Neal's Tales

Classified & Personal Ads from Newspapers Now Extinct

2011-10-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

From — The Domrémy Times June 18, 1427:

Single, spirited and ever so slightly aggressive young French girl seeks a possible relationship with a supportive and progressive minded male. If your idea of fun and romance are flowers, poetry and quiet walks by The Muse River, you need not apply. However if the thought of besieging an impregnable English fortress with a broadsword in one hand and the will of God in one’s heart sound appealing to you, then read on.

Are you seeking a woman who has visions and hears voices (all of which are spiritually pure), if so, I just might be the right girl for you. I also enjoy, constructing crossbows, preparing French cuisine from the Lorraine region and placing crowns on young French monarchs. If a relationship with a young maid determined to liberate France and obey the will of God resonates with you please write to —Joan c/o Jacques and Isabelle d’Arc, PO Box 1412 Domrémy France.

Special Note —Burgundians, plague victims and non-believers need not apply.

From —The Paleolithic Post — April 10^th – 15,000 BCE

Lonely cave painter from Southern France seeks companionship. Do you love art? Do you enjoy exploring deep dark holes on the side of hills? My name is Unk and for the last ten years I have been creating provocative and intelligent images from the Dordogne to the Cele. I have a show opening soon in Lascaux and it will run for the next two moons. I’m far beyond the Bison and Horse thing; that is so Lower Paleolithic.

My latest work is a nude holding an animal horn. I have taken the time to incise the horn with lines. Are the lines a lunar calendar or a women’s menstrual cycle? Come meet me and find out. All genders welcomed, especially anyone that wants to get under a Bison hide with me every night and keep me warm. Fire making skills are most welcomed. Also as far as the “hunter-gather” thing goes, I’d much rather paint, so you have to be OK with that. Love me and I’ll immortalize your image forever.

Come to Lascaux on the next Vernal Equinox and keep shouting my name around the cave, I’m bound to hear you. If not I’ll be the one with a great deal of chest hair and a slight dent in my cranium due to someone’s poor scaffolding work down at Pech-Merle.

From— Laocoön Times – April ^1st, 1183BCE

For Sale—One large hand made Wooden Horse created by Greek craftsman on the banks of the Agean Sea. This fifty foot high work of art is a glorious treasure to behold just on it’s own merits, but wait there’s more. Inside this handsomely sculptured equine is room for over thirty men and women, a perfect vehicle for weddings, funerals or any ritual concerning the goddesses Athena. Did I say vehicle? Yes this work of art is also portable as it sits proudly on four large hardwood wheels that will never chip or crack.

There are a few gauges in the surface, but this “Wasi-sabi” only adds to the character of the work. The new moon is almost upon us and we will soon be navigating the wine dark sea back to Ithaca. Just take a right passed the large flaming structure, go about a half a league on Rosy Fingers of Dawn Street and you’ll see the horse. Act now, this Bronze Age beauty is a one of a kind and won’t last long. Makes a wonderful and thoughtful gift.
Odysseus, 1855 Cassandra Lane, Troy

From— The Dailey Nazarene April 8, 15 AD/CE:

Single, Aramaic Jewish male seeking companionship with a compassionate, patient, and understanding female. Must enjoy walking to various parts of Judea with a dozen or so men, spiritual discussions in the countryside, and witnessing miracles. I seem to have a very busy schedule these days, healing the sick and raising the dead but in between my visions and my teaching I get lonely. It’s no easy task trying to redeem mankind, especially with all those Romans around. In my spare time I make cabinets, chairs and small religious items.

My family life is somewhat of a challenge to most of my friends. My mother is a Saint but my father situation is somewhat challenging. Actually I have two Dad’s one who lives with my mom, and one who is somewhat distant, but we’ve worked it out and we all get along. Do you like to dine on wine, bread and fishes? If the answer is yes you’ll have ample amounts of all three as well as an opportunity to witness a large spiritual awakening both here in Judea and in the rest of the western world.

Send all scrolls to: Yeshua Ben Yosef 7010 Lower Galilee Lane, Nazereth, Judea.

From— The Neverland Herald – Forever & Ever

Single animated fairy seeks a grown up. I have spent the last century of my life waiting for a guy in a green suit to show up, and I now realize he will never Pan out. Due to my diminutive size (I’m a minus 10 petite) I can only hold one emotion at a time and yes I have some anger issues but can be loving and supportive as well.

Are you Pixie Dust tolerant? If the answer is yes then come fly with me and enjoy the earth from 1000 feet up as we soar through the heavens.

I work long hours at my job in Southern California but I find that I never run out of energy especially for the right person, fairy, troll or gnome. My bell is ringing…can you hear it? So don’t be a Lost Boy, look me up!

Please write to — Tink, PO Box 8888, Anaheim California.

From—Eden Reader –July 19^th, 4004BCE

We are a young couple looking to relocate to the east side after being evicted over an über stringent no fruit policy. Currently looking for a shame free facility overlooking the Euphrates for two adults and a reptile. I am presently out of work but collect disability due to the loss of a right rib and I also do some pruning (fig trees, apple trees etc) and tilling of the Earth. If our clothing optional lifestyle and my wife’s sweet tooth are not a problem we would like to move as soon as possible.

Adam 3:23 Genesis Lane, Earth

From—Sumarian Times –August 16^th, 2250BCE

Hi I’m a high priestess of the moon god Nanna and have composed over 42 hymns about Akkadian temples. The problem is I have no one to critique my work as apparently I have created this art form that one day will be called poetry. I like writing about my personal relationship with the goddess Inanna. Do you like to write about your inner life or the gods? My dad, King Sargon the Great said it would be ok for us to meet at his temple, especially when he’s out pillaging and destroying other cultures.

Don’t be shy, come over this Tuesday and we can work on some new verses and hymns about Inanna or any goddess that resonates with you. Remember to bring your own tablets and chisels and really think about what you’d like to say before transferring to stone. I’ll provide the wine.

Enheduanna – 86 Akked Lane, Ur

From— The Daily Thebes – June 6^th, 1330BCE

While it’s true I’m worshipped as a God and as a venerated Pharaoh in reality I’m just a lonely teenager with no one to have fun with. Does floating down the Nile under a full moon with a cool beer in your hand sound like a good time to you? I also love dancing, chanting and singing praise songs to the goddess Amun.

Everyone here at the temple is all wrapped up tighter then a mummy. I’m young I want to have fun and please don’t let the fact that I’m married to my half sister stand in your way, it doesn’t stand in mine. I know all the hot spots on the south side of town, and all the blues bars in Memphis and I also have a little lover’s hideaway in Luxor.

PS —I’ve been feeling a little funny as of late, I might be coming down with something, so write soon ok?

Send your tablets to—Tut, 1350 Valley of the Kings Road, Thebes

How Anne Baxter Changed My Religion

2011-03-15T21:38:00.000-07:00

I had my first spiritual crisis at the age of eight. It was Passover 1956, our yearly ritual that was always held at my Bubbie’s apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. I was turning a page of the illustrated Haggadah, a kind of a child’s guide to the Passover, when I found myself gazing straight into the face of the Angel of Death. She had long, wild hair, and she was descending from a darkened heaven and wielding a very foreboding scythe with both hands. It was on the same page as the four questions, and that’s where I came into the ritual. As the youngest child I had to read the questions. However, I was so fixated on the dark angel I could barley speak.

I knew the story well—Moses warned Pharaoh nine times before the big blow. In ascending order they were water to blood, a rain of frogs, lice, wild beasts, blight on livestock, boils, hail, locusts, and then the death of all the Egyptian firstborn. Staring at the Haggadah, all I could think was, “What kind of an angel would do that? I thought angels were sweet.”

After the plagues had been run by and the prayers had fallen silent, I piped up. My question probably came from a confluence of Seder wine and fear. I asked, “Why couldn’t God spare the Egyptian children too?”

My Uncle Samuel shook his head. “It’s part of the story, it’s always been that way.”

“Don’t take it so literally,” said uncle Max, “it’s a metaphor.”

My Aunt Esther added, “Try to view the spiritual side.

Yahweh loved the Hebrews so much He’d do anything to set them free.

My father, Solomon, commented, “God warned the Pharaoh with the previous nine plagues. He had plenty of time to think it over.”

Bubbie then spoke up. “There’s still chicken. Nobody’s eating it. Is there something wrong with the chicken?”

It made no sense to me, but I, like Jacob, often wrestled with God. I wrestled with many things growing up on the Lower East Side. I was constantly worried about breaking any of my parents’ numerous socialist taboos, like watching Walt Disney, who was antiunion, or eating any product made by John Welch, who was the founder of the John Birch Society. Besides my parents, danger lurked outside the apartment in the form of young men from the Catholic school, who held me personally responsible killing their Savior.

We had our pleasures, too. Baseball, comics, street games, television, and of course the movies. In those days there was only one big screen and the movie houses looked like great palaces. When a new movie opened it would play in just one theater. It was a major deal to go uptown and see a first-run film.

In October of 1956 the epic Cecil B. DeMille film The Ten Commandments was released, all three hours and forty minutes of it. It opened at the RKO Palace, and my best friends and I were determined to go and see the movie on the very first weekend.

On a crisp autumn afternoon my friends Izzy, Tony, and I boarded the 7^th avenue IRT with over two dollars in our pockets and incredible excitement in our hearts.We were not the most well-behaved young people but had made a pact with ourselves that we would refrain from our customary movie conduct.

Our usual movie behavior consisted of obnoxious noises like the hand-in-armpit fart sound. Izzy had that one down. We would also refrain from kicking seats, throwing popcorn boxes at the screen, and roaring with the MGM lion. We all agreed that getting kicked out of this movie would be a very stupid thing to do.

We got to the theater just a few minutes before they opened the doors, and there was a long line. We then performed our old trick of waiting for the line to just start moving and then slide in front of some older people who we knew wouldn’t complain too much. Once we got through the doors we ran into the theater and picked out some choice seats in the middle section just ten or so rows back. We then pooled the rest of our change and sent Izzy to get candy and cokes; we were all set.

Before the movie a chubby little man emerged from a curtain and onto the stage. He claimed to be a Bible scholar and told us that all we would see and hear was straight from the good book and historically accurate. Then the lights went down, the lion roared, and The Ten Commandments with its big brassy theme began. The three of us gazed in awe into the great colloid void.

We quickly learned that evil Ramses II (played by a bald and buff Yul Brynner) wanted to eliminate all the Hebrew male children. Being ever so alert Moses’ mom placed her child in a basket and floated it down the river where it was discovered by none other than Pharaoh’s little daughter. She was so smitten with the little child she decided to adopt him as her own. The next thing you knew he was the Prince of Egypt, or at least Co-prince of Egypt because his evil half brother Ramses II wanted to be the next Pharaoh too.

“Yes,” I thought, “I remember a lot of this from Passover, from that illustrated Haggadah with the scary angel in it.” Then something altogether different happened—it was quite unexpected. A new character was introduced, one I had never read about. Leaning out over an archway in a tight blue dress, blinking eyelashes at least two inches long, was the enchanting Queen Nefertiri.

At that moment I felt a strange sensation in my eight-year-old frame. A little bolt of electricity ran from my head to my feet, my fingers tingled. I shrugged it off and threw down another handful of raisinettes followed by a gulp of Coke.

An hour into the movie and no big action scenes yet, we were all getting a little antsy. Thoughts of rude noises ran through our collective brains. Especially since they kept saying, “So let it be written, so let it be done,” over and over again. To make things even harder there was a semi-romantic scene between Queen Nefertiri and Moses. She told Moses in a sensuous voice that she wanted to be his queen. It was at parts like this that one or two or perhaps all three of us would make a journey to the concession counter. Tony and Izzy gave me the nod, meaning let’s get more candy. “That’s OK, I’ll stay here. Just get me another Coke.”

Tony went on a tirade that I had to give him money now because he didn’t have that much on him, and then someone in the row behind was yelling for us to shut the hell up and Tony flicked him off and said something about his mother and he flicked Tony off and so on.

I didn’t tell my friends why I stayed; I stayed because that buzz was back. This time the tingle went from the bottom of my neck down through the front of my body. It wasn’t Charlton Heston as Moses that was causing this new emotional response. It was Queen Nefertiri. That tight dress, the cool stuff on her head, her sultry voice as she said “Mo.....ses......Mo...ses.”

At this point in my life I had not the faintest idea what sex, lust, or passion was. I had no idea where babies came from and what’s more I didn’t want to know. I had a feeling that the explanation was very disturbing. Every so often I’d hear grownups talk about people sleeping together. What did that mean? I reached the conclusion that sleeping together meant that you stayed up late with someone you liked and had milk and cookies and watched TV.

It was now the second scene between Moses and Queen Nefertiri. Moses had decided to get back to his roots and was currently working in the mud pits with his tribe. Nefertiri showed up with her entourage, pointed to Moses and said, “Take this man to my royal barge.” My heart was beating faster again, little electric rockets were launching all over my body. Funny, I didn’t remember this part from the Passover meal. I started to wonder if the little guy at the beginning of the film really knew what he was talking about, but I didn’t care.

So there they were floating down the Nile, he was all muddy and she had on an ultra-tight blue dress. I was licking my lips as I realized now (although I couldn’t label it then) that I was experiencing my first titillation. I wanted to be in my pajamas and sit up and have milk and cookies with Queen Nefertiri, except I didn’t want her to wear pajamas, I wanted her to be in that dress. Tony and Izzy were looking at me funny.

“You like this part?” Tony said, gazing at me like I was the creature from another planet.

“No man, no, this part’s boring,” I quickly lied.

“Yeah, right,” Tony replied. (Tony was a little further along about sex then I was. He was Catholic and came from a family of eight kids so I guess he had it figured out.) “Oh, I know,” Tony said, “you got the hots for her. She’s not bad but I’m waiting for the action parts, when’s the part with the Red Sea going to happen?”

I then looked at Tony de Marco. I liked Tony, he was a cool guy, but I didn’t feel the same when I looked at Tony as when I looked at Queen Nefertiri. The same was true for Izzy.

It was this second encounter between the Queen and Moses that sent me over the top. She had first met Moses as a prince and now he was a slave. But she still loved him, she offered him a deal, she would soften the Pharaoh’s heart to let the Hebrew children go if he agreed to do the milk and cookies thing with her. It was then she said my favorite line of the movie: “Mo...ses....Mo...ses, worship whatever gods you please so long as I can worship you.”

She then told him that if he became Prince of Egypt again, he would be in a position to free the Hebrew people; it was as simple as that. “Oh, this is great,” I thought. “Now the little Egyptian children don’t have to be smitten by an angry God. This is a win-win situation.” I was cheering Moses on. “No,” says Moses, “I must serve my God. I saw the burning bush. I must take the Hebrew children to the Promised Land.”

What! I nearly choked on my malt ball. What was Moses thinking? How did he know this wasn’t Yahweh’s Plan B? The plan where nobody gets hurt. OK, so he married that little goat herder girl in the land of Median. What’s wrong with fooling around a little bit for the greater good? He wasn’t even really Jewish yet and already he had guilt?

Perhaps if the Almighty could have gazed at Anne Baxter in that blue dress he might have understood. To bad all of this didn’t happen in Greece. Last year Izzy and I saw a movie about this Greek guy named Ulysses trying to find his way home. There was a different God for every situation in that movie. I’m sure at least one of them could have inspired Moses to consider Queen Nefertiri’s proposition. That’s a problem with one God, not a lot of wiggle room.

So Moses turned down the queen’s offer and the plagues were on. The Angel of Death showed up, the Egyptian children died. Finally Pharaoh let the Hebrew people go. Then Pharaoh did an about-face. I guess losing his firstborn pissed him off, and we were off to the big Red Sea part. Tony and Izzy were poking me in the ribs again, “Hey, man, this is the really good part.” They were jumping up and down in their seats. It was all lost on me; I was still reveling in my first infatuation.

So the Hebrew children crossed over, but their troubles didn’t stop there. And after a golden bull and a big party, it was a forty-year trek through the wilderness before they reached Canaan.

That’s where Moses really got the worst part of the deal. He didn’t even get to cross the Jordan. He spent the rest of his days up on Mount Nebo probably thinking about that woman he left behind in Goshen. Izzy, Tony, and I discussed our favorite parts on the subway going downtown. We all agreed that Yul Brynner looked a lot tougher than Moses, and had it come down to it he would have kicked Moses’ ass. Oh yes, the Red Sea and the pillar of flame and the golden bull were spectacular. However, my mind was fixed on Moses’ refusal of Ann Baxter’s proposition with the added bonus of letting all the children live. Such a shame I thought.

Had they been able to work it out, the Egyptian children would have been spared and Moses and Queen Nefertiti could have munched on milk and cookies as they floated down the Nile and into the sunset on her royal barge.

The Cake, The Cake

2011-02-24T19:35:00.000-08:00

I can’t tell you where it’s going, I can’t tell you whom it’s for. I’ll tell you this: It’s a cake, a three-tiered creation with beautifully crafted designs on each level. It’s for a special birthday, for an incredible person, but you’ll just have to take the call to find out. It wouldn’t be fun if I told you. Just have your cab radio on and be in the vicinity of 3rd Avenue and St. Mark’s Place around 7:30 for a pickup, OK? And don’t ask where it’s going, just take the call.

Thus spoke my friend Steve, who was currently baking healthy desserts each evening at the Ananda East Bakery a few blocks south off St. Mark’s Place in the East Village.

He knew I drove a cab at night and that the company I drove for had a two-way radio system, thus enabling a driver to pick up fares that were phoned in. “Just believe me, it will be a gas, a certain group of people will truly envy you,” Steve said to me that morning on the phone. He went on, “I know that the Ananda East Bakery has an account with your cab company and they’re going to call it in around 7:30, so just be near St. Mark’s Place, OK?”

I then asked Steve, “Why don’t I just come into the bakery and pick up the cake before you need to call it in?”

“Oh no, no, you can’t do that, it’s a secret. The whole thing is a secret and a surprise, so no one outside the bakery is allowed to know.”

On the evening of August 1, 1970, I made sure that my body and my cab were as one and at St. Mark’s Place and 2nd Avenue at 7:15. The call actually came early. “We need a cab to take a birthday cake from the Ananda East Bakery over to Ding Batz Bar in Brooklyn.” I hesitated as I reached for the receiver. Ding Batz was a biker bar all the way out in Bay Ridge. Unless I was willing to work the clubs (and it was still on the early side), I’d have to deadhead it back to the city. Recalling Steve’s excitement inspired me to pull down the hammer on the radio and take the call. The folks at the bakery were amazed that I was just around the corner. As fate would have it, it was my friend Steve who handed me the cake at the counter. The cake was all wrapped up in a box that was well over three feet high.

“Hi man,” I said to my friend, pretending I had never seen him before. “Hey, who’s the lucky person to receive this?”

Steve smiled and replied, “You’ll find out when you get to Ding Batz.” They gave me a twenty, which was generous as the fare was to be somewhere between ten and twelve dollars, and I was not intending to throw the clock with a cake sitting on the front seat. Steve gave me a wink when I picked up the cake.

As I was exiting the bakery a very tall man with a long gray beard escorted me to my cab. He was the head baker and the creator of tonight’s special dessert and wanted to make sure his masterpiece was as safe as possible for the journey across the water to Bay Ridge. He walked step by step with me until I reached the door of the cab. I opened the door, and we both carefully placed the cake between the front seat and the dash; it seemed very secure in that spot. As I was about to take off, the baker, who went by the name of Leon, leaned his tall and thin body though the passenger side window and gave me what could only be described as a short but somewhat spiritual “pep talk.”

“Remember, man, keep away from potholes, try not to turn too quickly, don’t run any red lights, and think positive thoughts about the cake and about everything, you dig what I’m saying to you?” He then nodded his head up and down until I nodded my head back and made eye contact. Making eye contact with Leon was easy as his were as wide as saucers. There was little doubt that Leon was (as they say in Ireland) “with the fairies.”

He took a breath and said, “Now brother, listen to me, man, you’re listening to me, right?”

I widened my eyes as best as I could and replied, “Yes Leon, I’m with you, man, I’m right here sitting in this cab listening to you.”

Leon continued, “When you’re stopped at a red light, take the time to, you know, look at the cake and send some good energy to it, love the cake, brother, love the cake, you dig? That cake is like my child; I worked two days on this beautiful confection and as I did I put as much love into it as possible, so please continue the love, OK? It’s got cardamom icing on it man what other cake ever created had cardamom icing on it? Oh, and another thing, don’t ‘beep, beep’ on your horn as it might send negative vibrations into the cake.

“Yes, Leon,” I replied. “I will love this cake right up to the moment I present it to this mystery birthday boy, I promise.”

Leon was now nodding my way in a very affirmative manner. “One last thing, brother, one last thing, then I let you start on your journey with my cake. What sign are you?”

“Aries with Leo rising,” I quickly replied.

Leon then smiled and said, “Yeah, me too, good thing you’re delivering the cake tonight because around midnight or so your Mars goes into retrograde and I’d never let anyone with an angry planet drive my cake to Brooklyn, you dig what I’m saying, man?” I nodded in the affirmative, and as I turned the key in the ignition, I thought it best not to tell Leon that I had a Gemini moon.

Leon reached into his breast pocket and handed me a joint. “Here’s for the ride, brother, happy trails, and keep that cake from moving around, OK?”

“I’m with you, Leon,” I replied as I gingerly placed the joint in my shirt pocket. I then rolled on through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel enjoying Leon’s gift as ships and the sea life of the East River floated gently above the cab, the cake, and me.

By the time my tires were rolling through Brooklyn, I was in a happy and elevated state. However, I soon became quite obsessed about the identity of this special birthday boy. As the cab and I rolled up 4th Avenue, I began to reflect—what kind of person would celebrate the day of his birth in a biker bar in Bay Ridge? A big important member of Hell’s Angels, perhaps Sonny Barger, who is the most hellish of the Hell’s Angels? No, no, a biker is not going to order a cake from the Ananda East Bakery, where they use all natural and organic ingredients and exotic spices like cardamom. No, this has to be some guy who is kind of a hippie and likes to hang out with bikers. Perhaps he’s a famous writer, Tom Wolfe or maybe Kurt Vonnegut. No, I bet he’s not a writer, maybe some off-beat hip movie star like Peter Fonda. Yes, he did Easy Rider and that was about motorcycles.

I then thought what a dumb move it was for Leon to give me that joint. I’m all alone in the cab, I’m high, I’m getting the munchies, and there are three feet of sweets gently rocking back in the passenger seat.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll pull over and check this out and maybe, just maybe, put a little of that cardamom cream icing on my finger. How would anyone out at Ding Batz even notice a wee bit of missing icing? But then again they might, and a little bit of sweet is surely not worth a broken nose. However, I could see that the box was easy to open, so why didn’t I just pull over, I thought, and take a quick gander at this prized dessert?

Three blocks later I ever so gently pull into a gas station. I locked the cab and went to the men’s room and washed my hands until they were really clean, as I didn't want to leave any dirt on the box, especially on the inside.

I then returned to my cab, opened the passenger side door, and carefully unfolded the top of the box. I was parked under a bright light, and I could easily see the two top layers. It was absolutely stunning, and on each level were beautifully crafted roses, skulls, and teddy bears, and on the top it read “Happy Birthday Jerry.”

I had an instant satori moment right there in a gas station on 4th Avenue and 76th Street in Brooklyn. Steve was right, this was a major deal, and I was to deliver Jerry Garcia’s birthday cake to the man himself.

At this moment in time there were over 8 million people in the Big Apple, and on this tropical August night I was the chosen. Sensing my immense responsibility, I neatly closed the box and drove to Ding Batz.

There were Angels and Harleys everywhere as the cake and I gently traversed our way through the smoky sea of leather and chrome. I entered Ding Batz and announced that I had to deliver this directly to the birthday boy. I was led through more large men wearing leather until I was placed in front of Jerry’s table. They were all smoking joints and throwing back whiskey, and they all smiled when they saw the cake bearer arrive.

“Take it out and put it on the table, my man.” And I (with a little help from two large tattooed individuals) did just that. It was a one of a kind. Multicolored, multidimensional, and in three crafted levels. Leon was truly an artist.

Jerry and his friends were so loaded that they gave me the credit for creating the cake and they all just kept saying, “Out of sight, oh man, it looks too good to eat. Wow, out of sight, man, you know, oh man...”

I took it in and replied, “Oh well, you know, I’m just doing what I can for the universe, you know, wow, I’m so glad you like it. Wow, OK, out of sight, yes.”

It was quite dark and noisy in the back of the bar, and faces seemed to appear and disappear within all the smoke. I was so high and excited that I really couldn’t tell exactly which woolly-headed, bearded individual was Jerry Garcia, but I soon realized he was the one directly in front of me, the one with only four fingers on his right hand wearing a ratty black T-shirt with a pocket.

I soon caught the vibe that it was time for me to make an exit, but before I did Jerry smiled and said, “Hey, man, if we ever run into each other again, just say ‘The cake, the cake,’ OK, you know what I mean? Remember man, ‘The cake, the cake.’”

I nodded and I kept nodding as they stuffed a twenty and a few joints in my breast pocket and said, “See you later,” and off I went driving back into heart of Gotham, with “The cake, the cake” echoing in every ounce of my being.

Two years later I was in attendance at the first Rainbow Gathering in Granby, Colorado, where it snowed on the Fourth of July. We were eating granola, chanting, smoking, flipping out, flipping in, and flipping every which way we could. We all ate together, pooped together, swam together, and all got sick together. Seeing as how we had the runs and were throwing up a lot (although we all knew deep down inside we were healing) my friends and I decided to make an early exit.

We got up at 5:00 am on the last morning and hiked down the mountain to my little blue Volkswagen. Two miles outside of Granby, Colorado, we ran out of gas. It was 6:00 am, and four very dilapidated hippies were stranded in a blue 1963 Volkswagen on a very deserted stretch of road. We lifted up the hood to let any possible passing cars know we needed help. I had a gas can to point at as well, to let our hoped-for rescuer know just what type of aid we needed.

Fifteen frozen minutes later we saw a big white VW van ambling its way down the road. VW vans did very poorly in high altitudes, and this old clunker was going very, very slow. As it approached, we all started jumping up and down and yelling, “Gas, hey man, we’re out of gas.” And just to make sure the driver knew, we all pointed to the gas can. The van drew closer and we all became silent. Driving the van was a young girl who looked like she’d just stepped out of an R. Crumb comic. She must have been sixteen, with big woven braids, freckles, and a mouth full of braces, and sitting next to her, smoking a number was, yes, Jerry Garcia. I told all my friends to be quiet as I had this one in the bag.

As the van drew closer, Jerry rolled down the window, but the car didn’t slow down. “Don’t worry,” I told my friends. “I know just what to say.” I waited until the van was just about passing us and I yelled in a most audible fashion, “Jerry...the cake...the cake...the cake...the cake.” He smiled and flashed a peace sign and rolled on down the road.

A few cars later we were given enough gas to make it to Granby. We pulled into the parking lot and sure enough, I once again ran into Jerry Garcia. I made eye contact and said, “Jerry, didn’t you see us stranded by the side of the road a few miles back?”

“Yeah,” Jerry replied, “you guys were shouting something about a cake. I thought you might be a little dangerous or just too stoned to stop for.”

“Oh, no,” I replied, “I was the guy who brought your birthday cake to Ding Batz Bar in Brooklyn three years ago. Remember, man, ‘the cake, the cake’?”

After a few seconds of silence he replied, “I don’t think I’ve ever been to any place called Ding Batz. Hey man, I got to split, stay loose.”

As rock icon Jerry Garcia disappeared into a throng of devotees, I envisioned myself back in that gas station in Bay Ridge slowly eating all the skull rosettes and teddy bears off Jerry’s cake and enjoying every minute of it. “Someday,” I thought, “he’ll remember, and if not, I can always remember for him.”

Dancin' With Wilson

2010-08-30T17:28:00.000-07:00

Lynchburg Virginia in 1967 was not a great place to be black. However if you were up on stage with a rack of brass horns, a throbbing bass line, a wicked guitar wailing away, and you were singing about the fact that you just “gotta have it”, you were loved.

In December of 1967 when Otis Redding died in a plane crash the one thousand students of Lynchburg College went into mourning. Most of them were dead set against any civil right legislation, but when it came to soul music, well that was a different story.

We drank a lot in college and that made soul music sound oh so good. And when we drank we would dance, and when we danced, we would only dance to rhythm and blues. Sam & Dave, Otis Redding, Roofus Thomas, Wilson Pickett, Marvin Gay and Martha Reeves they were our dance heroes.

While people our age were tripping out in California and fighting in the jungles of Vietnam we were drinking Bourbon and Ginger Ale and doing the “Monkey” and “The Funky Chicken to the music of Sam & Dave and Wilson Pickett.”

In February of 1968 word got out that Wilson Pickett would be performing just seventy-five miles west of Lynchburg at a little redneck school called Ferrum College. This was a major deal for all lovers of R&B as the big acts like Pickett usually only worked the larger cities.

Wilson Pickett was 26 years old at this time and at the peak of his career. Like many of the great soul artists Wilson came from the gospel tradition. He had initially worked with a group called The Falcons who were one of the first vocal groups to bring gospel into a “pop” context. After departing from The Falcons Wilson wrote a few minor R&B hits for small independent labels. In 1964 Pickett was signed to Atlantic records and in 1965 he broke into the charts with a song he co-wrote with guitarist Steve Cropper titled In the Midnight Hour.

I had a friend, Ron Monk, who was from southwest Virginia. Between his thick Appalachian drawl and my Brooklyn utterance we could hardly understand each other but we were buddies and we both loved Wilson Pickett. Ron had a sister, Edna, who attended Ferrum and she not only got us tickets to the show but also secured us with dates.

When the day of the concert arrived we were extremely excited. We picked up our three-piece suits from the cleaners, shined up our wing tips and put on our ties. On the way out of town we made an important stop at the Alcohol Beverage Control store to pick up our Bourbon. We had our own unique and original way of applying spirits into our bodies. We employed what we known a “drinking machine” which in a very real sense was an alcoholic bong.

It was shaped like an hourglass. In the bottom we would pour in ginger ale and in the top portion would go the Old Grand Dad or the Jim Beam. It was extremely efficient. Just when the shot of whiskey would become overwhelming, the ginger ale would kick in and quickly deliver the mixture of sugar and grain into one’s vessel. One drink would get the party going, two would alter the senses and three, well you just didn’t drink three shots out of a drinking machine.

We headed west on Route 460 in my pearl white 1959 Buick Skylark and quickly drove the 75 miles to Ferrum College. Before we picked up our dates we decided to have a quick go round with the drinking machine. After our short libation I asked Monk if he know where we were to meet the appointed women. Monk looked at me funny as he was lighting up a smoke and said “well Neal I wrote it down on a piece of paper and gave it to you before we left, didn’t I?” Already feeling the Bourbon kick in I replied “I remember the paper but the last place I saw it was on your desk in the dorm room.” We both gazed at each other in silence and realized we had no idea where our dates were. We stumbled to a phone booth and called Edna. Edna was not in a good mood. Apparently we were to show up at 2:00 to take our dates to a party, it was now 6:00 and just two hours before show time. “Well Ron” I overheard Edna say “you boys can get your sorry asses over to the Omega Nu Phi Delta Lamba frat house and see if Becky and Fran are still available but you know this is a big party night and you just might be too late.” Ron replied “but we have their tickets, they won’t be able to go without us, would they?” I could hear Ron’s sister laugh through the receiver as she said “Ron are you listening to me? There’s plenty of boys over at that frat with tickets and lots of booze, you know what I mean little brother?” Ron nodded as he hung the receiver up and said “let’s give it a shot, maybe they have a live band and some free food.”

There was a band and they were loud and everyone was dancing. We waited for the song to end, jumped up on a ratty old couch and announced that Neal and Ron have arrived from Lynchburg and were looking Becky and Fran. As the music was starting up again we heard a girl’s voice shout out from the crowed “you jerks are three Bourbons and ten songs too late.

We didn’t know if that was Becky or Fran but it didn’t matter. The music got louder and the entire room was doing this thing called “Dirty Dancing” which to Ron and I seemed like some type of South West Virginia mating ritual one in which we were surly not participating in. I turned to Ron and said “well shit what should we do now?” Ron took a drag off his Marlboro and replied “well at least we don’t have to worry about our dates, so lets eat some food and have another round from the drinking machine.” At that stage of the evening it sounded like a very logical idea.

We looked up at the clock and it was 7:30, we looked at each other and said “show time.” With Tennessee whiskey running through veins and food stains all over are now rumbled suits we proceeded to stumble and weave over to the auditorium for our date with Mr. Pickett. Before entering the concert we had one last taste of the drinking machine and we were ready to dance.

Wilson was smoking, he had a 12 piece horn section and they were all dancing in time to the music. He opened with his current hit “99 & a Half Won’t Do” and went right into “6345-789” and when he launched into his classic “In the Midnight Hour” everybody in the hall (which was the school gym) was up and dancing.

Being just two very inebriated men without any female companions Ron and I made our way up to the front of the stage. We then commenced to redifine the entire concept of The Boogaloo, The Philly Dog and The Funky Chicken.

Our inspired gyrations must have caught Wilson’s eye, for inbetween vairious na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na’s he looked down at us and pointed his long ebony finger our way and said “do you feel it, do you feel it?” We looked up at the almighty Mr. Pickett “Yes, yes, we do, yes, yes we do.” Wilson then screamed into the mic and said “then come up here and show it.”

We didn’t bother with the stairs. We hoisted ourselves up onto the front of the stage and after tripping over the moniters and a few mic cables we managed to right ourselves and started to dance on both sides of Wilson. Wilson was in the middle of “Land of A Thousand Dances” and as he sang out each dance Monk and I would try to do it. We might have gotton The Mashed Potatoes mixed up The Pony and the Alligator with the Watusi but we were holding our own. We were up there dancing with Wilson Pickett feeling the power of the horns, bass and drums pushing away at our backs.

When Wilson launched into “Mustang Sally” we figured our time was up but no one came to fetch us off stage so we kept right on dancing. It was hard keeping up with Wilson, as singing and dancing was his line of work. Halfway thgrough “Mustang Sally” Monk and I decided to do The Turtle. It was actually quite a simple dance. We got down on our backs and then kicked our arms and legs back and forth as it we were an upside down Teripen.

Without any warning Wilson then sequed into “The Funky Broadway” and we both jumped back into the bugaloo mode. We could tell Wilson was reaching the end of the set, he was grunting, “ugh I feel it, it feels soooo good, Lord have mercy, oh, hear me talking, ah-ow it feels so good.” He raised his arms up and said “help me boys, help me boys.” It’s funny how R& B musicians always seem to say everything twice. I got under one arm, Monk the other and we helped Wilson off stage. He then darted back on the stage, blew kisses to everyone and came back to where Monk and I were standing in our glowing post performance high. We had danced and sweated so much we were almost sober, but not quite. Wilson looked at us and said “you guys are a gas come on downstairs and I get you some cokes.”

Wilson brought us down to his dressing room (which was the gym looker room). “Hey help yourself to some sandwiches, pop, whatever you like, I got to jump in the shower and then jump on the bus.” Wilson talked to us as he undressed down to his boxer shorts, and as he was peeling off his clothes they were being picked up by his roadie and put in a bag.

Wilson was built like an athlete, he wasen’t a big man but he was tight all over from all that jumping around stage he did every night. Monk and I were almost tongue tied in his presence but the remaining Burbon in our system kept us talking. “So Wilson, where to next?” Monk and I asked at almost the same time. Smiling in just his boxes and soxs Wilson replied “Well we going north the Charlottsville, then across to Richmond, Washington DC, Philly and then to New York where I’ll be working The Apollo.”

Wilson dryed his sweat off with a beach towel. On the towel was pictured a verluptous black women in a bikini and an inscription that read “be my summer playmate.”

When Wilson was finished with the towel he let it drop down on the locker room bench. His roadie then said something about the shower on the bus, Wilson threw on a bathrobe gave us both a thumbs up and a wink and just like that he was gone.

A very short silence of 3 to 4 seconds followed, before we both grabbed opposite ends of the towel and pulled it tight. “Let go Yankee boy” Monk says “this is my home state and when a famous R&B player leaves a sweaty towel behind it belongs to me.” “No way” I said “remember whose car we came in Monk, and whose sister set us up with those lame dates.” At that moment we both let go and took a major tumble. I hit my lip on an open locker and it started to bleed, Monk hit his nose on the bench and it started instantly swelling. Monk’s got up and yelled “don’t bleed on the towel, whatever you do don’t bleed on the towel.” “Ok, ok” I said, lets sign a truce and agrre on it’s ultimate fate when we sober up.

We were sober enough to drive back to Lynchburg that night, Ron feel asleep with the towel tucked saftly in his arm. We knew what a treasure we had. Wilson Pickett’s towel with his real sweat on it. Sweat that transpired as he sung “Mustang Sally”, “In the Midnight Hour” and “Land of A Thousand Dances”.

The next morning Ron and I went down to the Tip-Top diner for buscuits and gravey and we took along a deck of cards. After a few buscuits and two cups of coffee we played five card stud for the towel and Ron won. He promised that wherever he lived I could come and visit the towel any time. We both agreed that it would never be washed.

I lost the towel but I’ll never loose the moment. The moment I jumped up on stage in a gym in Virginia I danced the night away with the Wicked Pickett and his rocking band doing that Funky Broadway.

Canary

2010-05-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

With her long thin black fingers wrapped around her Kools she’d draw down hard on her cigarette enabling the smoke to quickly disappear through her lips and into her narrow frame. She’d then lift up her head and with one lengthy exhale she’d release it all out of our ninth story window. I was fascinated by how much paper she would burn on her smoke with just one inhale. It was magic to me. She would continue this ritual and as she did she would sometimes bob her head as if she was listening to a distant melody. I would sit near her and wonder as she stared out the window.

Sometimes when she would catch me peaking at her she would shake her head and say “don’t get any dumb ideas like stealing some of my smokes. I count em’ everyday honey and I would know if you took some. And I don’t think your parents would be too happy with their seven year old son if they know he was stealing their house cleaners smokes, now would they? When she would address me she would always point her long and bony index finger right at my eye level. She could be somewhat scary but I’m sure she never thought of herself that way. I would never disagree with Canary, I’d always shake my head yes and promised I would never put a cigarette in my mouth or adhere to whatever law she was laying down.

Canary would come twice a week to our red brick apartment on New York’s lower east side, to wash the floors, take out the laundry, do the dishes and vacuum the house. Her presence was always a welcomed sight to me as both my parents worked every day. When I’d arrive home from school she always had a sandwich ready and some milk. I loved how she greeted me “how you doing sugar, everything alright in the fourth grade? Did you learn something important today? Hey maybe someday you can help change this old mean world.”

I’d sit up on the table and she would keep working and talk to me as I ate. I only knew her as Canary and at that time in my life I imagined it was her first name. She was very long and very thin and had lines that told many stories as they ran up and down her face. The only thing I really knew about her was that she was around forty, had grown up in Alabama, had two children and lived in Brooklyn.

After setting out a little snack for me she would then draw up a chair in the living room and have her smoke while gazing out at the East River. I would quickly devour my sandwich and take my glass of milk and sit in front of the other window and we would both look out at the ships on the river and all the cars rolling across the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

In between drags we would talk a little, never about anything too important. Canary would sometimes say “this is some kind of view you have here, just look at all those cars going across the bridge.” We’d both enjoy seeing the Brighten Line subway make it’s way along the Manhattan Bridge. I’d would say “Canary the subway looks like a rolling snake as it rolls across the bridge, don’t you think?” She’d laugh and as she was drawing on her smoke reply “no honey it looks more like a big old dirty worm, you know what I mean?” And we’d both laugh. In the two years that Canary would come to clean my parents apartment that’s about as close as we would get.

Occasionally we would talk about television. Canary’s favorite show was the $64,000 question. “You know” she would always start as she pulled on her smoke “ I don’t think some of those questions are so hard, I mean I know some of them and so does my husband, do you watch that show?’ I’d nod and reply “oh yeah I think your right but it’s still a little hard for me.” “I know honey, it’s tricky but you’ll see when you get older it won’t seem that difficult. I’ll tell you though, I think something’s really funny about that show, I think they might be telling some of those contestants the answers before the show.” She would tell me that every week and every week I would just nod. She was somewhat disturbed when I told her that I wasn’t allowed to watch Disneyland. She would shake her head and laugh and ask me if my mother thought Mickey Mouse was too scary for me. “No” I’d reply “she says Walt Disney was unfair to working people and he never hired any Jews so we were not allowed to watch the show. “Well I never heard anyone say that before honey and anyway who cares what he thinks you just want to have fun, ain’t that right? I mean you just can’t stop people from thinking, it would be like trying to push a river uphill?” I somehow knew that Canary’s logic made sense but at the same time I knew it wouldn’t change my parents mind. The conversation would always end with Canary letting me know that if I wanted to come to Brooklyn I could watch Walt Disney at her house.

One day just a few months before my family moved away from the lower east side there was a crisis. I would sometimes allow my parakeets out of their cage and let them fly around my room. That afternoon I made the mistake of leaving my bedroom door open just enough to allow a little blue and white bird to escape into the living room. It landed on the couch in the living room and fortunately all the windows were closed. I could hear Canary in the kitchen washing dishes in the sink. I thought of calling to her to help me catch my bird but I was sure I could catch it myself. I crept ever so slowly to my pet and just as I put my hands on the sofa she took off and headed into the kitchen.

I quickly ran over to the entrance to the kitchen and as I did the bird flew around Canary and headed for the window, which was open at the bottom at least five inches. As the bird approached the glass it somehow flew up and then managed to get itself stuck between the lower window, which was raised up, and the rear window, which was lowered down a few inches. And there it struggled, frantically flapping its wings, trapped by a pane of glass on each side of it’s trembling body. If it were to make it’s way down it would fly away and if the rear window were moved up the bird would be crushed.

I started to cry and I grabbed Canary’s forearm and pleaded her to help save my parakeet. It was the first time I had ever touched her. “Please Canary” I said over and over again in a voice that was somewhere between panic and despair “please help, please help Sylvester to get out of the window.”

Canary then said “the first thing you got to do is let go of my arm. You’re not going to help your little bird by squeezing me half to death. The second thing is that you need to do is calm down. The bird is scared enough, look just look over there at the poor thing. Look at it struggle, don’t make it any more nervous by you being crazy ok, you hear what I’m saying?”
I nodded in the affirmative, let go of her arm and backed away from the window. Canary slowly approached the glass, put her long thin hand and arm down through the top and as she did she pulled the front window towards herself as best as she could. Fortunately the entire window and frame were very old and there was just enough give for Canary to perform her miracle. She managed to get her hand under the now exasperated bird and in one smooth motion lift it to the top of the window and back into the kitchen.

She quickly shut the window and in a few minutes I managed to catch Sylvester and place her back in the cage. When I came back into the living room I was still crying. Canary bent down on her knees and said “come here baby and let Canary give you a hug” I made my way over to her and as she held me she said “just be careful with that bird, their so small and so delicate, you know what I mean, baby, you know what I mean?” All I could do was to cry and hold on.

It was the only time that I could remember anyone holding me in that apartment.

In the last few months before we moved, Canary and I assumed our usual places. She would take her break and look out the window and while she smoked and I would sit in the big brown cozy chair read my book, look out the window and talk about school with Canary. I would sometimes wonder what it would be like if she was my mother. Although she always remained a mystery to me I always felt safe around her.

My mother would give her clothes to take home for her children and sometimes offer her food as well. Canary was always polite about the food, but I could tell that the dishes my mother created somehow disagreed with her southern sensibilities.

One morning my mother and I took the subway to Brooklyn. Since my mom didn’t drive we had to leave very early to meet my aunt in Bayridge for lunch. As the express train sped through Hoyt Street Station I looked through the window and noticed the platform was filled with at least a hundred woman and they were almost all black. Many of them wore those white stockings, just as Canary did when she would come to our house. I asked my mother if the women on the Hoyt Street platform were on their way to clean houses. She nodded yes and then I wondered if Canary had been standing there as well. They all stood there so motionless, except for their clothes, which moved ever so slightly from the wind of the speeding express train.

In July of 1958 my parents, my brother and I packed up our things in preparation for our move to Brooklyn. My mother told me to leave anything I didn’t want and she’d give it to Canary for her children. Along with some shirts and pants I put my old tattered baseball glove in the box as an uncle of mine had just bought me a new one. I then realized I might not see Canary before we moved so I wrote her a short note, which read: Dear Canary, thank you for saving Sylvester we will both miss you I hope you son like the baseball mitt. I then put the note in an envelope and placed it in the box with the clothes and my old glove.

I would always look for her when I was on the subway passing through the Hoyt Street station. I never saw her again.

Liberating Richard

2010-05-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

The part of my life I miss the most is when I was fearless. Not necessarily intelligent or insightful, just fearless. To be righteously fearless one must have a cause, and mine was the mountain dulcimer. My partner Sally and I wrote Life Is Like A Mountain Dulcimer while squatting in a hikers’ cabin in Squamish, British Columbia. Under the dim but warm glow of an oil lamp we scratched out forty arrangements in crayon and colored pencil. A few weeks after finishing my first draft, I was deported from Canada for working without a visa. Ten days later my little blue Volkswagen bug threw a rod in Winnemucca, Nevada. But I was not one to be stopped by legalities and expired automobiles, for I had a folio full of mountain dulcimer arrangements, and I was going to New York to get it published. I had no doubt that I would succeed.

The publishing industry in my hometown did not greet me as I’d expected. My first three rejections were a sobering experience, and my financial conditions dictated that I obtain some form of work. So I did as many unemployed actors, poets, musicians did—I drove a cab. And I soon concocted a plan to use the cab to help me find a publisher.

A few nights a week I’d put my dulcimer in a case and take it to work with me. I’d then sit the case up on the front seat. On any given night I’d have between 25 and 40 fares, which meant as many as 240 fares in a six-day week. During a given evening many folks in the back seat would ask, “Hey, what’s in the case?” And I’d reply, “ It’s a dulcimer, and I’ve just written a book for this instrument, would you know a publisher who might be looking for a dulcimer book?”

Sometime during my third month of rolling up and down New York in a checker, an attorney who specialized in books gave me a number to call. Within two weeks I signed my first contract with the Richmond Organization for my aptly named book Life Is Like A Mountain Dulcimer. I was now part of the little remembered dulcimer “boom” of the midseventies, which was sparked by the album Blue by songwriter Joni Mitchell.

I was fearless and confident, which basically made me into a mountain dulcimer zealot. And like any inspired zealot I had to keep creating. While driving a cab and living upstairs in my parents’ house in Brooklyn, I decided to write a book of arrangements based on my dulcimer hero, Richard Fariña. This project would be both my homage to the departed bard and a big money-making idea. Who wouldn’t (I thought) want to own a book of Fariña’s dulcimer arrangement and his poetry?

Richard George Fariña was born in 1937 and brought up in Flatbush, Brooklyn, on Linden Boulevard less then a mile from my parents’ house. His father, Liborio Ricardo, was from Cuba, and his mother, Theresa Crozier, was from Northern Ireland. He went to high school at Brooklyn Tech and won a regent scholarship to Cornell University.

While at Cornell he quickly changed his major from engineering to English and began writing poems and stories for the college literary magazine, The Cornell Writer. The junior editor for the magazine was Thomas Pynchon. Fariña and Pynchon soon became close friends and drinking buddies and influenced each other’s work. In time Fariña would dedicate his instrumental composition V to Pynchon, and Pynchon would dedicate his novel Gravity’s Rainbow to Fariña. In 1959 Fariña dropped out of Cornell, went to New York, and worked for a short time in advertising, but he was soon drawn into the folk scene happening in Lower Manhattan.

One evening he saw the Kentucky folk singer Jean Ritchie perform at folk club in Greenwich Village and became smitten by the mountain dulcimer. This, he decided, would be the perfect vehicle for his poetry. He soon married and toured with Carolyn Hester, but the relationship proved a disaster and ended in 1962. Folk legend has it that Carolyn pulled a gun on Richard in their Paris apartment shortly after he flirted with a young girl in a café. There are many stories like that surrounding the short life of Richard Fariña, all of which only added to his mystique.

In the spring of 1962 while still in Paris he met a sixteen-year-old dancer named Mimi Baez, and within a year they were married. The Baez family was skeptical of Richard at first, but in time his charm and wit won them over. Mimi and Richard composed music together on guitar and dulcimer, and by 1964 they were becoming a well-known folk duo. They recorded two wonderfully inspired and well-produced recordings for Vanguard Records—Celebrations for A Gray Day (April 1965) and Reflections in a Crystal Wind (December 1965). Their music consisted of Richard’s songs of political and social commentary as well as instrumentals he created for the mountain dulcimer. Mimi added her soprano harmony and played guitar and autoharp. They reached their peak at the Newport Folk Festival in 1966, where even a massive thunderstorm could not keep the crowds from dancing to their music, all in various forms of undress.

Shortly after the Newport Festival Fariña completed his novel Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me, which was published by Random House. In just four years Fariña became a recording artist and a published author with a cabin in Big Sur, and was touring the folk scene with his beautiful young wife, Mimi. Fariña was a contemporary of Bob Dylan, who was living just down the road with Mimi’s sister, Joan.

As with most brilliant souls Fariña had his demons as well. One of them took hold of him on April 30 1966. Shortly after signing books at the Thunderbird Bookstore in Carmel Valley, he jumped on the back of a Harley motorcycle driven by his friend Willie Hinds. Somewhere on Carmel Valley Road Hinds lost control of the bike, and Fariña died instantly while the driver survived. Fariña hadn’t lived to see thirty.

He took the dulcimer out of the Appalachians and made it accessible to city kids like me. To anyone over forty who plays the dulcimer, Richard Fariña has earned patriarchal status. The publisher of my first book was not interested in my Fariña idea, nor was any other music publisher in New York. Being the eager fan that I was I decided to publish the book myself. In order to do so I had to license the rights from Warner Brothers. I can still remember the man at WB smirking the entire time we discussed, or rather he dictated the terms to me. He asked me a number of times why I didn’t want to license someone like Joni Mitchell or Neil Young as it would be the same price. “No,” I would reply, “I’ll pay the 12.5 percent per book for the music of Richard Fariña since I have a handle on the dulcimer world.”

“Suit yourself, kid,” he replied as I signed off on the deal and handed over $750 in advance. I then borrowed $1,000 from my folks and threw in $2,000 from my cab-driving career. I had an artist friend (Jude Brae) from Vancouver do all the illustrations, which were based on Fariña’s liner notes from his recordings.

After having the music engraved, Sally and I took all the music and illustrations over to Faculty Press in Brooklyn. They were an old New York socialist printer who printed Sing Out, The Pete Seeger Banjo Book, and a number of other political journals. The staff at Faculty Press appreciated the fact that we were putting out a book on Richard and Mimi’s music and treated us like kindred spirits. They never charged us for all the prepress work they did. I’m sure it was due to the fact that so many of the songs in the book were political. I printed up 5,000 copies and quickly became aware of how little I knew about book distribution. I soon realized that most dulcimer players were not interested in Fariña. When I left New York City I loaded up all the books and took them back to Canada. Two years latter I loaded them up again for my migration to Santa Cruz.

Shortly after moving to Santa Cruz I made an appointment with Mimi Fariña and drove up to Mill Valley to present her with a copy of the book. As she scanned through the work, I noticed she stopped on the page that had an illustration of a woman in a cabin in Big Sur cooking on an old wood stove. As this image was based on Richard’s liner notes I realized it was she.

Mimi stared at the picture for minute and I could tell she was moved by it. She thanked me for producing the book but told me it was really all his music. “I was nineteen when we recorded these albums, it seems like a different life ago,” she said as we shook hands before I left her office.

By 1997 I still had over 3,000 of my inspired creation living under my bed and in various closets around my home. Then a few small miracles happened.

Shorty after hearing a Richard and Mimi recording of “Reno Nevada,” Douglass Cooke (yet another Brooklyn native) created a Fariña web page and a book on his life. Positively Fourth Street: The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Fariña and Richard Fariña by David Hajdu was published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. In December 2009, I sold my last copy.

Due to the fact that Warner Brothers still owned the material, and there were quite a number of mistakes in the book, I decided to let it go. I now get from ten to twenty requests for it a month.

This April 30 will mark the forty-fourth anniversary of Richard Fariña’s death, and on that day I will liberate Richard. I’ve scanned the entire book into PDF files and intend to give them away both to the Fariña web site and to anyone who wants them.

We were both from Brooklyn, and we ended up in the same area of California playing the dulcimer. We also both broke down in Winnemucca, Nevada. What better zealot is there than I to digitally give to the world some of the classic arrangements of Richard Fariña, which will include “Another Country,” “Bold Marauder,” “One Way Ticket,” “Tuileries,” “A Swallow Song,” “Chrysanthemum,” “Raven Girl,” and “Joy Round My Brain”?

The Richard Fariña Dulcimer Book

New Year's Eve

2010-04-11T20:34:00.000-07:00

New Years Eve

Sometime around 2,000 BC a group of intuitive and fun loving Babylonians decided to create a holiday to celebrate the first New Moon after the Vernal Equinox. This celebration of the coming of spring was also a logical time to bring in a New Year. The long dark days of winter had passed; and life was renewing itself all around them. The Babylonians then spent the next two weeks dancing, feasting and planting new crops. They had chosen the perfect season to celebrate a New Year, one that we still acknowledge as the first day of spring.

Nineteen hundred years latter the Romans, and their incestuous, wicked Emperors began to do nasty and nefarious things with the calendar. They tampered with it so much that in 46 BC Julius Caesar decided something very radical needed to be done in order to bring the calendar back in synch the sun. So Mr. Caesar decreed that the previous year go on for 445 days and he then named the first month of the New Year after Janus, the Roman deity who was able to look forwards and backwards at the same time.

The entire concept of having a New Year start in the middle of winter is in essence a very incongruous and distorted idea. Yet by 1600 or so it stuck, and most of the occupants of the earth soon adopted the concept of starting a New Year when absolutely nothing new was happening.

However if there were one place on earth to celebrate an incongruous and distorted idea created by the decadent old Emperors of Rome, it would certainly be New York City, The Big Apple, and my hometown.

In keeping with perhaps some of the original Babylonian celebrations I rode the roads of Gotham in my own special chariot. Instead of horses and wheels I commanded a moving yellow vehicle which rolled along on four hard circular pieces of rubber and was propelled by an engine, one which consumed a magic liquid composed of ancient pieces of giant monsters which once roamed the earth long before the Babylonians discovered Spring or the Romans conquered Carthage.

I loved to drive on New Years Eve for this was the night all the residents joyfully reached back into their collective ancestral memories and remembered some of their primal reasons for being on the Earth. Especially the ones that included alcohol, pot, various controlled substances, dancing, laughing, being loud, and enjoying food and sex though not in any particular order.

This was the one night of the year that the entire city seemed to let its collective hair and allow party angel of Gotham to sprinkle them all with urban pixie party dust. Which to a man behind the wheel of a Taxi meant that the clientele was constant and the tips were great. I’d get invited to a dozen or so parties but I would never desert my cab. For my goal was to return home with at least $200.00 in cash in my pocket and if that meant staying out until 3 AM well so be it.

This New Years the Gods of weather were not being favorable to the residents of the great steel canyon. New York had a week of some incredibly harsh ice storms and by 2 AM the streets were deserted. By 2:30 I found myself uptown with only $160.00 on the clock and made the decision to beat the retreat and call it a night. I rolled down Second Avenue hoping to get that last magic fare back to Brooklyn. Just above 60^th street a very shivering older couple were waving their collective arms in a frenzied and very bird like fashion to hail me/

The man stumbled up to my window, and as he was approaching the cab I realized he had enough alcohol in his system to pickle each of his organs in a most generous fashion. He smiled a very frozen and potted smile and said “hey listen, you take a nice Greek man and his wife to Queens and I give you thirty bucks, hey you don’t throw the clock just make it for yourself, that’s good eh, that’s good. I’m Nicky and this is Sophia, we’ve just come from great Greek party but we very cold and have to go home now.”

“I smiled at Nicky and replied “that sounds great but I know where your going and it’s miles from Northern Boulevard and your neighborhood is going to be one giant sheet of ice and I’d really like to get back to Brooklyn one piece.”

He tilts his head and says “oh come take Nicky and Sophia to Steinway Street, were three blocks from the B.Q.E, you drop us off and boom you be back in the city or in Brooklyn in no time, hey I still have a half a bottle of Ouzo we could sip it all they way there, thirty dollars we give you thirty dollars that’s good…no”?

He then dips his inebriated head into my cab and looks at my hack license and say’s “hey you nice Jewish boy you know I’m Greek you know we have connection, you know, Jews and Greeks love music and food and dancing, yes I am right yes?”

Visions of Yahweh and Apollo playing shuffleboard were dancing through my mind as I dipped into my history major background to honestly try to remember some great Greco-Judaic connection and indeed I found one. In 1492 when Spain expelled all their Jews, it was the Greeks that offered them sanctuary, many Jews did indeed settle in the Greek city of Thessaloniki. So as loaded, as Nicky was, his inebriated historical pitch did indeed have a whiff of some historical accuracy. Anyhow, they were about to freeze to death and $30.00 for what really is a $7.00 ride sounded just too tempting to me. The other benefit was that $30.00 would make it almost a $200.00 night. I could drop them off, head back in to the city get two more rides and my night would be golden.

“Ok Nicky it’s a deal” I replied with confidence and as much enthusiasm as one could muster at 2:30 am. He once again stuck his head into my cab and tried to kiss me on the cheek. I leaned hard to the right to avoid his Athenian advances but assured him that his friendship was well appreciated. With his head still inside of the cab he said, “ok I go kiss Sofia instead.”

I crossed over the 59^th Bridge and traveled up Northern Boulevard. Nicky and Sophia were laughing and drinking the last of the Ouzo and then commenced to enjoy what only can be described as some colorful and creative form of mating behavior. At this point in the evening I was extremely thankful that they only Greek I knew was Spanakopita, Moussaka and the names of a few islands of the coast of Greece.

Well, I thought this is indeed in keeping with the original Babylonian celebration of the New Year. I was very thankful that they were far too drunk to take their clothes off as my cab wobbled and skidded its way through the icy streets. I made sure the partition was closed and I turned up my radio, but I could still hear an unusual form of Hellenistic cooing from the rear seat of my now rolling chariot of love. A feeling of relief came over me as we arrived at their requested destination. I turn my radio down and said in a somewhat high volume, “It’s time for Nicky and Sophia to go to their little castle in Queens.” My request was met with silence.

I then rapped my fist hard on the partition a few times and eventually there was some grunting and movement in the back seat. Nicky stumbled his way out of the back of the cab and shut the door. He weaved his way to my window and shoved $30.00 in my breast pocket and lifted the empty bottle of Ouzo over his head and started to sing a song in his native tongue. He danced and sang loudly out of tune but I was sure Nicky was greatly enjoying himself as he carried on.

Observing Nicky chanting and dancing in the frozen early morning darkness made me wonder if he was truly part of the same culture that created democracy, modern science, the Olympics, philosophy, fooled the Trojans with a wooden horse and bravely defeated the Persian fleet at Thermopylae in the fifth century BC.

I smiled and nodded, rolled up my window, waved goodbye and ever so carefully started my way back through the icy streets of Queens, Nicky smiled as well and waved goodbye to me with an empty bottle of Ouzo.

It’s now starting to sleet, I could barely see out my window but I knew in just a few more blocks I’d be back on Northern Boulevard and then the bridge and soon I’d be rolling back into midtown.

Three bocks latter as I was stopped for a light I heard a voice one that seemed to be coming from the darkened street in back of my cab. I looked through the rear view and noticed that someone was trying to hail me. I quickly turned on my off duty light as I did not want to venture through any more ice covered back roads in one of New York City’s lesser boroughs.

He didn’t give up hailing me. He’s began to run and as he ran he was shouting and waving his arms up and down like some one drowning in the sea. He then began to scream: “stop, you stop, you stop now.” He was starting to catch up to me. Oh God I thought, he’s not slowing down. He’s probably on speed or cocaine and he doesn’t feel a thing. I ran a few red lights but had to keep my speed down to prevent a skid.

There was a full moon that night and as he ran he cast this giant a forbidding shadow on the many red brick apartment buildings that lined Steinway Street. I couldn’t see his face but my in mind all I kept hoping for was that he was unarmed and basically just some loony running around the streets on New Years Eve.

Just three more blocks (I thought) to Northern Boulevard and it’s a straight shot to the bridge. He was just thirty feet behind me when he took the fall. Although relieved I did feel a small sense of remorse when his head hit the ice. I actually thought of stopping my cab and at least drag him off the street. My compassionate side voted for that but my survival side just kept pushing down on that gas pedal and heading for Northern Boulevard.

Ten minutes and on bridge latter I was cruising down Second Avenue looking for that last fare to make my $200 night. There he was pointing downtown, yes he was going to the west village an easy $5.00 fare, and my $200 night was about to be consummated. He opened the door and freezes. With his eyes wide open he yells “there’s a women’s body in your back seat, there’s a women’s body in your back seat.”

Funny it all made sense as I thought that voice screaming behind me sounded a little like Nicky’s. Yes (I thought) Nicky stumbled out of the cab, and closed the door so the sleet storm wouldn’t hit his highly inebriated and now sleeping wife. He then stood there in his own private comatose as I took off. Though this was a somewhat challenging situation I knew I could deal with it.

“Hey listen man” I said to my fare “just jump in the front seat, I’ll take care of her latter.” With a wind chill factor of 10 below zero and no other cabs in sight he saw no other option but to obey my request and hopped in the front seat. All the way downtown he kept turning around and staring at her saying: “maybe she’s dead, do you think she’s dead? What are you going to do with her?”

“No” I replied, “her name is Sophia and she’s just taking a little nap due to her consumption of too much Ouzo, I promise you won’t hear a peep out of her, this I can say with unbridled confidence.”

Being in a playful mood I then said: “when we get to the village help me lift her out of the cab and we can put her on one of those heating grates. You know the ones you see on the sidewalks where smoke seems to be coming out of nowhere. That’ll keep her warm until the Sun comes up and perhaps a nice NYC policeman can help her out. My passenger was shocked at this suggestion.

“Well what if she freezes to death, how would you feel then?”

“Hey listen man” I replied, it’s not my fault her husband and her drank a bottle of booze and now she’s all forgotten in the back seat, hey what would you do?” I was just kidding but apparently failed to see the humor in my statement. He paid his $5.00 gave me a small tip and disappeared into the icy darkness of Horatio Street.

I just sat there for a minute and thought. It was very quiet in the cab though I could hear Sophia snoring in Greek in the back seat. My major ethical question confronting me was whether I should throw the clock again for the ride back to Queens. Figuring that Nicky might not be in the best of moods after his headfirst bounce on the frozen streets of Queens I decided Sophia’s ride back home would be on me.

As I journeyed back over the 59^thStreet Bridge I felt a sense of elation and purpose for I was bringing Sophia back to the loving arms of her Nicolas I soon found myself humming the theme from Black Orpheus as I was once again navigated the icy streets of Steinway Avenue.

I was fortunate, that I had the presence of mind to write their address down on my log sheet before I started my first journey to Queens. However, upon my arrival there was bit of a logistical problem. There were at least four large red brick apartment houses at this corner and I had no idea which one was hers.

Then I heard him; it was the voice of a post bump on the head Nicky. He runs up to the cab weeping and shouting, “oh thank you God you have brought her back,” and quickly heads for the passenger door.

Sensing her lover’s arrival Sophia awakens from her dance with Morpheus as Nicky ambles helps her out of the cab. They start kissing and hugging and it’s now four AM and I’m witnessing this intense reunion in a wind chill of -30 degrees. Nicky puts another twenty in my pocket, I hug them both, jumped back in my cab and started my way back home to Brooklyn.

As I traveled along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway I reflected. I wondered if there was some old Babylonian New Year’s myth about two lovers renewing their vows and drinking from the sweet nectar while they made love. And suddenly for no reason the trickster Gods separated theses two sweet hearts. Morpheus enchanted the woman to sleep and to dream while her lover was held captive by Dionysus and was forced to dance and sing.

Sensing this injustice the Goddess Aphrodite looked into a golden apple and found her hero. She conjured the heart of a young mortal with long yellow hair and a scruffy beard who traveled the roads of the Metropolis in a golden-checkered vehicle Our hero soon found himself crossing frozen roads and bridges in his yellow chariot to deliver the lost maiden to her lover.

Truly I whispered to myself as I rolled down Flatbush Avenue, tonight I was part of a grand drama, one of both mythical and historical proportions.

Dancers of Paris

2009-10-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

Christmas Eve

2009-10-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

Idlewild—such a mysterious and enchanting name, one that invokes a place where enormous birds touch down to land. Idlewild Airport had its grand opening when I was only 108 days old. Fifteen years and one assassinated president later it was renamed John F. Kennedy Airport. However, for me it will always be Idlewild, the place where great steel birds glide in, stay a little while, and then glide out once again.

However, on this evening, Christmas Eve at 10:00, there were no birds landing and there was a wind chill factor of minus twenty. I sat alone in my cab hoping to escape from JFK with a living, breathing passenger and avoid a boring and unprofitable forty-minute “dead head” trip back to the city.

I always drove a cab on holidays. Business was great, tips were generous, and folks were really happy to see me. People said things like, “Gosh, you could be home with your family, but here you are rolling around the streets of New York helping others connect with loved ones to share their holiday cheer.” Or my favorite, which was usually said in a voice a little above a whisper by older women who lived on the Upper East Side, “You and Santa working together on Christmas Eve—you’re a great pair.”

Yes, that was me, motoring around a place the Dutch called New Amsterdam in a checkered yellow vehicle, escorting various citizens of the Big Apple to their desired holiday locations. The mother on her way to see her new grandson, the lover on his way to meet his sweetheart, the poor fool who had to work the night shift, the two gay lovers necking in the back seat, and the actress on her way to the theater would all enter and depart my vehicle during this festive night.

On holidays it was always best to work Midtown and stay away from the airports. In Manhattan on Christmas Eve people fought over you. Folks would see you pulling over to let someone out, and the race would be on. I was a rolling people magnet, and one that could possibly return home to Brooklyn with $250 cash in his pocket—a tidy sum for 1975.

The day had started off promising. As I was departing the company garage on Nostrand and Flatbush Avenues, I immediately picked up a fare going out to JFK. That I could get from Flatbush Avenue to the airport in less than twenty-five minutes always amazed my customers. To them I was like a great Sherpa in Tibet who guided travelers through the Himalayas. Instead of snow-capped mountains pointing their peaks toward the heavens there was Linden Boulevard, Bushwick Avenue, and my knowledge of a back entrance to JFK that only a few of the cabbie illuminati were aware of.

Best of all, at this south entrance there was a granite marker with the fading but still visible words “Welcome to Idlewild Airport” written upon it. I dropped my fare off at United at 3:15 and then zipped over to American to catch the 3:20 coming in from Houston. I had a little book of my favorite arrivals that I always kept on the front seat. The key to success at the airport was being aware of both where the plane arrived from and at what time of day. For instance, the 3:20 arriving from Houston on a Wednesday afternoon would have some young executives going into Midtown Manhattan, probably to the Hyatt or the Sheraton on 57th Street. On a later flight I might pick up someone in management going to one of the more upscale hotels such as the Pierre or the Royalton.

By 3:20 it was already down to ten degrees, and the wind was whipping. It was hold-on-to-your-hat time out at JFK. Fortunately for me, the airport was “stripped and working,” meaning very few cabs and a great number of frozen life forms all desiring a warm ride into the city as soon as possible.

There were hoards of them all shivering in front of the arrival terminal, like lost children begging to be taken home. When I saw a line of folks and no cabs, I pulled up, and before anyone could get in my cab, I yelled out, “I can take a few parties to Midtown.” Three folks who had never met before got in my cab. At that time it was a $15 to $17 tab into the city.

After they settled in and felt how nice and warm it was inside, I said, “Welcome, pilgrims, it’s $20 each, tip included, to get you into Manhattan today.” This statement was met with some resistance at first.

“Oh no,” one of them said, “can’t we just split the clock and give you a bigger tip?”

“Not on the day of Christmas Eve,” I replied. “It’s ten degrees and getting colder, so if you’d like to wait for another cab, be my guest.” I started to open my door to let them out.

One of them said, with a bit of an edge in his voice, “OK, fine, just get us into the city.” I then turned around and collected my twenties before engaging the gas pedal.

They also noticed that I didn’t throw the flag down, and the meter showed all zeros. When they were so bold as to ask why, I simply said that I was putting all the money in my pocket and that was that. Just to make sure the deal was closed I turned around and lifted my hands, palms up. “Is there a problem?” I asked. They then bowed their heads and grimaced as if I were the devil himself.

I attempted to crack a few jokes, but my passengers seemed content to stay in a somewhat subdued state. It was a quiet ride into the city. I dropped them all off by 4:10 and then I continued to roll. From the Sheraton to the Village, and then up to 86th Street and through the park to the West Side, I was magic. It was one in, one out, and everyone wanted to ride with me.

I was sailing, and by 7:30 I had over $120 on the clock and $70 in my pocket. The cabbies and the company split the clock fifty-fifty, so I was on my way to at least a $250 night.

I was staying away from the hotels, as a trip to the airport now would not be in my best interest. There was an ice situation happening, flights were being canceled, JFK would be a tomb, and dead heading back when the city was working would not be the right choice. I also knew that during an ice storm some of the roads around JKF became impossible, and slipping around the wilds of Queens was simply not on my dance card.

Traveling north on Park Avenue I was hailed by a doorman. It was 7:30. Probably some well-to-dos out for a night at the theater, rushing to make an 8:00 curtain. “Open the trunk, please.” Words of doom, I could feel it. Oh God, a late night airport call. Before I could make an excuse, two elderly women slid into the back seat. As they did the one with the large hat said, “We need to make a 9:00 at Air France, we’re taking the red eye to Paris. Get us there in time, and we’ll give you a $10 tip.” I thought of just refusing, but I could tell they were seasoned New Yorkers, and they could probably talk a leopard out of its spots, so I opened the trunk, put the baggage in, and headed out.

I then began to ponder my current situation. I could get them to JFK by 8:20 and grab the 9:00 United flight coming in from Miami. That would ensure me of taking a nice little Jewish man with a great tan to an apartment in Brooklyn. That was acceptable; as the ride would roll me out of the airport, and I could then work the discos in Bay Ridge, pocket some more dough and, I hoped, catch a fare back into Midtown.

I delivered my Park Avenue fare to Air France in plenty of time, and as promised they happily handed me a ten for the tip. The wind was really picking up, and it was starting to hail. The 9:00 from Miami couldn’t land, and many planes were now being diverted up to Connecticut. It was either dead head it back to the city or take my chances at another terminal. There were cabs everywhere, all the lines were sucked up, little yellow vehicles as far as my eyes could see.

It was time to cut my losses. I’d work the shorty line, where I’d humbly take a local call, usually $6 to $8 to Forest Hills or Brooklyn. I’d been fortunate all night—why should it stop now? My little radio told me that many streets in Queens were becoming caked with ice, so I’d take that short fare out of the airport, stay on the main boulevards, and make my way back into the city.

I noticed there were at least seven cabs on this line. When there was a fare going only a small distance, the dispatcher came out, blew a whistle, and extended his arms over his head about a foot apart, thus denoting a local or a short call. However, on this night he kept blowing his whistle. No one seemed to want the fare, and as each cab pulled up, the driver took one long look, shook his head, and took off.

How bad could it be? As I desperately needed to move out of this frozen tundra, I made the move and rolled up to the dispatcher.

I pulled my sock hat down over my ears, threw on my gloves, and placed myself in front of the man with the whistle. “They’re going to Inwood, Long Island,” he said. “You got to help these people out, they’re about to freeze to death.” Inwood, Long Island, the worse possible address from the airport. Inwood was east of JFK, in other words away from the city. To make it worse, it was not an O.T. An O.T. means out of town, and you could double the clock, but Inwood was the last town within the city limits, an $8 fare at best, and you had a fifty-five-minute drive back to the city with no chance of picking up a passenger. I knew the area—the streets would be frozen solid. He noticed my hesitation, and then gazed at me with a death stare and yelled, “For God’s sake, it’s Christmas Eve, they’re both crippled, and they’ve been sitting out in front of the terminal for half an hour shivering in their wheelchairs. The terminal is going to shut down in ten minutes—you have a heart beating in there, pal?” He poked his frozen finger into my wet and icy pea coat. Sure, I thought, I have heart, but on nights like this I just like to give it a little time off. The dispatcher looked dragon like with all the foggy breath coming out of his mouth as he repeated, “You want these poor cripples to sit here all night and freeze to death?”

I looked at the couple; and their helpless faces looked back at me. Two forlorn and frigid bodies staring intently at the same individual who recently hustled three businessmen from Houston, Texas. However, they didn’t see that part of me; they saw deliverance, they saw warmth, they saw home.

“OK, fine, I’ll do it. Can you help with the wheelchairs?” I asked.

“Sorry, pal, I got a job to do here, it’s your gig now,” and he walked away into the frigid night. I wheeled the woman to the cab. I helped her up and into the back seat. The man was really large, maybe three hundred pounds and approaching fifty or so years old. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and literally dumped him beside his wife who was somewhat younger and at least one hundred pounds lighter. I opened the trunk and just managed to stuff the two wheelchairs in. I had to remove my gloves to work the catch, and as I did I could feel my flesh start to stick to the metal. The night was now turning extremely cold and very unprofitable.

Seven dollars and fifty cents later I pulled up in front of Dave and Blanche’s house. The roads were slippery, the street was dark, but with a little luck I could help these folks into their home, jump back in the cab, hop onto the Long Island Expressway, and be back in action.

As I shut the clock off, Dave handed me the keys and asked if I could unlock the door first to minimize the time they spent in minus-twenty-degree weather. His request sounded reasonable; however, as I approached their gate, I realized that my sojourn in Inwood, Long Island, was just beginning. The walk to their door was a good fifty feet, and it was covered in at least two feet of snow with six inches of frozen sleet on top.

I jumped back in the cab. “How long have you been away?” My blue lips quivered.

“Oh, two weeks. We were down in the Virgin Islands, we had a great time.”

And as Blanche was about to give me a description of her tropical vacation, I held up my hands and said, “Why didn’t you hire a neighborhood kid to shovel your walk when you were away?”

“Well, it wasn’t snowing when we left,” Dave replied, with a late-night, post-vacation, jet-lagged grin.

“Is there a shovel around?” I asked.

“Yes, there’s one in the house,” Dave said.

I had already shut the clock off; this was now my time we were working on. I could have been in the city raking in the cash, and instead I was stuck in Inwood, Long Island, in a cab with two people and two wheelchairs and a dead-end street with one flickering street light.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure all the available intelligence that I could muster on a snowbound Christmas Eve in the middle of nowhere. I then asked Dave, “How well do you know your neighbors? Perhaps one of them might have a shovel and help us out.”

“Folks on this block are really not too friendly,” Dave replied. I looked at Dave’s and Blanche’s anxious faces, and I realized that no matter what happened I had to get these people back into their home. It was now pushing 10:30, and I suddenly felt a surge of confidence. I was just one friendly neighbor with an available shovel away from rescuing Blanche and Dave. I left the cab running with the heat on, and started on my journey down Christina Street with a frozen nose and a hopeful heart.

Halfway down the block I saw lights on and a Christmas tree flickering. As there was no bell I knocked, and a suspicious face soon peered through a glass window. I smiled and said, “Look, I’ve got two folks in my cab and they’re in wheelchairs, they’re crippled, you know, and I need to borrow a shovel so I can get them inside. Can you help us out?”

He shook his head and said, “I don’t know you or those people, go away or I’ll call the police.”

Hmm, that was not the response I was seeking. I tried another house. “Please, I’m in a desperate situation here. I’ve got to help Dave and Blanche get into their home,” I said with the most humble expression I could muster.

He looked me over and replied, “OK, I’ve got a shovel, but I want a $20 deposit.”

“OK, fine.” I pulled off my gloves with my teeth and removed a cold and crisp twenty from my wallet and put it in his hand. Without making any eye contact at all he folded the bill in two, slipped it in his pocket and quickly shut the door. As I walked back down the street I comforted myself with the thought that my mission had taken a positive turn.

I stood in front of the cab and held the shovel up, and Dave and Blanche applauded and gave me the thumbs up sign. I headed toward the walk. Dave rolled down his window and asked if I could jump back into the cab and find something pleasant for them to listen to on the radio. I agreed and twisted the dial until we found a lovely version of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I turned around and asked if the music of Handel was to their liking, and Blanche said, “You are just the nicest cabbie we have ever had. Both Dave and I think you should get some kind of recognition for how much you’re helping us and on Christmas Eve as well. And if you don’t mind me saying this, you know you do look a bit like Jesus with your long hair and beard and all. I hope you don’t mind but, you know, you really do.”

They both laughed as I exited the cab with shovel in hand and commenced to dig. After twenty minutes or so there was frost inside my nose, and my fingertips and earlobes were numb. I thought that as far as mitzvahs go, this was a big one, a really big one. I did wonder if seeking a reward from the almighty for my good deed was really in the spirit of a mitzvah, but at that time my brain started to freeze, and thus my internal spiritual discourse was suspended. I shoveled the snow off the three steps and made it to the door. However, as I was taking their keys out of my pocket, I noticed that there was a three-inch sheet of ice on the landing in front of the door and it was rock hard. It was now 11:30. Where would I ever find an ice pick?

As I walked back to the cab I could barely feel my feet. High-top Converse sneakers and three feet of snow are not symbiotic. Dave and Blanche were looking through the frosty windows with hope. They smiled at me and I smiled back at them and held up one finger so they would know it was almost done.

I stood in back of the cab hoping for either an inspiration or better yet a divine intervention. I looked to the sky and the sky just looked back. I lowered my head and almost started to pray when I realized the answer was right in front of me. Yes, the lug wrench from the car jack. With a new burst of enthusiasm I quickly open the trunk. As I removed the wheelchairs, the metal was so cold it sent a shiver up my arm and down through my back.

Hallelujah, I found the lug wrench, closed the trunk, and started walking toward the house. As I was passing the cab in a hunched-over, frozen stagger, I must have looked like an enchanted fairy as my beard, hair, and eyebrows were all glistening with ice. I proceeded to repeatedly bang the sharp part of my lug wrench on the doorstep.

After a few minutes of chopping I stopped to rest, and as I did I glanced back at the cab. Dave and Blanch were kissing, and their hands were touching each other’s cheeks. They had large heads, which bobbed up and down in a little dance as they embraced. A smile spread across my face, and I made a small but humble bow in the direction of the lovers canoodling in the rear seat of my cab.

My restored faith coupled with a new sense of purpose enabled me to crack through the remaining ice and open the door. I held the lug wrench up to the sky and cried out, “Home, sweet home!” I returned to the cab and shut off the engine. I lifted Blanche into her chair; I wheeled her up three steps and into the living room. I returned to the cab; I lifted Dave up and wheeled him into the house as well. I found the thermostat, and in a few minutes glorious heat was pouring through the home of Dave and Blanche.

Dave opened a bottle of scotch and mixed it with hot water, and we all defrosted together. I explained about the deposit on the shovel. “No problem,” Dave replied “Here’s the $20 for that. We’ll return it tomorrow. Oh, and this is for you,” he said as he handed me a fifty. The impact of the large tip and the scotch hit at the same time. Yes, I thought, I’m back on it! I looked at the clock. It was midnight. I could return to the city by 12:30, work until 2:00, and make my $250 night. I said my farewell to Dave and Blanche. “Oh please,” they said, “take a load off, and have another scotch.” I told them both that duty called and I must roll on. As Dave shook my hand he said, “Well, this is a Christmas Eve I won’t soon forget.”

To which I easily replied, with the last gulp of scotch sliding down my throat, “Neither will I.”

I stepped back out into the chill, walked down the now accessible path, hopped back into my cab, skidded down a few side streets, and then happily entered the Long Island Expressway. As New York’s illuminated skyline came into view, I turned up the radio, laid into the gas pedal, and headed into Gotham one more time.

Mezuzzah blues

2008-05-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

On the 13th of April 2008 I entered my seventh decade here on earth. To commemorate my 21,000 plus days of breathing, eating, laughing, crying, and dealing with all matters earthly, I and eighty-five friends spent the day eating, singing, and having a joyous and mirthful time.
That evening as I laid my contented head on my pillow, I noticed a small blue box with a little yellow bow sitting on my night table. During the party one of my friends went into my house and left me a gift. How kind, I thought. Though I had told everyone no presents, I did feel excited at the sight of one by my bed. I opened the box, and inside was the most lovely and ornate mezuzah I had ever seen.
An Israeli woman named Ester Shahaf created it. Ms. Shahaf fabricated the mezuzzah using a combination of silver, pewter, and Swarovski crystals, a very special type of crystal created by a Swiss engineer in the latter part of the nineteenth century. I had never owned a religious item so ornate and looked forward to mounting it upon my door. Little did I realize that this four-inch tall object of Judaica would soon lead me into a spiritual crisis.
The next morning as I read the instructions for mounting my gift, I realized how little I knew about the entire concept of a mezuzzah and thought what a lapsed Jew I have become.
Mezuzzah means “doorpost,” and, yes, while it is decorative and ornate, it’s not as important as the rolled-up parchment scroll that rests inside. The scroll contains passages from Deuteronomy 6:4–9 and 11:13–21. The scroll is to be prepared by a scribe writing in Hebrew with a special quill pen. At the end of the instructions, right after the part about inviting a rabbi to participate in the ceremony, in four-point type were the words parchment not included. On the very bottom of the instruction sheet was a web address and the scroll part number.
Being the great grandson of the famous Polish Tsitsis mogul Rabbi Joseph Kanet and the product at least 3,000 years of Judaism, I decided not to rock the spiritual boat, and I soon found myself going online to purchase part #9064 from www.jewishsource.com
I punched in the part number. I learned that for $26 plus shipping I could purchase what was described as follows:

Standard Kosher Hand-Written Mezuzzah Scroll. Executed in Jerusalem by a traditional scribe.

Will fit any mezuzzah case in our collection.

Underneath this description I read that for $9 more I could receive a mezuzzah scroll that was scanned by a computer to ensure the consumer that the scroll was error free. You would think that a talented and trained scribe writing the same verses from Deuteronomy over and over again would not need his worked checked by a computer. Though my knowledge of the old religion is fading somewhat, I can say with absolute certainty that there is no mention in the Bible of any of the great patriarchs owning a scanner.
I felt myself falling ever so quickly into a spiritual abyss. I opened my Bible (actually my neighbor’s Bible) to the passages from Deuteronomy that were to rest inside my beautiful new mezuzzah. Chapter 6 verses 4–9 were a bit stern but acceptable. They were about loving Yahweh with all your heart and then writing the words from Deuteronomy

…on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.

It was chapter 6 verses 13–21 where things really got rough, especially verse 15:

For the LORD thy God is a jealous God among you lest the anger of the LORD thy God be kindled against you, and destroy you from off the face of the earth.

Was this the message I wanted to place inside my beautiful work of art handcrafted by Ester Shahaf? Why couldn’t there be a more optimistic message such as

May a song be on your lips and love in your heart

As you enter and leave my home.

Please sit a while, have a cup of tea.

It’s not easy being a Jew. Two thousand years of persecution mixed with a monotheistic sky God with insecurity issues is not by any means a recipe for inner peace.
God needs a hug, or perhaps a week at Esalen writing poetry, bathing in the tubs, and at least two massages a day.
Or better yet an evening with Pema Chödrön in a rustic eighth-century monastery situated on a high peak somewhere in Tibet where the only sounds he can hear are the wind, the chanting of the monks, and the bells of the yaks.
What if Yahweh and I could go to couples counseling to try and talk things out? I’d probably make the mistake of saying something like, “God should be a little more compassionate and forgiving.”
To which the therapist would say, “Neal, remember the ‘I’ message here. Now I want you to turn your chair toward God and use the ‘I’ message, not the finger-pointing ‘you’ message.”
I’d face my creator and say, “I am very uncomfortable with a deity who is vengeful, jealous, and destructive. Things like turning women into pillars of salt, killing the first born, and condemning poor Eve for thinking are hardly what one would call the acts of a peaceful and loving God.”
The therapist would turn toward the almighty and ask, “How do you feel about what Neal just said?”
“Well,” the Lord would reply while fondling his beard, “Neal is made in my own image, so he’s stuck with me. However, the good book has shown that I am willing to deal, to compromise—that’s what the essence of a covenant is—and I’d be ready to deal with Neal as long as he promises to keep the faith.”
It’s true, I thought, Yahweh has made deals with Abraham, Jacob, and Moses, so why not with me? He hasn’t been all bad—he gave Noah a rainbow sign and he delivered my ancestors from bondage.
There were other factors as well. If you count that squirrel I shot for no reason when I was sixteen, I am 0 for 10 on God’s commandments. I’m also getting on in age, and what if, just what if there really is this edgy, omnipotent, bearded deity calling the shots both here on earth and all over the universe?
Since I couldn’t prove he doesn’t exist, I decided to offer the creator of the universe a deal. I would put the prescribed verses from Deuteronomy in my mezuzzah, but he would look the other way while I created a bootleg scroll. Or simply put, I would keep his commandments, but I refused to pay retail for them. I raised my head and looked to the heavens for an answer. I saw two doves flying through my garden; truly this was a sign from on high that the Lord and Neal were now in business together.
With one hand one my mezuzzah and the other on my mouse, I googled the digital universe for mezuzzah scrolls. I found a nice six-by-eight-inch 72 dpi jpeg and brought it into Photoshop. Using a trick a graphic artist taught me I made it into a three-by-three-inch 300 dpi tiff, truly a miracle! I then sampled the blue of the flag of Israel and used it as a light tint backup color.
You will not find such a colorful scroll on www.jewishsource.com. This so-called “source for everything Jewish” is located in Niles, Illinois. Anyone familiar with Lenny Bruce’s theory on Judaism will know that if you live in Niles, Illinois, you’re simply not Jewish.
I printed my creation out with my HP LaserJet 2430dtn on a very biblical looking piece of parchment paper, and it was good.
I will soon mount it on my office door, where all who visit Gourd Music can enjoy the art of Ester Shahaf. And when I’m on my phone wheeling and dealing in the music business, I can look at my beautiful gift and realize that like all the great patriarchs before me, I, too, have made a covenant with the Great I Am.

Jackie Mitchell

2008-04-06T21:31:00.000-07:00

On April 2nd. 1931 a 17-year old girl took the mound for the double A professional minor league team the Chattanooga Lookouts. This was only the second time in the history of professional baseball that a woman came this close to pitching in the major leagues.
Virne Beatrice “Jackie Mitchell” was born in Memphis Tennessee sometime between the sinking of the Titanic and the outbreak of World War I. Jackie’s dad loved baseball and he had aspirations for his daughter to be the first women to make it the majors. Mr. Mitchell’s neighbor was Dazzy Vance a future hall of fame pitcher with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Dazzy taught Jackie his famous drop pitch and the art of focusing and control on the mound.
Both Dazzy and her dad constantly worked with her and by the age of seven Jackie had already mastered the drop pitch and became a childhood star in the sand lot league in and around Memphis. Jackie also excelled at basketball, tennis, running, shooting and boxing.
At sixteen she played for a professional women’s team in Chattanooga and at seventeen signed a contract with the Chattanooga Lookouts a double A affiliate of the Cincinnati Reds. Jackie had many offers from professional women’s teams but turned them down to play in the men’s league with the hope of going on to triple A and then on to “the show” as those in the minor leagues called it.
In March of that year The Chattanooga News wrote:

She uses an odd, side-armed delivery, and puts both speed and curve on the ball. Her greatest asset, however, is control. She can place the ball where she pleases, and her knack at guessing the weakness of a batter is uncanny.... She doesn't hope to enter the big show this season, but she believes that with careful training she may soon be the first woman to pitch in the big leagues.

Each year as the New York Yankees would break from spring training they would venture up to Chattanooga on their way to New York to play the lookouts in an exhibition game. The 1931 Yankees were a powerhouse club that featured Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Dixie Walker, Red Ruffing and Tony Lazzeri.
A capacity crowd of over 4000 filled Lookout Stadium to cheer on their local heroes and pray for a miracle. Seventeen-year-old Jackie Mitchell was brought in early in the game to face Babe Ruth with runners on the corners. Jackie struck out Ruth on four pitches and then struck out Lou Gehrig on three quick drop pitches.
Jackie became an overnight hero as word quickly spread around baseball that a teenage girl had struck out two of baseballs greatest icons.

This news did not please the current commissioner of baseball Kenesaw Mountain Landis. Landis was a former federal judge who ruled with absolute power and was dubbed “the baseball tyrant” by many of the sports journalists. He was the man who banned “shoeless Joe Jackson” for life following the 1919 Black Sox scandal. When Landis heard of Mitchell’s performance he cancelled Jackie’s contract on the grounds that baseball was “too strenuous for women.” He then went on to ban all women from the sport, a ban that was not lifted until 1992.
Jackie was out of a job but wanted to keep playing ball and soon hooked up with The Israelite House of David. The Israelite House of David was a religious commune that was founded by Benjamin Purnell and his wife Mary in Benton Harbor, Michigan around the year1902. It was their belief that by gathering all the twelve lost tribes of Israel together it would hasten the return of the messiah. To be a member of the commune one must refrain from sex, haircuts, shaving, and the eating of meat.
To support his spiritual undertaking Mr. Purnell operated an amusement park, a zoo, bowling alleys, sponsored a traveling jazz band and at least three baseball teams. By 1915 he had a number teams on the road barnstorming away and playing against other semi-pro teams, minor league teams and various clubs in the Negro Leagues. Legendary pitcher Satchel Paige referred to the Israelite House of David team as “the Jesus boys.” Baseball became so popular with the House of David commune that they needed to enlist players outside of their organization and in 1932 signed the lefty female phenom Jackie Mitchell.
Jackie toured with the bearded boys for five years. On September 12th. 1933 she started an exhibition game against the St. Louis Cardinals where she was the winning pitcher. The next morning a sports writer for a local St. Louis paper wrote:

Benton Harbor's nomadic House of David ball team, beards, girl pitcher and all, came, saw and conquered the Cardinals, 8 to 6, last night at Sportsman's Park.

It was while touring with The House of David that Jackie became friends with olympic champion Babe Didrikson.

Though Jackie did have her moments of glory, life on the road for a female pitcher in the mid 1930’s was no easy chore. Being a woman in baseball left her as a target for endless degrading jokes and she choose to retire in 1936 at the age of twenty-three. She returned to Chattanooga and worked for her father in the optometry business and latter married. She passed away in 1987 at the age of seventy-three.

Shortly after her death many critics dismissed the fact that she struck out Ruth and Gehrig at the age of seventeen. Some baseball aficionados claim that it was a stunt set up by Joe Engel the president and owner of the Chattanooga Lookouts. According to Jackie Mitchell’s biographer Jean L.S. Patrick there is film footage that clearly shows that both Ruth and Gehrig were fooled by her drop pitch. Also Ruth was quoted in a local paper shortly after the game as saying:

"I don't know what's going to happen if they begin to let women in baseball. Of course, they will never make good. Why? Because they are too delicate. It would kill them to play ball every day."

Baseball Hall of Fame researcher Amanda Pinney has studied the incident and has repeatedly said that the strikeouts were real. Ruth and Gehrig had every intention of hitting the ball. Tony Lazzeri the Yankee second baseman who was on deck while Gehrig went down swinging confirms Pinney’s conclusions.
The kindest notice I found in the press about Jackie was from the New York Times dated April 4th. 1931:

Cynics may contend that on the diamond as elsewhere it is place aux dames. Perhaps Miss Jackie hasn't quite enough on the ball yet to bewilder Ruth and Gehrig in a serious game. But there are no such sluggers in the Southern Association, and she may win laurels this season, which cannot be ascribed to mere gallantry. The prospect grows gloomier for misogynists.

There will always be a controversy surrounding the events of April 2nd 1931. However Virne Beatrice “Jackie Mitchell” has earned her place in the great book of baseball lore as “the girl who struck out Babe Ruth.”

Jackie Mitchell with Babe Ruthe & Lou Gehrig - Chattanooga, Tennessee April 1931.

The Ghost of Gight

2008-03-31T20:32:00.000-07:00

It’s truly an exercise in the thrift, trying to explain a song in eighty words or less as I often do when creating liner notes for recordings. For within a song there are many songs and a multitude of different stories. Say a the main focus of the piece is Highway 101 and your enjoying the ride as you speed down the road. However, if you wish there are always many side roads one can take. All of which exists in a song, especially the older ballads.

A very timely quote about songs and ballads is from folklorist Frank Harte:

All songs are living ghosts

And longing for a living voice

For example track #13 on Celtic harper Kim Robertson's recording Highland Heart which is actually about a ghost titled: The Ghosts of Gight.

Here’s the whole story in 83 words:
Gight Castle (near Fyvie above the river Ythan) was home to the Gordon’s for many hundreds of years. It was built by William Gordon around 1479 and eventually sold in 1787 to clear the gambling debts of one Mad Jack Byron whose son was the famous poet Lord Byron. The ghosts’ legend concerns a piper who was sent to investigate an underground passage and never returned. Though it is said that the sound of his pipes can still be heard at the castle.
That’s it, four hundred years of a Scottish family and their castle is now compressed into less then 90 words.

As I would hate to short change the Gordon’s and their estate here is (as that obnoxious man on the radio says) the rest of the story:

In or around 1787 Catherine Gordon (the daughter of the 12th Laird of the Gordon’s of Gight sold her families estate to pay off a gambling debt accrued by her husband “Mad Jack” Byron. “Mad Jack” was anything but a loving husband as he pilfered money from his wife so that he may run around Paris, drank, gamble and visit numerous houses of sin. He died before his son was three. Mad Jacks father “Foulweather Jack” was an officer in the royal navy with a reputation for attracting storms and his brother known as “the “Wicked Lord Byron” was a suspect for not one but two murders. As well as being members of the Gordon Clan they were also direct descendants of King Edward III of England (1312-1377).

William Gordon constructed Gight Castle around 1479 as a home for many of the Gordon clan. The castle sits along the Ythan River just east of the town of Fivie. For the two centuries that the Gordon’s owned their castle they were plagued by mysterious circumstances some of which lead to the demise of a number of the occupants of the said estate. All of the various tragedies were prophesized by one Thomas of Ercildore who lived near the Eildon Hills sometime around the 13th century. His story goes something like this:

One day a wizard named Michael Scott instructed three imps (who were known to the Scots as little mischievous devils or sprites) to split one hill into three. Out of the split hills came a Fairy Queen who abducted Thomas for seven years. There have been many verses written about this abduction, here be a few:

And see not ye that bonny road, that winds about the fernie brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland,where thou and I this night maun gae.

"But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever ye may hear or see,

For, if you speak word in Elflyn land, ye'll neer get back to your ain countrie.

After his seven years in fairyland Thomas returns with the gift of both poetry and prophecy. He used these gifts to his advantage as he would create poems to illustrate his predictions and soon he became known as Thomas the Rhymer. In a very real sense he was the first Scottish rapper and the only one known to have the gift of prophesy.

He is credited with predicting the death of King Alexander III in 1286, the defeat of King James IV at the Battle of Flodden in 1513 and the Union of the Crowns of Scotland and England in 1603. Thomas soon gained the reputation as sort of a Nostradamus of Scotland. He became so popular that the Jacobites consulted his predictions before their uprisings of 1715 and 1745. For the Gordon clan he wrote theses prophecies:

‘When the heron leaves the tree,

The Laird o’ Gight shall landless be.’

When the Gordon’s first owned Gight Castle there were Herons living in a large tree by the castle. Around 1735 the herons flew away and in three years the estate was sold to the Earl of Aberdeen.

His next poem for the Gordon’s:

‘‘At Gight three men by sudden death shall dee,

And after that the land shall lie in lea.’

In 1791 Lord Haddo fell from his horse on the Green of Gight. A few years latter a servant on the estate met a similar death while working on the farm. In this century a worker was crushed to death while working on a wall. The castle is now in ruins with only a small guesthouse standing on the estate and of course the ghost of a piper who disappeared while working underneath the castle.

Catherine Gordon emerged from the ruins of Gight and moved to London. Shortly after relocating, her son Lord Byron is born (1888). Byron is born with a clubfoot an issue that some say was one of the causes of his erratic and sometime violent behavior.

At the age of ten Byron inherited the titles and the estates of his great-uncle “The Wicked Lord Byron”. Byron then attends many prestigious schools (including Harrow and Trinity College) where he begins his career as a writer of prose and poetry. At the same time he is indulging himself in what some have called “an abyss of sensuality."
One of his lovers Lady Caroline Lamb described him as “mad, bad and dangerous to know."

In 1814 Byron became obsessed Anne Isabella and pursues her for a year. She is gifted in math and science Byron refers to her as the “princess of parallelograms”. In 1815 she agrees to marry him and in December of that year she gives birth to Byron’s only legitimate child a daughter whom they name Ada who would latter be credited as the first person to write a computer program.

Byron’s moods soon sink and his behavior turns violent. Fearing for her and her daughter’s safety Anne Isabella off to her parent’s estate. A year latter they were divorced and Lord Byron soon leaves the country. He then travels though central Europe with his personal physician Dr. John Plidori and in 1816 they decide to rent Villa Diadati an elaborate estate constructed on the shores of Lake Geneva Switzerland.

Meanwhile Clara Mary Jane Clairmont one of Bryon’s many lovers is relentlessly pursuing him. Claire was an aspiring writer and had an affair with Byron (as many women and men did) shortly before he left England. She constantly wrote to Byron for career advice in publishing but her desire was to always be Bryon’s lover as she had been at seventeen when they first met in London.
Clara is so obsessed with him that she persuades her eighteen-year-old half sister Mary Wollenstonecraft Goodwin and her lover, poet Percy Bliss Shelley follow him to his estate in Switzerland. Realizing that Claire is pregnant with his child Byron allows them to stay and soon forms a close friendship with Shelley and his young lover Mary. They swim in the Lake Geneva, inspire each other to write and indulge themselves with Laudanum, the additive opium beverage that became the drug of choice during the Romantic and Victorian era.

It then rains for a week straight and Bryon suggests they read a book of German ghosts stories published in Leipzig in 1811 titled “Fantasmagoriana” compiled by German author Fredrich August Schultz originally titled Gespensterbuch. After reading a number of the stories Byron then challenges his guests to create their own personal tale of horror.

Dr. Poldori based his character on Byron and called his work “Lord Ruthven” which was about an aristocratic vampire who bites into the necks of members of the establishment for sustenance. The novel is released in 1819 as “The Vampyre and for many years it is attributed to Byron. It is the first work in print to take the folklore of the vampire and place it in a contemporary setting. Shortly after being adopted for the stage in the 1820’s many authors including Poe, Dumas and Tolstoy wrote similar works, which of course culminated at the end of the century with Irish author Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

Mary Wollenstonecraft who in a year would become Mary Shelley wrote a novel about the dangers of the industrial revolution titled “The Modern Promethus” after the character in Ovid’s Metamorphoses who created a man “in godlike” image from clay. She worked on this idea for the next two years and released it under the name of Frankenstein.

The mysteries that followed the Gordon’s for two centuries, the untimely deaths, the rhyming prophet Thomas of Ercildore, and the missing piper who became the Ghost of Gight have now manifested themselves in the birth of the gothic novel.

Lord George Gordon Byron (1788-1824)

Do Nuns Have Feet?

2008-03-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

The Madonna House was a two-story red brick building that was clearly visible from my bedroom window. It had a huge curved wooden door; with a large crucifix suspended ever so stoically above. Each time the oval gothic style portal opened, nuns would appear or disappear.
I’d gaze at them through the ninth floor window of the eighteen-story apartment house known as Knickerbocker Village and watch them making their way down Market Street. When they traveled in groups they were like an apparition from the middle ages. I could clearly see them—their long black habits and veils waving together in the wind, the metal keys suspended from their belts, and the wooden crosses, which adorned all of their necks. Their habits covered every part of their bodies except the center of each nuns face. The East River was just one block away and when the wind would blow it was as if they were gliding en masse and their feet never touched the earth. I ‘d be alone each afternoon and I’d watch them sail across Cherry Street on to Market Street and then they would pass under the crucifix, through the wooden doors, and slowly disappear into the great red fortress known as The Madonna House. In my eyes they were a fleet of dark ships floating home into their mysterious and vast red brick harbor.
I was a troubled child, a troubled nine year old growing up on New York's lower east side. Besides being raised in an extremely violent neighborhood I was also disturbed by the fact that my parents were communists. The second stage of the House of Un-American Activities Committee was in full swing and my greatest fear is that the FBI would come knocking on my door and take my parents away. This was a well-founded fear as they did just that to our neighbors Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.
This was the environment I grew up in— physical threats on every corner and a precarious political agenda permeating the air in our home. I never let on to my parents that I was aware of all this political intrigue.
In 1955 instead of verbalizing fear and asking for help a nine year old starts to sleep walk, have constant nausea and become extremely anxious and begins to visibly shake from time to time.
At one point I became so frightened of the elevator that I’d always opt to climb the nine flights rather then enter it alone. My parents started to notice my restless behavior and decided that I needed a creative outlet and arranged for me to have piano lessons at The Madonna House.
I’m nine years old and I’ve never once talked to a nun and now once a week I’m fated to enter those big wooden doors and God only knows what goes on in there.
At least I knew who Jesus was. I had been told a number of times by some of my Catholic friends that my religion was personally responsible for his demise. I was extremely worried about being in contact with the nuns. Why did they have so many keys on their belts? How did they seemingly just glide down the street? Would they be angry with me because I was Jewish? I needed some help and advice and I knew it wasn’t going to come from my parents.
I did have a Catholic friend, his name was Tony d’Angelo and he lived on the sixth floor in the apartment down the street. Tony and I played baseball together, we were both Dodger fans, and we liked to hang out in the luncheonette read comics and drink cokes real fast and get a wicked sugar buzz. Tony was twelve and had 5 brothers and three sisters, it seemed like his mother was always pregnant. They also had one of those crucifixes (a real big one) mounted on the wall a few feet over their diner table. It was easily two feet high and the same length wide.
The Lords only son was featured in such great detail that one could easily see the nails plunging into his hands and feet. His head was lowered and the sculptured lines on his face revealed the intense pain he must have been experiencing. “Tony” I said pointing at the immense metal crucifix on the wall “how could you look at that guy when you eat”? “Ah it’s nothing” Tony replied “it’s been there for so long I don’t even see it any more, you get used to it. My father’s mother gave it to us, and then “boom” she drops dead the very next day. So my dad likes to keep it over the dinner table because it reminds him of his mother Teresa.”
“Well why don’t you just put a picture of your fathers mother on the wall instead” I asked? “Well” Tony replied “my mother wasn't too crazy about my dads mom but she’s very religious so this way they’re both happy, while she’s seeing Jesus my dad’s seeing his Mom.
“Funny thing” Tony continued, “every Saturday before my dad goes to the track he gets up on a chair and rubs Jesus’ head. Now check this out every Wednesday night before my mom goes to bingo she rubs his feet.” I then explained to Tony about my upcoming piano lessons at the Madonna house and my many fears about coming face to face with a nun.
Tony knew the Madonna House as he attended a Catholic Youth Group there once a week. Tony told me he didn’t know what all those keys were for either but he was pretty sure they didn’t lock up little boys and girls with them.
“Look it’s like this” Tony said, “first take off your hat when you go in, don’t say nothing dirty or disgusting or you’ll have to go to confession and you won’t like that.
As a matter of fact just ask them what room you piano lesson is in, and if your scared keep your head down and don’t say nothing stupid, take my word for it nobodies going to bite you or slap you with a ruler.”
I then told Tony that I had this fear that a nun could read your mind with a secret device that sat on top of their head underneath the crown of their wimple.
Tony looks at me rolls his eyes and says, “Who told you that stuff”? “No Neal they’re just people you know people doing a job just like a cop does his job, a fireman does his job and well a nun does her job”. “What job is that”? I asked? “Oh “Tony replied “it’s like there all married to God and they give their life to him and serve him. So you know they never go out on a date with a guy or you know they never do the nasty, you know sex with anybody.”
This latest bit of information actually comforted me, as at least I knew that nun’s and I had something in common. Not that I knew anything at all about sex but I knew it existed and it had something to do with being naked.
Tony did tell me about the time his sister dropped a candy wrapper on the floor and one of the Nun’s made her carry a very large and heavy rock around the building three times. This sounded a little harsh but nowhere near any of my creative vision of whips, fires, and devils with flaming pitchforks and of course eternal damnation in a place where the only thing to eat was tuna fish.
The day soon arrived for my first piano lesson. I elected to avoid the elevator and took the stairs down the nine flights to the lobby. I created a sort of rhythm with my feet as I made my way down the steps and I would also hum a little tune in counterpoint to the noise my shoes made. I did that “dance” each time I would ascend or descend the stairs; it was one of the rituals a child performs when alone to help keep him or her self-sane. I felt a sense of relief as I crossed over the baseball field, as this was always a safe place for me.
It was an extremely clear and bright afternoon, which only heightened the black habits of the nuns against the red brick building. I was really trying hard not to look too Jewish, as I wanted my first trip to the Madonna House to be as painless as possible.
I approached the large door there were three nun’s speaking outside. They were conversing in English they were not speaking in Latin or in any secret nun language that I had imagined.
Proceeding inside I went to the front desk and I walked as quietly as I could so as not to attract any attention. I did notice that as well as nuns there were also people in normal clothing just as I was. I stood in front of the information desk and waited for the nun to raise her head.
I noticed that she seemed to be dressed differently then the other sisters. I learned latter that she was a beginner nun called a novice. She lifted her head, she was young and pretty, she had a black veil pinned to the back of her head that accented her beautiful red curly hair. She looked at me, smiled and said, “oh yes your here for your one O’clock piano lesson, let me show you to the room.” Not only could I see her feet I could see clear up to her ankles, and the little man on her Cross-seemed almost to be smiling. I was so relieved, but not for long.
I entered the room and immediately recognized my piano teacher; it was Mr. Bloom he worked for the kosher butcher. I saw him only yesterday boning a chicken. He was bald and had a funny little mustache and wore wire rimmed eggshell glasses. It was the first time I saw him without a bloody apron and a cleaver in his hand and he still looked frightening. Mr. Bloom I exclaimed! I didn’t know you were Catholic? He scrunched up his face, removed the cigarette from his lips and looked at me with his little beady eyes and said “what Catholic, I’m Jewish just like you, I rent the room and give piano lessons, case closed, now sit down and show me what you know and try not to waste too much of your parents money.
He was arrogant, mean and horrible all at the same time. I tried to learn my scales but it’s hard to perform music when one is shaking inside. I returned a few times and each time the pleasant young nun would greet me with a smile before I entered the room with Mr. Bloom.
She’d always ask me if I had learned any pieces yet. I told her that I was working on “Volga Boatman” and the first part of “Ode to Joy” which in it’s own way seemed fitting since my father’s family was German and both my parents were communist.
It was during my third lesson that Mr. Bloom really cut me to the quick. As I was making the best pass I could at Beethoven, Mr. Bloom (with cigarette smoke bellowing out of his mouth) barked out “your fingers, there so stiff, there like bayonets”.
I never learned how to play the piano; but I did get to talk to a few nuns and they all seemed very helpful and very much human. My parents were not pleased when I told them that I’d rather play baseball with my friends on Saturday afternoons then take piano lessons. I was somehow getting used to them being annoyed with me as they both always seemed to be in a state of agitation.
I did have one less fear, as I looked out my window and watch the nuns walked down Market Street I realized that my friend Tony was right. Just like everyone else nuns had a job to do and like a policeman a fireman and a soldier they wore a uniform as well.

A rare look inside The Madonna House which was located on 173 Cherry Street, between Market and Pike Streets,
From the nypl digital library collection.

Reinventing History

2008-03-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

Reinventing History
Mac Bethad mac Findlác was the last of the Scottish Gaelic kings. He was born in 1005 and died at the hands of Malcolm III at the battle of Lumphanan in 1057. Both Mac Bethad and his wife Queen Grouch were born into royalty. As with many rulers in this period of history he had his rivals and in 1040 he defeated Duncan I at the battle of Bothgowanan to secure his thrown.
After his accession he managed to keep the highlands of Scotland secure against invasion from the south and his reign went unchallenged until his defeat seventeen years latter. According to the literature that remains Mac Bethad was a revered and beloved king. In the “Duan Albanach” (an historic middle Gaelic poem) he is described as:
The strong one was fair, yellow haired, and tall.
Very pleasant was the handsome youth to me.
Brimful of food was Scotland, east and west,
During the reign of the ruddy, brave king.
Mac Bethad was also remembered as being a pious and compassionate king and in 1050 made a pilgrimage to Rome to meet with the Pope and gave money to the poor.
Mac Bethad mac Findlác son of Ruadri son of Domnall and the last Celtic king of Scotland died defending his kingdom against the Normans and the anglicized Scots.
Two hundred years latter almost all power in Scotland moved into the hands of the lowland Scots who were strongly influenced by the Normans and spoke a dialect of Scottish and distained all forms of the Gaelic language and culture. The highland Gaels were seen as both troublesome aliens and thus the history of ancient kings such as Mac Bethad mac Findlác need to be reinvented. The new Scottish elite took great pride in the fact that king Mac Bethad was defeated by Malcolm Canmore a direct ancestor of the Stewart line.
In the fourteenth century a Scots historian named John of Gordon invented a mythical character called Banquo who was then allegedly murdered by the king Mac Bethad. Over the next two hundred years historians of the new Scottish elite added the murder of King Duncan and then Scottish writer Hector Boyce turned Queen Grouch into the manipulative, heinous Lady Mac Bethad. The spin then was captured by English historian Raphael Holinshed and became part of Holinshed’s Chronicles. Mr. Holinshed’s work became a very important source for the hot young playwright and poet William Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s Macbeth was created between 1603-1606 probably to honor that fact that King James I (also known as King James the VI of Scotland) who was both a Scot and a Stewart was now on the throne. James the first was fascinated by the concept of witches and wrote the work Damenonolgie that was a study of the supernatural in 1597.
Perhaps the great bard knowing the new kings fascination with witchcraft and that he claimed to be a direct descendant of Banquo (the Scottish warlord who probably never existed) created Macbeth in his honor. Shakespeare was no fool and he wanted his plays to sell and what better way to welcome a new Stuart king then to continue this incredible political spin against the last Gaelic king of Scotland.
Shakespeare’s plays have been translated in almost every language in the world. Between live performances films and television the play Macbeth or as it is know to actors as “The Scottish Play” has been performed I would imagine tens thousands of times.
If one says the name Macbeth would anyone think of a beloved Scottish king in the defending this Gaelic kingdom in the year 1050? Probably not. Macbeth conjures up witches, treachery, murder, deceit and of course Lady Macbeth saying:
"Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. O, O, O."
One could call Macbeth a form of character assignation or a Scottish political spin, which in all reality has never stopped spinning. Why would anyone care that the life of a thousand year old Gaelic king has been twisted into a story that never happened? Who cares if it’s true or not when the results are memorable lines such as:
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing."
Shakespeare quite literally wrote the book on historical fiction and five hundred years latter the world still celebrates and enjoys the work of the bard.
Question: Is it ethical when writing historical fiction to completely destroy the character of a human being? Does it matter since its fiction anyway?
I have always been a student of history. Interestingly enough almost all my favorite historians are women: Zoe Oldenburg, Elaine Pagels, Karen Armstrong, Barbara Tuchman and my latest favorite— Lady Antonia Fraser. I have recently read Fraser’s work on Henry VIII, a lyrical illustration of Tudor England and of course Henry and his six wives. Fraser is wonderful in what I like to call the art of historical minutia. Every character is described with so much detail and accuracy that the reader feels that if he or she could somehow met theses characters on a different plane one would have no problem getting into a conversation with them. Individuals create history, and Fraser gives one an intimate portrait of each personality and how each individual’s temperament dealt with the political climate in which they were thrust. Her work (The Six Wives of Henry VIII) is thoroughly referenced and cites close to a thousand sources.
I was motivated to finally read Fraser’s work after completing Philippa Gregory’s historical novel “The Other Boleyn Girl”. Had Ms. Gregory’s book been a work of total fiction it would have been quite an enjoyable read. However I felt this work has crossed an ethical boundary in her treatment of Henry’s second wife Anne Boleyn.
According to Antonia Fraser and a majority of historians that have studied the period Anne Boleyn was a highly educated women who spoke three languages, wrote music, collected poetry and was educated in the Netherlands and in France. While she was Queen of England no one was executed for heresy or any other religious reason. However, she was also extremely high strung and outspoken and that coupled with her inability to provide a son for Henry Tudor lead to her demise in May of 1536.
Henry and his advisor Cromwell also wanted her out of the way to appease the Spanish over the way he treated his first wife Catherine of Aragon. Henry claimed that Anne was a witch that cast a spell on him and had committed adultery and had an incestuous relationship with her brother. For which Henry VIII sent Anne, her brother and five court musicians to their deaths. It was Anne’s sister –in- law Jane Parker, who started the rumor that she had slept with her brother. Jane Parker confessed that is was a lie as she and Anne’s cousin Catherine Howard were sent to the block in 1542. Henry also dispatched his Lord Chancellor Sir Thomas More and John Fisher the Bishop of Rochester for refusing to go along with his Act of Succession. In the end he even had his right hand man Thomas Cromwell executed for setting up his ill-fated mirage with Anne of Cleves. While he weren’t busy destroying all the people around him Henry Tudor did his best to destroy both the Irish and Scottish civilizations. Antonia Fraser does mention that Anne did have a sister who was probably a year or two older then her. Her name was Mary who first had an affair with the king of France and while she was in court in England she had a short affair with Henry VIII. She married a commoner named William Stafford and never returned to court again, not even for her sister’s trial and execution.
All of theses facts are basically turned upside down in Phillipa Gregory’s “The Other Boleyn Girl”. The novel is from the point of view of Mary Boleyn now a sincere and sensitive young girl who is suddenly cast off by the King Henry in favor of her manipulative, conniving sister Anne. There is no mention of the fact that Mary was thrown out of the French court for her having one too many affairs. Almost everything in this novel is distorted. Henry VIII is shown as being manipulated by Anne and he actually experiences pangs of guilt for his treatment of his first wife Catherine of Aragon.
In Gregory’s novel Mary has two children by the king, Anne has sex with her brother and delivers a deformed child all of which at least according to scholars of this period never happened. Henry did have a son out of wedlock from his affair with a woman in court named Elizabeth Blount. He was made the Duke of Richmond but died very young. There is no historical evidence of him having any child with Anne Boleyn’s sister Mary.
Over 70,000 people were executed during the reign of Henry VIII and now according to Ms. Gregory Henry Tudor had a feeling of sensitivity and remorse. Gregory credits the historian Retha Warnicke as source for much of her information. Dr. Warnicke who currently teaches history at Arizona State has publicly distanced herself from the novel. Which brings one to ponder the question—Is Philippa Gregory’s depiction of Anne Boleyn (even in a work of fiction) ethical or is it a clear case of character assignation? I personally feel that there was already an extremely compelling tale just in the truth of what happened so why change it?
I would imagine the answer from the writer would be that it’s a work of fiction and most people will realize that the author has manipulated the characters to create her own story. However the fact that Gregory has Anne being impregnated by her brother (which is a proven lie) amounts to what can only be labeled as a cheap and a manipulative shot. Poor Anne first she was dispatched by the sword and five hundred years latter she is slain by the pen.
All of these issues will take a giant leap for the worse upon the release of the movie, which will star Natalie Portman as Anne and Scarlett Johansson as Mary and will be in theaters by December 2007. I managed to down load a copy of the script and after reading it I decided it’s just not worth getting angry about. I’m not really a critical person but I must say that using this script for kitty litter would be an insult to my cat. The only thing accurate in the script is that there were indeed people with theses names who lived during this time. My favorite part is when Henry is bonding with Henry Jr. (who is the issue of Henry and Mary). It’s so sweet……and all so untrue.
Anne Boleyn will soon join King Mac Bethad mac Findlác and his wife Queen Grouch in the category of misunderstood and unfairly maligned figures in history.
After all why worry about someone who died a half of a century ago when our current history is being manipulated every day in the media. Just turn on Fox news and one can watch our daily history being reinvented as it happens.
After obsessing about Boleyn for two weeks I decided it would be easier to give in then to suffer about it. As a matter of fact I’m intending to write to the producers of the film and suggest a new and exciting ending. It will go something like this:
Henry decides that both sisters are to be dispatched but of course he feels really bad about it. He cancels his hot date with Jane Seymour and goes up on the podium where poor Mary and Anne are awaiting the blade. He then breaks into a killer version of the Whitney Houston hit “I Will Always Love You” and just as he’s finishing there’s a total eclipse. All in attendance fall silent. Then there’s a great light coming out of the sky. Descending from the heavens is a large rectangular form with the words San Dimas on it.
It’s a phone booth from the 20th century flying out of the sky and landing right in front of the executioners dock at the Tower of London. Out pops Bill and Ted reprising their roles from “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”. They have become kung fu masters and quickly subdue Henry and his guards and then take the historical babes back to San Dimas California. Mary and Anne then open a clothing store at the San Dimas mall called Babe-A-Lott, marry Bill and Ted, and in there spare time perform a new age disco version of Macbeth for senior centers in the greater San Dimas area.

Thru Time

2008-02-18T20:16:00.001-08:00

Thru Time
Part 1 – Heading West
December 13th 2006 never entered my existence last year. Or, perhaps a more accurate description would be— I never showed up for the thirteenth of December, it literally flew away,
vanished, disappeared, never to grace any of its minutes, hours or seconds in my life. On December 12th at 3:00pm I and a few hundred other souls boarded a 747 at S.F.O. and headed west over the Pacific to the island nation of New Zealand. Nine hours into the flight we were only one hour away from December 13th. All of which changed as our flying steel vehicle passed over that magic longitude of 180º. As a Tonganese family was watching a video thirty eight thousand feet below us we simply passed on into December 14th. It was indeed December 13th for those in Hawaii and all my friends in California but for all aboard Air New Zealand flight number 28 there was absolutely no interval between December 12th and December 14th. We simply slipped through the grip of the hands of time. Which makes the mind wonder what indeed might have happened in my life on that day? Would that have been the day I started my award-winning novel? Fallen in love? Met an old friend for lunch? Or perhaps just simply grown a day older? I’m thankful I wasn’t expecting an important phone call on that day or had a ticket to the opera for I was simply not present in the world on December 13th. So let it be known that on December 13th 2006 I never told a lie, sang a song, read a book, took a breath or boiled an egg.
Meanwhile almost everyone else on the globe was acknowledging the 13th of December by being born, riding a bike, creating poetry, stealing, kissing, dying, cooking and just hanging out.
I was and still am a member of a very select group of travelers who actually crossed the International Date Line at exactly midnight and thus skipped an entire day.

Part 2 – Heading East
While all of you were sleeping in Santa Cruz California (say at 3:00 am on January 15th) my January 16th began. I was in a folk club on Mt Victoria called “The Bunker” in the charming New Zealand town of Devonport. After much merriment and libation I collapsed on my pillow at two am realizing I that I would arrive back in America before I ever left New Zealand.
I awoke at 8:00 am and washed some comfortable fitting clothes for my thirteen-hour plane ride. My kiwi friends treated me to a farewell lunch and as I munched down a bowl of delicious green-lipped Mussels in Tai simmer sauce I knew that on this day I would once again travel through time. I’m shuttled to the airport for the 8:00 pm flight to San Francisco. This will be the first of two 8:00 pm’s I will experience on January 16th. The other is when I will be reading this piece to my writing group on the west side of Santa Cruz. As I board the 747 at 8:00 pm it is currently 11:00 pm January 15th in Santa Cruz. The lost day of December 13th has been reborn as the double day of January 16th as I am once again time traveling across the magic longitude of 180º. In New Zealand it is now tomorrow as I fly east into today.
Eight miles below, someone in Tonga is cooking an Ono fish for her family as soar into the darkness. The woman next to me is in a writing group in Carmel. She is so inspired by the fact that I’m scratching out a story for my own writing group that she takes out her laptop and commences to write as well. Two writers are now elbow-to-elbow, bouncing in the turbulence, trying to fight off fatigue by putting it all down on paper.
We land in San Francisco at 11:00 am, my son picks me up and I arrive home with just enough time to type my time travel story down and to deliver it to my Tuesday night writing group in my 29th hour of my thirty-three hour day of January 16, 2007.

Apparition

2008-02-18T20:12:00.000-08:00

Apparition

On a rainy afternoon in December of 1988, UPS delivered four parcels to my office door; a dozen music books from Mel Bay Publishing, a stack of Celic CD’s from Narada Records, a carton of bubble wrap mailers and a securely wrapped box from The Pensacola Mortuary containing my father’s ashes.

As I signed for the shipment I wondered if I should have paid the Mortuary in Florida the extra $50.00 to have the last little bits of Solomon Hellman dropped into the Gulf of Mexico. In the end I elected to have his remains shipped to me, reasoning that in the near future I could take his ashes back home to New York.

After I racked the books and the CD’s I opened the parcel from Florida and wondered where I should keep the urn. It was a little terracotta sculpture with his name embossed on the side. I held it for a while with both hands. I then decided to place it by the postal scale where I could both reflect on Solomon’s life and lean my outgoing mail on it. So for a short time my dad would be part of my daily life at Gourd Music.

As the first few days passed I would gaze at the urn and think about the man who was my father for 40 years. Not a demonstrative individual but in his shy and quiet way, loving and kind. I remembered with fondness how my father would walk around our home on Sunday mornings. Dressed only in his boxer shorts, an old button shirt, a well worn fedora on his head, and an unlit half smoked cigar in his mouth he’d amble around our home with a coffee in one hand and part of the Sunday New York Times in the other. This will always remain one of my favorite images of him..

He was extremely dedicated to his work and it broke his spirit when he had to give up The Hellman Sowing Machine and Motor Company. A business and a way of life he had inherited from his father which stood proudly on New York’s lower east side for over 60 years.

We had our own funny language. When I said I had to leave he’d say, “Go, Man, go”. He’d usually finish a sentence to me with “ok bub”. He had this funny habit of counting the number of my friends I would have over. We would be upstairs playing board games; my father would enter and then just silently count the number of bodies in the room by pointing his finger at each of my friends.

Sol only made one visit to Santa Cruz but he was impressed. He was fascinated by the number of people who would sit behind The Bookshop Santa Cruz and drink coffee all day. As we’d pass through the Café Pergolesi he’d say “it’s 2:30 in the afternoon, how do they make a living?” “Dad”, I’d say “this is Santa Cruz and it’s sort of a laid back community.” To which he’d always reply in his New York way “well bub, nice work if you can get it. Maybe I can retire here and drink coffee in back of the book store, too.” “You can dad” I’d reply “ You can start right now with a double latte.” And then we both would laugh.

After a few days of contemplating my father’s urn the happier memories faded and the reality of his last few years took over. A series of operations, two failed suicide attempts, and then a brief rally as he pulled what remained of him together, and rented a small condominium on Pensacola Beach.

Just as he attained an island of sanity, the years of poor eating, alcohol and depression caught up with him and he found himself living from procedure to procedure at Pensacola Baptist Hospital.

In the last year of his life I began flying between Santa Cruz and the panhandle of Florida every few months. The doctors would always call at 4am and say if I wanted to see him before he went on I should hop on a plane as soon as possible. My father somehow kept himself breathing but with each flirtation with death he grew weaker. Then they moved him to a smaller facility where they put individuals who are about to expire. The hospital was antiquated and extremely disorganized. Two of the three times I visited my dad, they sent me to the wrong room. My father once had another patient’s chart hanging from his bed.

His skin had a yellow cast from a liver bombarded for decades with Scotch. His heart was giving out and he had colon cancer as well. Half of his teeth were cracked and there was a musty putrid smell about him. Scales were spreading across his scalp among the last strands of his thinning white hair, and crooked red lines crisscrossed through blue gray eyes.

During my last visit to the Pensacola Baptist hospital I made plans for my father’s imminent demise. I contacted a local funeral home and signed all the papers to release his body after he passed on. I never saw his body after he died

On November 5^th 1988 I spent my last morning with my father. He was in and out of consciousness but we managed to exchange a few words. He asked me to hold his hand and as I did I knew that we both were accepting the fact that his time on this planet was coming to an end. I hadn’t remembered ever holding his hand. I promised to come back but I knew this was the last visit.

“Well dad I have to go back to California but I’ll be back in a few weeks.” He uttered out a faint but audible “Go, Man, go.”

Two weeks later as I was working on a paper in my family student-housing apartment at U.C.S.C. an attendant called me from Pensacola Baptist to let me know my father had died of a cardio pulmonary collapse. He suffered so much that I felt a sense of relief when I was told he was dead.

At least that’s what I thought.

On the fourth night following the arrival of my father’s ashes I dreamed of him. We were in a rowboat in a small lake in the Catskills in upstate New York. It was a beautiful day and the sun danced on the water creating a cathedral of broken light. We were fishing for perch somewhere near Bear Mountain. In my dream I hooked a large one and when I turned to show my prize to my father he wasn’t there. I was alone in the boat. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest as I searched the water around the boat but could not find him. I heard his voice calling me from the dock, and ordering me to row the boat in. I grabbed the oars and rowed towards the shore. Just as I got there he disappeared. I then heard him say “hey bub” and there he was sitting behind me in the middle of the lake.

The next morning I gathered all my business correspondence, Which I neatly stacked between my fathers urn and my Pitney Bowes postage meter and climbed into my car to take it all downtown to the post office. The day presented itself with my favorite Santa Cruz weather— bursting sunshine but a little cool and a sky filled with towering cumulus clouds. After mailing my packages I stopped halfway down the post office steps to speak with a friend about a music project he was doing. As we said goodbye I felt a tap on my shoulder. In all the years I’ve been alive very few folks have ever tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. It’s usually an “excuse me” or some eye contact, maybe a hand on the side of my arm but hardly ever an actual tap on the very top on my shoulder.

I looked left and then right and saw no one but felt the tap again. Whoever was trying to get my attention was standing behind me two steps up. Figuring it was one of my friends having fun with me I turned around with my hands on my hips and said in a joyful but somewhat loud voice “yeah, what’s up?

I wished I had never turned around. I felt like Scrooge seeing Marley’s face in the doorknocker, however this face didn’t fade away. It simply stared, and frozen to the steps I stared back.

Just two steps up me stood a replica of my father, looking exactly as he did just before he went into the hospital for the last time. He also smelled that musty old man smell that I remembered from our last visit. He wore a gray fedora hat tilted towards the back of his head

He smiled and I quickly noticed he had the same two cracked front teeth dangling from his gums. Lifting his head up towards the blue sky he said “What do people do around here? This is really some town you have, it seems very interesting.” His smile was so bright it almost seemed like his entire body was dancing.

As I listened in bewildered silence the only reply I could muster was “You want to know what people do?” As I spoke I could feel my self being split in two, like the lyrics of the old blues song, “The Two Trains Running” Well now there's two, there's two trains runnin'Well ain't not one, (ho!) goin' my way.

The first train was my rational self, saying “Ok Neal, he’s got those cracked teeth exactly where Sol’s were, he also has the blood shot pale blue gray eyes and yellow skin and the smell. He’s Sol’s height, and his voice is the same timbre. Take a breath, take a breath, I’m sure there are many old Jewish males of German extraction who would look a lot like your dad once they have reached his age. It’s just an amazing coincidence. It’s probably just the smell of him influencing your other senses. That must be it.

The old man continued to grin and said, “Well, what kind of things go on here?” And as he spoke he bobbed ever so slowly as if he was following a melody somewhere in his head. I licked my lips. “Well” I said “A lot of talented artists live here and there’s the beach, a giant roller coaster and many places to get a cup of coffee.”

He smiled and as he did he never let go of my eyes. I felt frozen as if I was captivated by some beam of energy coming out of this, out of this, of this what? Who is this man?

As I was forcing words out of my mouth the second train took off and said “you never saw his body, you haven’t heard from the mortuary, remember how that hospital put the wrong clipboard on his bed? What’s more, the nurse who called you did not once mention his name and the State of Florida has never sent you a death certificate.

The specter then said, “How long have you’ve lived here? What do you do here? Are you one of these artists who hangs out and drinks coffee?”

Now my mouth was completely dry and I felt like I was getting off on some kind of mind-altering substance. I too wanted to yell out like the Dickens’s character:

Mercy…Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?

The first train spoke again: “Come on Neal, breathe, this is not your dead father coming back to haunt you. It’s probably just another old man with a liver condition that for some reason looks like your father. Just relax, look at your watch and tell him you have to leave. Tell him any lie just go.”

I couldn’t leave. It was alarmed but at the same time entranced. He then said what to me was his coup de gráce: “Those folks in back of the bookstore, don’t they have jobs to go to or do they just sit, read and drink coffee all day?”

The second train whistled, “They might have gotten the charts mixed up, perhaps he went into remission and then just got dressed and left the hospital. He wouldn’t be the first person to do that. He then hiked over to his bank, and withdrew his remaining money. After all it was his dough. He probably got a hotel room, rested up and then he flew to San Jose and presto, here he is.”

The first train then asked the second train “Well, why didn’t he call?” And the second train replied, “He’s probably not being very rational. After all the last time he saw his son, he was leaving him for dead in a run down hospital in Pensacola, Florida. I then announced to both trains that I did what I could for him and I don’t feel guilty.

I wanted to bust out of myself and say to this ghost, this spirit, this eidolon “Listen, man, I just lost my dad and you look a lot like him and it’s really starting to get to me so, please enjoy your visit here in Santa Cruz but I have to leave now, OK? Goodbye.” I wanted to say it, but I didn’t.

Just then the old man started pointing towards the street and began silently counting. “What are you doing?” I anxiously asked. “Oh I’m counting the number of people who are drinking large cups of coffee in those take out containers.” All I could do was nod.

“Hey Neal,” a voice called to me. It was my friend Elise, leaving the post office. Just seeing someone I knew was a relief, “Thank goodness” I thought, a friend. Elise made a beeline for me and immediately gave me a hug and said she just heard that my father had died and how sorry she was for my loss. “So how are you holding up Neal?” I was tempted to say, “Well Elise, I’m somewhat faint and approaching a massive anxiety attack but before I collapse I want you to know that my father has come back from the dead and by the way he’s standing right next to you.”

What I did say was, “well I’m ok.”

Elise glanced in the direction of the old man who politely nodded to her. Could she see him? Did she feel a presence? For three seconds there was a deafening silence. Elise dropped her car keys, she quickly retrieved them, reached out to me and said “I’ve got to run, call me, let me cook you dinner.” She made her way down the steps to her vehicle waved and drove away.

The old man then said: “Is she your girlfriend? She’s very pretty. Do you ever sit in back of the bookstore and drink coffee with her? What kind of coffee does she like, do you both like the same kind of coffee?”

“Were just friends but yes sometimes we have coffee together.”

He smiled and nodded and then lifted his head up at the sky and said, “What a beautiful day. Nice day to be out on the water, what do people fish for here in Santa Cruz?” “Oh sand dabs, cod, albacore and sometimes people like to go out on the water to look for whales.” “Have you ever seen a whale?” the friendly apparition asked?” “Well yes I did. I once was on a boat out of Moss Landing and I saw two grey whales.” “Moss Landing, what’s that like? Are there green and grassy banks there?”

Oh Jesus I thought he busted my chops when he was alive and now that he’s dead he’s still toying with me. Perhaps he just showed up on his way to the next dimension to say goodbye in his own weird Sol Hellman fashion.

I then realized what day it was, December 21^st, the Winter Solstice, the day of the longest night. A day that ancient cultures viewed as the time when the veil between worlds becomes translucently thin, a time when a deity would escort the dead from the underworld.

I didn’t notice any deities standing with my father. The idea of some type of Drudic spirits leading an old Jewish man form Florida to the next level of existence somehow just didn’t work for me. However the resemblance was so strong, I could only look at his face for a few seconds at a time. It was like staring into the sun. I was now convinced that this was my father’s spirit saying goodbye to me. I had an urge to heave logic to the wind and just embrace him. But I didn’t.

I finally mustered up enough courage to say “ I really have to go” and he replied, “Well, go, man, go” and sort of saluted me. I sort of saluted him back and said, “Enjoy your time here in Santa Cruz” and began to descend the steps. After I crossed the street I turned around figuring as in most ghost stories he wouldn’t be there. But he was, and he waved to me again. I waved back and smiled, he waved back and called out in a raspy voice, “Take care of yourself bub, and buy that pretty girl a latte for me.”

Ultimate B.L.T.

2006-02-13T18:37:00.000-08:00

Ultimate BLT
Oh praise be to the sun, our bright shining ally in the center of our solar system. For you, you are the eternal fire in our universe, the keeper of the light, and the giver of life.
In September of each year our fiery orb crosses the celestial equator from the north to the south, a journey celebrated by many cultures on this third planet from the sun as the Autumnal Equinox. To astrologers it’s the day the sun enters into the sign of Libra, the constellation of the balance. The Mayans were dazzled by all the colors forming into triangles of light on their pyramid at Chickén Itzá. The Japanese celebrate Higan, also known as the six perfections: perseverance, effort, meditation, wisdom, observance of precepts, and giving. They also believe that this special day is an opportune time to reflect on life’s interior meanings.
I celebrate this day of equal light and darkness by creating the ultimate bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
It all starts with a journey to the fertile fields of Corralitos, where my destination is the much-heralded Corralitos Sausage Company, to acquire the “B” of my Ultimate BLT. While it is true that my ancient ancestors would frown on my current choice of savory, in my own wonderful, compassionate soul I forgive them. For if my great grandfather Israel Kennett could only have sampled this tasty piece of piggy, surely he would have understood why I journey south to purchase a two-pound slab of swine. It’s a lean bit of bacon, light on salt, no artificial ingredients, and smoked on the wood of an apple tree. Yes, the very tree that tempted Eve is now sacrificing itself to the flames to add just the right flavor to our dearly departed omnivorous, domesticated, hoofed mammal.
This venture to the south is followed by a Wednesday afternoon trip to the farmer’s market to purchase Molino dry-farmed tomatoes and Route One lettuce.
Dry farming utilizes soil moisture from the prior winter’s rain as the only form of irrigation. The advantages are a concentrated flavor and a sugar-acid balance that make this pomodoro the ultimate, most blissful, most flavorful little red beauty that ever sprouted from God’s green earth. I am a personal friend of Joe Curry, and he saves his very best tomatoes and puts them aside just for me. As Joe places the ripest of his harvest in my bag, I sing out, “bella, bellissima pomodoro.”
With the lettuce I keep it pure and simple. None of this radicchio or arugula stuff, just pure and crisp romaine lettuce is all that’s needed. I place the lettuce in the same canvas bag as the Molino tomatoes, for it’s good they get acquainted before they start working together.
Ah, the bread—the proper bread is a great source of debate with many lovers of the BLT. Shall it be rye, brown, francese, plain white, or ciabatta? The choice of bread has been, and I’m afraid will always be, a source of debate among lovers of this classic sandwich. The answer for me is as follows. What we have going on is a very delicate balance of textures and flavors. The crisp lettuce, the juicy but not too loose tomato, and the warm and crunchy bacon. A bread with too much body mass will overwhelm and stifle the wonderful trio of bacon, lettuce, and tomato. Making a BLT on a francese roll would be like experiencing an intimate scene of dialogue in a film and having the music on so loud that the words are lost. The bread must act as both a platform and a vehicle for our lovely trio, one that will only enhance the experience and not in any way, shape, or form (and I do mean this literally) negate it.
A great BLT is a complex edible symphony, one in which all the parts maintain their individuality, yet at the same time surrender their tasty nuances in the true spirit of gastronomic gestalt and dwell as one. This equinox I choose Sumano’s Bakery ciabatta bread. Though I am skeptical about its naked and pale texture, I feel it will toast up well, and its many crevices will add some fun places for the mayo to dwell.
With the mayonnaise choice I have to stay with tradition and of course go with Hellmann’s, though for some reason it’s known west of the Mississippi as Best Foods. I don’t waste my time with some kind of safflower oil concoction or other type of healthy alternative.
My ingredients are now all together, but the critically intense work has just begun. For now without the correct timing and the correct application of all the ingredients, my ritual could easily plummet into a spiritual abyss.
All ingredients must sit together at room temperature as I invoke the spirit of all the great BLT makers in all the luncheonettes in New York City. I heat my cast iron skillet (using a Teflon pan would be heresy) to a comfortable medium heat.
I then lay the bacon down four strips per sandwich, and as I do, the strips greet the metal with a friendly sizzley “hello.” As they are slowly cooking, I cut the tomatoes, neither too thin nor too thick, and place them down ever so gently on a plate to await their glorious marriage.
The lettuce has been carefully washed and spun with all traces of ribs removed. The mayonnaise is open and eager to join this eatable canvas.
Once the bacon has been turned, the bread swings into action. It has to be brown all the way but with no traces of crusty darkness. As the toast is finishing, I remove the bacon and gently pat it down with a paper towel.
Now it’s time to assemble my edible equinox creation. Mayo on both pieces of toast, then the tomatoes. I then place the lettuce between the tomato and the bacon, for I feel it’s texturally more secure that way. I don’t want an immediate confluence of tomato and bacon; I like the lettuce to work as a buffer. Here’s where many folks really go askew: they push the bread down so hard that the bacon is crushed. One must gently, ever so gently caress the concoction together. Then I take a sharp knife and make a diagonal cut. A straight cut is what people from small towns in Nebraska and Ohio execute. I place the masterpiece on a plate, where it waits for the consuming mouth to enjoy the warm and crunchy (yet still pliable) bacon, the exploding sensation of a dry-farm Molino tomato, the joyous lettuce, the condiment-ing mayonnaise and ever-so-supportive bread.
My first Ultimate BLT goes to my neighbor. With this offering I realize that I am truly invoking the Japanese Equinox celebration of Higan, illustrating the six perfections: perseverance, effort, meditation, wisdom, observance of precepts, and giving.

Gorilla

2006-02-13T16:03:00.000-08:00

Our landlord was a black man and we helped him hoe his tobacco. He charged us $50. a month to rent a beat up old farmhouse, a few out buildings, a chicken coop and 80 acres of land. We’d usually work our rent off by helping Lewis with his tobacco allotment. Occasionally when we were all out in the field Lewis would joyfully shout out, “If you don’t have a college degree you can’t how my tobacco and that’s all there is to it.” He’d often wonder why we all studied so hard just to harvest leaf for an old black man in Virginia. If his wife Ella were around she’d answer Lewis’ question by saying “because they all doped up, that’s why.” We thought we were living a counterculture lifestyle, at least that’s the way it seemed to a bunch of citykids trying to enjoy a pastoral dream. However in a very real sense we went native. There was always a number of cars up on blocks in our front yard, we drank PBR Longnecks and at night we sang a lot of country music on our out of tune guitars. We fancied ourselves as some new American vanguard, but in reality we were emulating the locals —hardly an act of revolution.

During our three-year “back to the land experiment” we encountered group that was living more of an altered existence than an alternative one. They came to the piedmont area of Virginia each spring in an unholy procession of junked out cars and beat up old trucks. They used expressions like “center-joint”, “hey rube”, “mark”, “G-top”, “lugen” and “lot-lizard”. They were gypsies gone wrong, a subculture traveling on the edge of society, they were carnies and they never stayed in one place for long.

These were hard-core people who were living more of an altered existence than an alternative one. They didn’t smoke pot, play Grateful Dead songs on their guitars, plant vegetables, and run away from wild roosters. Their lifestyle showed on all parts of their bodies. From the long scars on their faces and backs to their missing fingers and teeth, here were the souls who had been cast away by society. Each year when they’d pitch their big top on a nearby farmer’s field, it was more an attempt at survival than entertainment.

Once a year for our three years living on a farm outside of Lynchburg our counter culture lifestyle would come in contact with their sub culture to earn a few dollars. They would pay us $10. each to help them raise the big top and at the end of the run take it down and help pack it up. While we were putting up the tent they would ask us if we had any drugs for sale. We’d reply that Bedford County Virginia was not good place to deal illegal items as possession of one joint could lead to five years behind bars. “Oh come on” they’d reply “just give us sell us some whites, you know uppers to help with those long nights barking our wares on the midway.” We would offer them a few joints and they would always reply, “We don’t want any of that candy assed weed, give us something we can really get off on like bennies or some meth.” The conversation would usually end there or with them saying, “then what the hell good are you freaks anyway.”

In 1971 there was not a lot to do around Altavista, Virginia, and for the one week that the carney operated it was quite the local hit. For just a few dollars an individual could experience the freak shows, bearded ladies and lion-faced men, games of chance, the hootchy-kootchy show, a ram with four horns, a fire eater, a five-legged horse, a giant rat, a house of mirrors, odd looking life forms in a bottle and one very old, sad-looking gorilla named Congo.

We always made it a point to tour the midway during their short run in our area. It was seedy and ratty but it offered a combination of carnie types and local Christens mingling together which all seemed to very entertaining to us. Simply stated—it was a trip. We liked to listen to all the barkers shooting their lines to the local marks and always got a kick out of the dog acts.

That year as we helped them strike the midway we were offered an additional job. They needed two people to drive a large pick-up, one with a tattered old camper on back, up into the Blue Ridge Mountains and dropped off in Staunton, Virginia.

It was a pretty small truck, so why (we asked them) did they need two? “We need two because you’ll be taking Congo up to his next performance. It wouldn’t be a good carnival without a gorilla, now, would it, boys?” The old carney spit tobacco through the gap in his front teeth as he spoke. “He bites a bit, but he’s a good old soul.” He then held up his right hand to display his two shortened fingers, which he claimed were bitten off by Congo. “Try not to drive too fast and watch out for bumps and please don’t let anyone know there’s a gorilla in the back of that camper as we really don’t have that type of legality if you know what I mean.”

I looked at my friend; we both nodded. There was no room for any type of negotiation when you dealt with a carny. They would put their weathered face in front of yours and made sure you knew who was dictating the terms of whatever deal they were cooking up. They always smelled like cheap liquor, no matter what time of day it was. They seemed to be chomping at the bit for a chance to confront us, an opportunity to let us know who was boss. The combination of their aggressive nature and our stoned self always gave them the advantage. There was just no future in getting into an argument with an American gypsy.

Sure, we thought, $50.00 each for driving a gorilla up into the mountains, yeah great, it’ll be a trip. They also agreed to give us a little extra money for the bus ride back to Lynchburg.

My buddy David and I awoke at sunrise the next morning and we joked about our upcoming adventure over toast and coffee. We both mentioned that the gorilla in question seemed to be a tame one so there was little need to worry. We jumped into one of our many beat-up vehicles and drove down to the carney camp. The first thing we noticed was how frightening these folks appeared in the daylight without the tents of the carnival as their backdrop. Many of them looked like convicts, and all of them seemed desperate. The light of day did not agree with appearance of a vintage carnival person.

Our welcome greeting went something like— “Don’t either of you jack asses even think of opening the back of that pick-up to check out Congo, ’cause if anything happens to the ape it’ll come out of your ass . . . get it? Remember we know where you freaks live . . . OK?” All of a sudden the humor of the day was extinguished with the tone and the nature of Vince who seemed to be one of the main carny bosses.

We nodded a nervous nod, jumped in the pick-up, and started our three-hour journey to Staunton Virginia, with a full tank of gas, a gorilla in tow, and our minds full of apprehension. David and I decided that smoking a joint with a gorilla in the back of a truck would not be in our best interest. We did wonder what the jail term would be if the police pulled us over. How would I ever explain to my parents, the same parents who paid for my college education, that their recently graduated son was busted for driving an unlicensed gorilla down an interstate?

We tucked our hair under our hats, and tried to look like two good old boys driving their camper down the road on a Sunday morning. We took 460 West to Bedford then 132 to 501; from 501 it was a straight shot to Buena Vista and highway 81 north, which would take us into Staunton. We were a little worried on the small roads, concerned that some cop with nothing to do on a Sunday morning would jump at the chance to pull over two guys with beards and check out what might be in the back of their truck.

We soon found ourselves on the outskirts of Buena Vista. We could hear Congo as we headed down the road. He would make grunting sounds, and sometimes he almost sounded like a young child.

We wondered if he had ever been free, if he had known the life of a highland gorilla. Had he ever mated or journeyed through a rain forest, or was this carney life the only reality he had known? Through the cab window we could make out his shape; we noticed he hardly ever moved at all.
When we finally hit the interstate, a wave of relief and confidence came over us both. I then mentioned to David that the poor thing must be hungry. We decided to stop in Mint Spring and treat Congo to lunch. Hell with what those carney people said, the gorilla has a right to eat and we just had to see him. We pulled into a Safeway parking lot and purchased a bunch of bananas and peanuts because that’s what we saw gorillas eat in the movies. Then we drove down an old dirt road and carefully opened the back door.

There he was huddled in the rear of the camper like a ragged child, no great silverback, just a large, very frightened life form that was high up on the evolutionary scale. We stared at him for a while and tried not move. We then made eye contact with Congo and sent out our best vibrations. He gradually sensed that we were friendly and had something to give. He then leaned just a little bit closer to us, which was our cue to dispense some food.

We gently tossed the bananas and peanuts to him. He ever so cautiously gathered the offering and retreated back to his corner. He sat there and munched away and never moved from his spot.

While most of the population of Mint Spring, were turning the pages of their bibles and giving thanks to the Lord, two hippies and an old gorilla were on the side of a nondescript Virginia road communing with each other over a midday meal. David and I exchanged glances and sensed correctly that Congo and we would never pass this way again.

Midwestern Culinary Faux Pas.

2005-02-21T10:25:00.000-08:00

Midwestern Culinary Faux Pas

Flying from Boston to San Jose, we made the usual stop in Chicago. I had one of these rare itineraries where I was to stay on the same plane. I felt that fifty minutes was too long to sit, so I took all my belongings and my boarding pass and ventured out into the exciting arena of Chicago O'Hare Airport.
I observed all the spawning and migratory beings making their way to all points of the earth. Ah, there's the gate to San Francisco and there are folks going back to the freezing cold Northeast. Oh, look at those happy ones boarding a flight to the Bahamas!

Observing humans in transit is a wonderful way to spend time at O'Hare, but hunger called and remembering the cuisine on American Airlines where sustenance consisted of plucking a little blue bag out of what can only be described as the food morgue, I opted for a quick airport chow-down.

Moving on past the Panda Garden, Pizza Hut and the always available $10.00 Martini I chanced on a stand that claimed to sell authentic Chicago Hot Dogs.
Ah indigenous foods, yes why not? Though I have gone beyond the wiener in my culinary evolution, I have indeed heard much talk of this fabled sausage creation of the Midwest.
I found a seat at the bar in the small bistro residing on a open corner between gates K4 and K5. On the other side of the bar was a very tall African American women with great hair and a wonderful chiseled face She opened her eyes leaned forward and said "Yes…"

I heard the cook call her name, it was Doris.
"I'd like one of those venerated Chicago hot dogs, but I must be sure I'm about to consume the real thing. After all, airports truly are full of illusion."
My host guaranteed me that this would be an authentic Chicago Dog and I would soon be part of a tradition I had only heard about but never experienced. She had a great face. I trusted her.
As I waited for my dog and beer, I observed the dozen or so people at the bar. No one making eye contact, most were fidgeting with their carry on bags, looking at their respective watches and consuming consumables in a most consumptive fashion.
My masterpiece arrived and I was perplexed. It was beyond any hot dog experience in my 50 plus years of eating.
First off, the bun was really thick and the pickle relish was placed across the dog, not up and down the dog. In other words, it went from bun to bun. Adding to the sausage mystique, there were tomatoes and cucumbers cascading around both the bun and the actual dog itself. Lastly, there were quite a lot of fries, all on the same very small cardboard plate. The fries were dipping over the thick bun and falling on my dog.
Although I had never spent much time in the Windy City, I knew that the proper way to consume this beef creation was to pick the whole thing up and somehow guide it down one’s gullet. Had I been alone, I might have tried such a feat.
With great apprehension I reached for the plastic bag that contained the little plastic knife, fork and spoon. Meanwhile, with the smallest corner of one eye, Doris was observing me opening the bag.
I then proceeded to start the consumption experience of my Chicago hot dog with a knife and fork. All the while, Doris' eyes got bigger and her cursory glances were morphing into short stares at me and the dog.
There was now not a doubt in my mind that I was committing an indigenous culinary faux pax. I knew it, and I knew she knew it, and I was sure she knew I knew she knew.
I sheepishly raised my eyes. I lifted my palms in the most sincere form of submission a weary airport traveler could muster. Our eyes met. A long silence was interrupted by my confession.
”Okay, okay” I said. “I know I have done a really uncool act by eating a Chicago Hot Dog with a knife and fork.”
Bowing my head even lower I continued.
“I was confused by the relish, the bun, the tomatoes, the abundance of fried potatoes product...I'm jet lagged , it's my primary Chicago Hot Dog experience and I don't have a manual.”
After more silence, Doris spoke. "Let me ask you this. Would you eat a pizza with a knife and fork?"
I assumed an upright position and replied, “Of course not! I'm originally from New York."
"New York!" Doris exclaimed - "I thought you were from Omaha or some small place in North Dakota, but now that I know you’re from New York, this is inexcusable."
We both tried as hard as we could to keep that smile away. This was really fun. We debated about bun size and tomatoes and hot dog customs at quite a high and excited volume.
Everyone on the counter got into it. Each person had his or her interpretations of the proper dog eating experience. People were lighting up like Christmas trees. Everyone stopped looking at their watches, cell phones were tucked away, people were looking at each other, all of us were escaping from our traveling isolation and just enjoying the moment.

It was agreed upon that no matter what the venue, the dog must be consumed without benefit of knife and fork, and I did promise Doris that on my return to their bistro, I would amend to the proper etiquette and culinary mores.

During the entire 30 minutes that I spent with Doris, somehow we knew we were great friends. We were conspirators in breaking up a boring reality. As short as it was, it was wonderful because we understood each other from the get go.
All that fun and all I had to do was to commit a small Midwestern culinary faux pas.

The Magic Dollar

2005-02-19T13:34:00.000-08:00

The Magic Dollar

Gazing at this faded, crumpled, limp, multi stained dollar I gave it a very small chance of success in a vending machine. This unfortunate piece of legal tender was found tucked away in the far reaches of my wallet, the same wallet that I had accidentally dropped in a somewhat dubious puddle of rainwater the previous night. It was the only dollar I had. The sweat dripping from my fingers on that humid Indiana afternoon only added to the depravity of its condition. While attempting to flatten this pitiful reserve note out I rubbed too hard a ripped down a half an inch on its right side. There was a severe gravy stain directly on the little Masonic eyeball above the pyramid and a large red dot on top of president Washington’s head. The bill was so deteriorated that the American eagle looked more like a frightened turkey sinking into quicksand.

It’s clearly stated on the bill “In God We Trust” and trusted I did as I carefully placed this aged piece of currency into the slim metal receptacle of the machine. I then chanted a little junk food prayer as the bill slowly disappeared. The machine was pleased; it quickly devoured my aged and crumpled Federal Reserve Note. I pressed E-3 and waited through those pregnant seconds until my extra large Snickers Bar hit the bottom of the machine with a joyful thud.

As my happy hands were opening the flap to retrieve my sweet and joyous prize my ears were treated to an unusual electronic voice coming from the direction of the dollar slot. The machine was returning my bill after it had set that Snickers bar free. It literally spewed the dollar into the air; my eager hands captured it as it floated towards the pavement. Then there was another sound, one anyone could decipher. It was the sound of change coming trough the machine and down into the small metal compartment. I now had the desired confection, my original dollar and forty-five cents in change.

Could it have been the gravy stain over the mystic eye that set this dollar aloft after it had brought forth my sugared desire? Or was there a bigger picture happening here? I was shocked, elated and puzzled as to my next move. I looked at George; he still had a red mark on top of his head.

Mystified by this recent magic I studied the bill for a possible answer. I doubted that it was “In God We Trust” as I was now engaged in (if not breaking) at least seriously bending one of His commandments.
I then noticed written directly above the little gravy stained Masonic eye the phrase “Annuit Coeptis” from the classic Roman poet Virgils’ Aeneid written in the first century B.C. “Annuit Coeptis” translates to “providence has favored our undertakings” and yes favored I was and I decided to continue my relationship with this now magic dollar and the receptive and loving vending machine.

Adding to my somewhat flawed logic were the next group of words beneath the pyramid, “Novus Ordo

Seclorum.” Virgil’s second phrase translated to “A new order of the ages”. Indeed I thought a new relationship

between humanity and vending machines starting right here on a hot and muggy Indiana afternoon and I am

the chosen one.

I straightened out my crumpled bill as best as I could for my second attempt. Contemplating my rising sign I choose a Mars Bar. I placed my legal tender into the machine, and once again it was accepted. As I punched E-8 I did wonder if there was a video camera watching me trying to pull one over on this aged vending machine located between West Harrison and St. Leon Indiana.

The Mars bars falls to the pit and the dollar is once again vaulted out of the machine and this time there is fifty-five cents in change. Staying with my planetary theme my next choice was a Milky Way and it soon came to rest in the chute with the Snickers and the Mars bar and as before my dollar was returned and there were two dimes and one quarter in the change box.

The machine was somewhat slow and it took almost a minute for the entire transaction. If each transaction netted me an average of fifty cents then I could potentially make $30. per hour and of course many candy bars as well. I then had a moment of logic and morality. The machine probably had just so much change in it and a limited number of candy bars. I then contemplated if this little bit of fun might lead to possible incarceration. I’d be the laughing stock of the cellblock. I could just envision my fellow inmates laughing at someone busted for tampering with a vending machine.

As I was contemplating continuing my criminal activity a car pulled up and two little kids and their dad walked up to the machine. I quickly gathered my booty and walked over to the water fountain hoping theses new arrivals wouldn’t break the magic. As the two children hopped up and down chanting for their favorite confection dad put a dollar in the slot. The bar came down as well as the change but his dollar was gone. I waited until they pulled out. I decided to continue but only with candy that had the names of planets.

I soon realized this decision would be a limiting one. Fifth Avenue, Goobers and Idaho Spud were not celestial names at all and Nut Goodie, Salted Nut Roll and Sesame Snaps didn’t make it to my wish list as well. Ah but what about Skor? There was a famous Danish astronomer with that last name. I pressed D-5 and Skor dropped down and once again the dollar was returned with fifty cents in change. Starburst fit the bill and then just for old time sake I took another Mars Bar.

After my tenth transaction and had another pang of conscious but perhaps it was more like a ping. Am I committing an immoral act? I looked at the machine, and it was looking back at me. I then thought of all those times I poured money into a vending machine and received nothing at all. That one in St Paul that I had placed six quarters in, the coke machine at the Hilton in Los Angeles, a coffee machine that delivered nothing in east New York. Then I thought of all my friends and all the vending machines around this globe that took their coins and returned nothing. This isn’t just about me, I thought it’s about everyone on this planet who at some time of their lives tumbled their quarters into a machine and came up empty. Still there were some consistent pangs of guilt. I decided to collect my bars, my quarters and my dimes and roll on down the interstate.

I found myself nervously looking in the rear view every few minutes as I headed west. What if a little old Indiana man was watching me through his binoculars from his RV and called the state police. Every squad car in the Hoosier state is now on the lookout for the, hum… what would they call me? Would it be “The Sweet Tooth Bandito” or “Mars Bar Murphy” or better yet “Le Voleur de la Chocalot”.

I felt a little more at ease as I departed the interstate for 46 west, a smaller and more inconspicuous route. I soon arrived in Bloomington checked into my hotel and got ready for the music convention.

I was foundling my lucky dollar like a totem as I walked down the hall to the elevator. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them, six gleaming brand new vending machines. I could feel my dollar slither through my fingers like a snake approaching its prey. I thought these machines looked a lot more state of the art then one I knocked off back on the interstate. My brain said no, but my dollar said go.I had nothing to loose as I was already rich in candy, quarters and dimes.

I decided to go for the one-dollar bottle of water. The machine quickly devoured my bill a cold bottle slid down the chute. The machine hesitated just like before but it probably had a newer chip in it, one that could see through the gravy stain on the little Masonic eye and the red dot on George’s head. My dollar was now resting comfortably with all its brother and sister dollars in the Marriott Raintree Hotel in downtown Bloomington Indiana. I snapped off the top of my last dollars work, took a long hard drink, and I realized that my short Midwestern career in crime had come to an end.