drop the music thing.   there was a lost year teaching tennis by day in bourgie beechwood (i gave some lessons to conductor, yoel levi) and playing bass on the weekend in a neil diamond cover band at the sherwood lounge in northfield.  by the time i had myself enrolled in a proper music school i was nearly 21.  i thought i might study both the piano and the bass until i realized that meant acoustic bass and so at the time of this story i hadn’t really picked up my bass in a couple of years, dedicating all my time to the study of the piano.  then the phone rang.

‘hello?’

a guy that sounded like cheech but meaner was on the other end.

‘hey this is al esquivel.  is wilbur there?’

‘no.  he moved out.’

‘oh man.  i need a bass player right away down here in miami for this cruise ship gig.  do you have his new number?’

‘uh…no….i don’t.  but…….i play bass.’

‘you do?  oh man.  can you do the gig?’

‘when is it?’

‘next week.  you need to meet the ship in miami next tuesday.’

‘yeah.  i have a car.  i can drive down.’

‘ok.  one thing.  you have to be able to read.  can you read, man?’

‘oh yeah.  sure.  no problem.’

‘great.  i’ll have the cruise line contact you with the details.’

and he hung up.

‘WHAT THE FUCK!!  YOU TOLD ME ON THE PHONE YOU COULD FUCKING READ!!!’

al had ducked behind his fender rhodes to yell at me and his face was completely red.  it was dark in the pit except for our stand lites, but i could see veins bulging out of his forehead and neck.  and i was afraid.

‘oh man…….oh man!!!’  he was now shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

the act was still going on.  the song we were playing was still going on.  smooth operator.  it was the first nite of the gig.  bass in the show band aboard the dolphin.  a ship that went out of miami to the bahamas and back once a week.  we were in the middle of the ocean (which to me at the time meant you couldn’t see land) and the act on the first nite was a magician.  a smooth operator.   so that’s his theme song and we’re playing it and i’ve never heard it, though it has been on the radio for the last couple of years non-stop.  i don’t listen to the radio.  all i do is practice the piano.  i had looked ahead on the chart and was shocked to see a section marked ‘solo’ with all these notes way above the printed staff paper.  in g flat.  there were so many extra ledger lines on the staff i had no idea what the first note was so when we got there i just kind of played something in g flat and al went ballistic.

‘what the fuck am i gonna do?’  he continued to mutter as we all flipped our music to the next number.  some kind of funky number with a syncopated bass line.  the kind of line the second you hear it you got it but looks much harder on paper.  i was so nervous i was fucking up all over the place and al would not let up.

‘what the fuck did you think?  you could just come down here and play this gig without being able to read??!’  he is keeping his voice down but he’s still yelling somehow.  more like growling at me.

‘oh man….oh man.’  he keeps shaking his head.

we come to a spot where there is writing all over the music and i can’t tell whether we are cutting that section or what but i keep playing right through this tacit section where the magician finishes some trick with an unaccompanied cymbal crash.  people are clapping.

‘what the fuck are you doing?’  al hisses back at me.

‘there’s writing all over the chart.’ i protest.

‘then don’t fucking play it!!  what are you stupid?’

a couple of songs later i make a mistake because al has ‘corrected’ the chart.  later i learn he does this a lot and it pisses off the acts who pay good money for the arrangements al will just rewrite parts of on occasion, ‘fixing them,’ he would say.  so there are other magic marker bass notes next to the printed chart bass notes.  and they sometimes take up a line and a space so you have to pick which one it is.  i pick wrong.  al just turns around and glares.

‘man, it looked like a b,’  i say.

al very quiet and measured,

‘how could it be a b when we…are….in….the key of g minor……..’  then shouting,  ‘USE YOUR FUCKING EAR!!! oh man…oh man….’

after the gig, al just gets up and walks off without saying anything.  i look over at the drummer who will become a friend i still keep in touch with and he says,

‘don’t worry, man.  he does this to everybody.  he can’t put you off till we get back to miami so…’  the trumpet player has butted into our conversation.  the rest of the band has a nickname for him – brain damage, or b.d.  he interrupts,

‘except for that time he got into a fist fight with that one bass player, remember?  that guy got off and flew back from nassau.’

‘man, shut up, b.d.’  the drummer says and turns back to me.

‘you just have to get your reading up.  just spend the days shedding the music. let’s go get a drink.’  and we do and i feel better.  nicky gimigliano is a tough italian guy from pittsburgh.  he’s older than me and he’s going to take me under his wing.  sometimes he and i will get together and jam during the day and he will teach me how to play a funky bass line simply by not playing half the shit that i first come up with.

‘take a couple notes out.’  he would say all the time.

so i stay in my cabin.  26 feet below the water line.  all day for the first week.  turning the metronome on and turning the page.  al has this other book of arrangements that is about 400 tunes thick from which in the four months i will do the gig we will play about 20 of.  but i just keep turning the pages and sight-reading the charts.  taking a break to smoke some weed or go up on the deck and look at the girls.  the rest of the week doesn’t go too badly, i think.  but al still isn’t talking to me.  he just shows up right before each show and we do the gig.  twice a night.  i don’t fuck up as bad as the first nite again and al isn’t screaming at me, but he is not so much as looking at me either.   he doesn’t hang out with the band much so i learn this is not unusual behavior.

a couple of weeks go by and i start having some fun.  a lot of fun.  the photographers are these three brits and they are hilarious.  not that throwing deck chairs into the sea at 4 in the morning is all that funny.  but i have never met brits really and these guys are my kind of irreverent.   the ship’s officers are all greek and they hate the photographers.  they hate the musicians, too, but they really hate the photographers.

‘yes sir.  right away sir.  aye, aye cap’n and all that.’  they say while saluting and bowing.  they call all the officers ‘cap’n’ no matter what their job is.  and then when they get just out of earshot mutter something like,

‘cunt.’

we  sit out on the deck smoking cigarettes and drinking orangeboom.  exchanging ship gossip and stories.  what passengers we would like to get with.   and so on.

about three weeks into the gig the saxophone player who is my roommate on the ship gets my roommate back at school who also plays sax to come down and sub for him for a week while he takes some time off  to go to a friend’s wedding.  the cruises start on tuesday and there are shows each nite but every wednesday the show band plays a nite in the lounge to give the lounge band a nite off.  it’s a regular gig.  the kind of gig i had already done hundreds of.  playing tunes.  whatever.  the nite before this particular wednesday my friend had arrived and we were out till all hours running around the ship and just got completely wrecked.  so when the time came for the gig at 8pm the next nite, we were napping.  now the thing about sleeping in a cabin is it’s dark.  pitch black.  all the time.  unless you turn on a light.  so time can be a strange thing down there.  there is a loud banging on the door.  it’s b.d.

‘you guys, it’s 8 o’clock and al’s pissed!  you better get up there right now!’

and i get up and see the digital clock flashing 00:23 and realize the clock has reset itself.

shit.  i’m really fucked now.  the gig is exactly six decks above where i live and i’m late for it.

al doesn’t look at me.  he’s pissed i can tell.  his face is red.  he’s trying to remain calm.  but i think any minute he is going to unload on me.  we play the set.  my buddy from school is a great player and we actually have fun playing the set.  nicky and i are starting to find our groove and having my friend in the band makes me feel comfortable and for the first time since i’ve been on, this ship band makes a little music.  al sings his sinatra songs and we are actually swinging.  i can see he digs it.  but after the set he comes up to us at the bar points his finger at both of us  and sternly says,

‘you two in my office.  right now.’  and he walks out and we follow.  down and down.

another hallway.  another staircase.  he storms ahead and we follow exchanging we-are-so-fucked glances.  we arrive finally at his cabin and he puts the key in and shoves open the door motioning for us to go in ahead of him.  we do.  he closes the door behind him and pauses for dramatic effect.

‘allright you guys.  a couple of things.  first of all.   you need to get a wind-up alarm clock.  because those digital alarm clocks go back to zero when there is a power surge in the ship’s electrical system.  secondly…’  and he stands back and eyes me up and down.

‘YOU’RE GOOD, MAN!!!  you just need to relax and play.  you are swinging.  that shit sounds good.  and you play good solos, too!!’  and he puts his arm around me and gives me a sideways hug.   laughing.  the he suddenly gets serious and stern again.

‘and the third thing……….YOU GUYS NEED TO WAKE UP!!!’  and with that he reaches into a recessed lighting fixture where there is no bulb and pulls out the biggest bag of blow i have ever seen (before or since) plopping it down on to a table where it lets out a ‘poof.’

and al and i were friends.  he was a good ping-pong player and we had many late nite drunken battles on the deck of the dolphin.  he had this thing where if he bought you a drink and you tried to get the next round he would say,

‘hey man.  don’t by me a drink.  if you buy me a drink it’s not like i bought you a drink.’

so we determined that 24 hours had to elapse before you could buy al a drink after he bought you a drink.  we were on a cruise ship after all.  with nowhere else to go.

for your security

can anyone tell me whatever happened to ‘crazy’?  dude tries to light his shoe on fire….crazy.   dude burns himself up in his seat…..crazy.  al qeada  claiming responsibility for sending self-immolating crazy guy……crazy.   c’mon.  nine years since 9/11 and that’s all they’ve got?  and the entire media picks it up and broadcasts it 24/7?  well that’s a special blend of crazy and retarded.  if john lennon were still with us he wouldn’t be saying, ‘violence begets violence, you know.’  he’d be saying, ‘stupidity begets stupidity, you know.’  it’s like an exponentially increasing vortex of dumb-dumb.  example.  i’ve been traveling with the same nail clipper in the same see-through plastic bag since the tsa decided that toiletries were a threat to security.  my shoes were off.  my jacket off.  my hat was off.  my toiletry bag was in the bin next to my laptop.  i don’t carry change in my pocket and i leave my cellphone in my carry-on bag where i had also previously placed my belt.

‘do you have any change or metallic objects on your person?’
i shake my head no.
‘what about your cellphone?’
‘what about it?’
‘is it in your pocket?’
i point to my backpack rolling through the xray machine.
‘and your belt?’
i lift up my shirt to show i’m not wearing it. 

i go through the metal detector and am waiting for my my bag and my bin to come through.

‘is this your toiletry bag, sir?’
‘yes it is.’
‘i need to look through it.  i’ll wait for you down here.’

i put my shoes on.  i put my hat on.  and my jacket.  i pick up my laptop and put it in my backpack and walk over to the waiting security specialist.

‘what’s this?’  he’s holding up my nail clipper.
‘umm…….a fingernail clipper?’ i reply.
he takes out a pen and pushes the cuticle cleaner out.
‘it’s a knife!’
‘really.  since when?’
‘since always.’
‘well, you are the first of dozens of security experts in a half dozen years of thousands of miles of flying to say so.’
‘sir, you can go back to the ticket counter and check it with your checked baggage or you can surrender it.’
i hold both my hands up.
‘you got me.  i surrender.’

ignorance is bliss

i got up from the kitchen table and opened the cupboards looking for something sweet.  nothing much but cans of stuff from the old place that noone ever used but i that i couldn’t bear to throw away.  or bother to take to a shelter or something.  there was a can of mushrooms, a couple of tins of sardines (one with the label long gone), chicken broth, stewed tomotoes, a bag of farro and a bag of israeli couscous, a can of whole berry cranberries and an unopened plastic container of spring roll skin that i took over to the trashcan and tossed in.  sounds like fun making spring rolls but i doubt i will get to it.  this new kitchen is nice but small and i can’t have fantastical foodstuffs taking up space.anyway, the cupboard was void of sugary snacks as i knew it would be.  same with the fridge but i opened it just to look inside and there in the back tucked behind the tupperware containers of edamame and sweet potato, next to the bag of carrots was a very crumpled up dunkin’ donuts bag.  i pulled it out and with some effort was able to open it up.  i was, however, unable to extract the boston creme donut from the bottom of the bag without leaving all the icing behind.  as i was scraping the bottom of the bag to get the chocolate icing back onto the donut it occurred to me that i didn’t recall going to the dunkin’ donuts.  it was on my shelf in the fridge so it must be mine.  and dunkin’ donuts is just a block from my new place.  and i do recall parking the car down there.  it’s a thursday spot.  but i’ll be damned if i can remember going in and getting the donuts (i’m assuming there were two.  why would i buy one and just bring it home and not eat it?).  i ate my donut and i thought about it for awhile trying to retrace my steps.  but then i just forgot about it.

that’s amore

‘…now i don’t know if you all knew this or not, but since silvio berlusconi took over italy there have been many cultural changes.  he owns the television stations, the newspapers…all the radio.  so he has been able to enact an agenda aimed at keeping rap music, which he deemed subversive and dangerous to the preservation of the classical italian language, off the airwaves and out of record stores.  so, a whole generation of young italians don’t even know what rap sounds like.  just what it looks like because the italians are always current on the latest fashion trends…’

it was another tuesday nite at the rockwood and i was about halfway through my act when a great italian drummer friend walked in with another guy.  it was his arrival that had inspired this little monologue.  it was about at this point when this guy sitting there with my friend enzo began to interrupt me.

‘yes…..but….’ yelling out.

‘so what we’re going to do for you folks tonite here live at the rockwood music hall……a never before attempted experiment.’

‘no!!……..wait!….’  his voice trailing off.

i was doing my best to ignore him.

‘we have american rapper mc extra cheese who’s going to sit in.  and a great italian drummer, my friend, enzo, who’s never heard rap music in his entire life.  and they’re going to play together!’

amid cheers and laughter i heard him.  like a gnat that won’t stop buzzing in my ear.’

‘i’m telling you…..there’s a (something, something)…….listen!!’

i couldn’t even concentrate on my stupid joke.  so in a fit of irritation i addressed him directly for the first time.

‘ok!  who the fuck are you and what do you want?’

silence.  he was silent.  the room was silent.  tension suddenly palpable.  he was completely flabbergasted.  i was mad so i ripped him a little.

‘what’s the matter?  you wanted to be in the act.  you’re in the act.  we’re all listening and waiting to find out what was so goddamn important you just had to fuck up my flow and kill my gag………..well?’

‘i……i just wanted to say there IS italian rap.  there was an italian rap group performing in new york city tonite.’

‘really.  that’s it?  that’s what you wanted to tell us?  that i’m mistaken?  that actually italians do know about rap.  well thanks for settling that.  can i go on with my act now or do you want to tell us something else like, i don’t know, that italians use computers, too?  or that they are also hooked on sodoku?’

he stood up.  infuriated.  i had gone too far.

‘in my jazz club the musicians NEVER talk to the audience like that.’

‘you own a jazz club?  do you heckle the bands when they are trying to introduce guests?’

‘no…..i just……i didn’t know this was going to be a comedy act.’

‘well i’m sorry.  one of the things about comedy is it should be funny.  and i can see your not laughing so c’mon everybody let’s give this gentleman a big hand.  he’s been a great sport.  ann could you please get this man a couple of drinks on me?  thanks.’

he put his scarf on in that italian way they do and draped his coat over his forearm.  he was leaving.

‘c’mon sir.  please don’t go.  i was only kidding around.  it’s all part of the act.  right folks?’

‘no!!  i am going.  CIAO!!’

and he walked out as the crowd moaned and shouted,

‘no, no.  don’t go.’

but fuck it.  he left.

i felt pretty bad about it.  matt at the bar thought i had gone a little overboard and maybe should’ve let him up sooner.  he was good and mad alright.  so upset he wrote a long letter to the club demanding i be banned from playing anymore.  in new york city.  ever.  and that he was going to tell everyone he knew not to patronize the club and so on.  well i didn’t want to make trouble for my great friends at the rockwood who have been so incredibly good to me.  so i waited a few days and called him at his jazz club in jersey.

it didn’t go well.  each time i tried to apologize (3 times total) he would get worked up all over again.

‘it’s just that i…..’  this or that.  you know, the kind of conversation you can only have with an irrational woman.  and i kept my cool.  became more measured and would start all over.

‘well.  yes sir.  i just wanted to apologize and say i was sorry for offending you and to invite you to come down anytime with some friends and drink on me.’

‘you know.  noone has ever talked to me like that!  NOONE!!  not ever!!  i didn’t know it was going to be a comedy act…….’

i tried.

i was later told that there probably wasn’t much i could’ve done.  this gentleman is calabrian and it seems it is the nature of these people to hold a grudge for a very long time.  enzo told me there is an italian saying when it comes to apologizing to calabrians:

if you say you are sorry and walk away, he will shoot you.

if you say you are sorry and stand there, he will stab you.

but if you jump down a well, he will forgive you.

jump down a well.  old school.

the next week there were two young girls right next to the stage so involved in a loud conversation that when i stopped talking and the whole room was quitely watching them and listening in, they continued to chatter.  i cleared my throat loudly into the mic,

‘ahem.’

they both stopped.  looked up at me.  looked around the room at the people watching them and were suddenly mortified.  i looked up at matt runnig the sound and he smiled but gently shook his head.

‘hi ladies.  you are looking very pretty tonite. thank you for coming.”

happy halloween

the subway doors open and a short woman bursts out and straight into my chest.  i look down to see she is crying hysterically, grabbing a fistful of my overcoat in each hand and rubbing her head into my shirt, leaving smears of hair product as she shakes her head from side to side, muttering,
‘please…no..don’t get on.’
she turns and sees an old woman in full burka smiling with her arms open.  her eyes are ringed with dark circles and her teeth are rotting.  the woman pushes me aside and takes off running down the platform.  when she reaches the steps she takes them three at a time.  i’m thinking, the way she is hauling ass with those short legs, she must’ve run some track in high school or even college.
‘stand clear of the closing doors, please.’i brush past the burka lady who is holding the train doors open shouting at the woman running away,
‘come back here puerto rico.  what are you afraid of? hahahahahah….’
she steps back and the doors close. i sit down next the this hip chick with pink hair reading no exit.  i check her out.
‘hmmm. good book,’ i say.  she doesn’t look up.
‘the next stop is…..gravesend.’
shit.  i’m on the wrong train. i look across the aisle and there is a young woman staring back at me.  right on.  too bad she’s not my type - white girl with dreads, way too much make up, a big, wide mouth encircled by three shades of lipstick, a leopard print scarf that oversized, wooden, african earrings dangled and danced on and a sleeveless black dress.  one of the dresses that says, ‘check out my tits.’  she keeps staring and i kind of look away disgusted with myself.  how did i get on the wrong train?  i ride the subway every day. she finally says,
‘got on the wrong train, huh?’
”uh, yeah.’  is she reading my mind?
‘don’t worry.  i’ll help you get to your final destination.’
‘thanks.’  whatever.  ’i’ll just get off at the next stop and go back the way i came.’
she just smiles and shakes her head.  it comes off way too patronizing.  like she never got on the wrong train before. i pull out my headphones and my ipod.  it won’t turn on. battery must be dead. the train rattles on and on.  not stopping.  must be an express.   great.  a guy in a khaki trenchcoat and a fishing hat walks over to me.  he’s got grey stubble on his face and his eyes are wild and searching.   crazy guy.
‘i’ve been on this train for 45 years!’
i look down at his shoes.  white tretorn tennis shoes.  classics.  they are wet.  no wonder.  i’d probably piss myself too if i’d been on a subway train for four decades.
‘you’re better off just going along,’ he says to noone in particular.  it’s like i have a sign on my forehead - ‘talk to me crazy guy.’  burka lady, sitting quietly till now, starts chanting in a foreign language i don’t recognize.  she stands up and everyone in the car stands up.  except the chickie next to me and the  one across the aisle.  but they are all chanting in unison.  is it english, but backwards?  my friend carol can talk backwards.  it’s kind of creepy.  it sounds like that.  but how are they doing that all together?  the old man steps closer and puts his hand on my forearm.  his boney fingers are freezing.  bad circulation.
‘this is your stop,’  he says to me and the train slows and the old man is helping me out of my seat.  he is a lot stronger than he looks and i don’t think i could pull my arm free if i wanted to.  but strangely, i don’t.  the train glides to a stop without that jerky braking that throws everyone of balance.  i didn’t see the girl with the culturally confused get-up get up, but she is flanking me - our arms locked as she and the old man usher me over to the opening door.  they move me to the edge of the doorway and i see there is no platform.  just blackness.
‘hey.  wait.  there’s no - ‘
and i’m falling.  looking back at the suspended train fading away.  my coat rippling around me as i flail my arm and legs, trying to get some kind of purchase. and it’s getting hot.  hotter and hotter.  and there is fire all around me.  i can smell burning skin.  i look at my hand and it is bubbling, falling away from my bones.  i must be burning to death but i cannot lose consciousness.  i try to scream but nothing comes out.

was it something i said?

On Tue, Sep 1, 2009 at 6:56 PM, <SStevoxxx@aol.com> wrote:

Just a quick note, from a long-time jazz lover. The remark you made at the festival on Sunday, about how “No Charlie Parker Festival would be complete without some… heavy drug use!” -under the circumstances, was disgusting. If it was up to me, you would NEVER be invited back. It seems the point was lost on you that the purpose of the event was to HONOR the man and his music. Jerk.

On Tue, Sep 1, 2009 at 8:03 PM, <dredscott666@gmail.com> wrote:   
fuck you.

On Tue, Sep 2, 2009 at 9:05AM, <SStevoxxx@aol.com> wrote:  
A response as articulate and poetic as your “music”.

On Tue, Sep 2, 2009 at 1:03 PM, <dredscott666@gmail.com> wrote:
there’s not much else to respond to a crazy crank with nothing better to do than rant vitriol that has no meaning.  i was trying to avoid this but you asked for it.  

first of all, charlie parker was the biggest drug addict on the scene.  a fact not in dispute, even by him.  he used to say, ‘i don’t think i play better when i’m fucked up, but it sounds better to me.’  he inspired countless imitators not only to play the saxophone but to use heroin.  just like bird.  so making a joke about it is not only not in poor taste, it’s funny.  but you wouldn’t recognize humor would you.  your soul is probably devoid of laughter.  and for that i feel sorry.  you don’t even know a joke when you hear one.

and as for a tribute to his music - your such a jazz lover maybe you noticed we were the only act to play a charlie parker tune all day!  that was the joke you moron,  no bird festival would be complete without…..playing some of his music.  see that’s why it’s funny, because that’s what people expect me to say but i didn’t.  i made the joke instead.  and it got a huge laugh.  so write all those people who laughed a fucking email.  it seems as though you have enough time on your hands for it.

finally, you call someone a jerk, you better be ready for whatever follows.  i’m posting your retarded musings on my website, blog and any other media outlet i can think of.  maybe you didn’t like my joke, but now YOU are the joke.   jerk.

and now a poem for you:

fuck off you soulless fucker.
get a fucking life.
fuck you fuck you fuck you, dick.

don’t tell me that’s not poetic.  it’s a haiku.  
and how’s this for articulate: may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

sincerely,
dred scott

the piano movers

‘you gotta take out another stair.’

‘no man.  we can pick it up and slide it.’

the small man and his partner are chinese and they are both shaking their heads.  one of them takes a piece of strap and holds it up to measure the length of the keyboard then taking care to keep his hands in the same place on the strap puts the strap in the space between the next stair and the over-hanging staircase above it.

‘not fit!’ he says.

‘it don’t matter if you get a fucking abacus and measure it.  i say we can pick it and slide it.’

‘take out another step,’ the other chinese guy says.  his name is david and it’s his moving service i’ve hired to move my piano out of the basement it’s been in for the last eight years. his partner’s name is eric and they have two gigantic black dudes working with them.  i get the sense that this exact crew has moved many pianos together.

‘i don’t see any of you motherfuckers volunteering to take this next stair out,’ a.j. says.

‘you did such a good job of taking them other ones out,’ stretch replies.

‘shit.’  and he takes the crowbar and shoves it under the tread and pulls back on it splintering the tread in half and sending wood shards into the air.

‘hercules!’ stretch sings, laughing at the same time.

‘this is demolition,’ david says to me, shaking his head.

‘i’ll pay you guys more,’ i offer.

‘you got some trees?  you a musician, ain’t you?’  a.j. has taken his glasses off and is mopping his brow with the front of his t-shirt and is kind of looking at me sideways.

‘yeah.  i got a sack for you guys.’ i say.

‘well now you talking!’  stretch clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

just then the drain in the floor backs up and water starts gurgling out flooding a portion of the basement with about two inches of water.  i have never witnessed this in all the years i’ve lived in this house.  it must be pouring outside.  so i am moving some boxes and a guitar and the music desk to higher ground muttering, ‘fuck,’ and ‘shit,’ and a.j. says to eric,

‘c’mon mary woo.  we gotta get this piano out of here before david floats away.’  and they all laugh together hysterically.

there are only two steps left in the staircase and the piano will now fit but when they try to lift it out of the basement because there are no stairs to slide it up on, they find it is much too heavy and they decide to come back the next day with more guys.

‘i need more guys.  more money.’  david says to me.

‘ok. no problem.’

‘i need $1200.’

‘how about a thousand?’

‘i’m not trying to rip you off.  this dangerous job.  somebody get hurt, i get in big trouble!’

‘ok, ok.  you guys are doing your best.  i know it’s a hard job.’

‘hard job!’   david says laughing and shaking his head.

and they return the next day.

‘man, that was some good shit,’ a.j. says to me. ‘got any more?’

‘dudes you got all my money and all my weed.’

‘but we gonna get your piano out.’

and they did.  two giant brothers, two small chinamen and three regular size mexicans came together as one.

‘pick it up motherfucker.  do you speak english?  where did you get these guys, david?  they just mostly in the way.’  a.j. is glaring at one of the mexican guys,

‘pick…it…up!  moth…er…fuck…er!!’

stretch is laughing so hard he tells everyone to wait a minute so he can catch his breath.  they are on the other side.  outside my new studio which is on the second floor.  they have the piano at the base of the stairs and are about to come up.

‘1, 2, 3!’  david says and the come up one stair.

‘1, 2, 3!’ and the lift again.

‘1, 2, 3!’ all the way up.  they get to the top and one of the mexican guys walks by me shaking his head.  he’s thinking, ‘this is bullshit.’

but they have done it.  they navigate a tricky turn into the room itself.

‘lay it on me. i got it!’ a.j. says.

‘then you got to turn it!  now slide it and push it over!’ stretch yells.

‘dolly!! dolly!’  david yells and eric slides the dolly under the piano as it’s making the turn through the doorway.  it falls gently down and they roll it on in.