Susan Cross Writes

Music makes people happy--and sometimes even makes them sing!

2012-01-31T17:06:00.000-05:00

When I attend a baseball game, during the 7th inning stretch I stand up and sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at the top of my lungs. I cannot sing very well but I feel the song in my heart and sing it with my arms waving because I love baseball. My grandmother taughte me that song when I was about 5 years old and she never told me to sing it quietly because I didnIf have a great singing voice.

Now, these many years later, if a TV camera and boom mic zoomed in on me the media would laugh and say, "She'd never make it on American Idol!"

I sing in the shower, in the car and even out in public. Music is a good thing. I’ve had a vision problem since eye surgery in November and I can't see very well right now but I am grateful that my ears still work. I can still hear and enjoy music and if I couldn't I would probably still sing whether anyone likes my voice or not.

So what's my point?

I am not a Romney supporter but when he sang America the Beautiful at a rally the media ridiculed him. Did it ever occur to anyone that singing usually makes people happy? Even people who can't sing well? And, I personally thought he sang it pretty good considering he is running for office not competing for a record contract.

By the way I dance, too—much better than I sing—and I do that in public and in private, in the living room, when I'm cleaning the house--if there’s music I dance. Because it makes me happy. And I won't be appearing on "So you Think you Can Dance" either.

The forgotten game of Jai Alai

2012-01-29T00:46:00.009-05:00

The Annual Citrus Tournament took place this weekend in the Orlando Jai Alai fronton with some of the great players back on the court. And some of the not so great. I got a little nostalgic tonight, missing my favorite player Kompa who wore #22 on his jersey for many years. He's retired now and returned to the Basque region of Spain, or so I'm told. There are some fabulous players with great names such as Azpillaga, Odriozola, but my current favorites are Sierra, Pancho, Churruco, Larru and Olabe. We have some rookies who have a little development still ahead of them, but it makes for a lot of entertainment. Gino is an old-timer who has been in Orlando a long time. You can always recognize him because he's the player who walks out on the court with his left hand on his hip and between plays often returns it there. He usually makes a few good returns before missing. His name is easy to pronounce but when I am cheering for him, it's to drop the ball.

One of the retired players was named Bob. From what I understand he was a local guy named Terry Moore. He was the tallest player on the team and often was seen leaning against the wall while waiting for any action to come his way. He sported #40 and people loved to cheer for him because the odds were always against him and if he won the payouts were pretty good. We couldn't help but yell his name for two reasons, we could pronouce it easily and no matter how hard we tried, we almost bet on him. He was the underdog.

If you have never attended a jai alai game, and you have the opportunity I advise you to take it. The sport is dying out in America and that's a shame. These guys are great athletes with the pelota (ball) traveling up to 90 mph, hitting the wall and then having to catch it in their cesta (basket) strapped to their arm. Some climb the walls to make difficult shots, others fall on the floor to make a difficult play and whether you're a gambler and want to bet or are just looking for an evening of entertainment, give yourself a treat. Admission in Orlando is $3 per person. You can sit and watch 12 games if you like (we usually watch about 5). Games last about 12 minutes and get very exciting. Hope to see you there one Friday or Saturday night. Check the schedule at http://www.orlandojaialai.com

Here's an old clip from the Orlando Jai Alai Fronton.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxBUOEy_4H8&feature=related

The Single Sock

2011-11-18T12:57:00.004-05:00

She looked down at the sock on the floor. After folding tee shirts and underwear she had paired the socks, tucking the ends one inside the other to hold them together. Yet, she stared at the lonely sock. It was the inevitable single; no match.

Kim got up and walked back to the laundry room to check the dryer again; then the washer. Both were empty. There were no socks on the floor.

Slowly, contemplating where missing socks go, she walked into the bedroom and put the shirts in a drawer. His socks and undershorts, both boxers and briefs, shared the one above it. Leaning over, she picked up the sock and examined it looking for a hole in the heel or toe that would justify throwing the leftover in the trash without feeling guilty. No holes. No frayed edges. A clean sock without a partner.

Most likely, the other sock would magically appear next week but maybe not. Growing up, her mother’s rule was that you don’t throw things away unless they’re broken or damaged. She pondered. Could you donate one sock to charity? Do one legged men shop at thrift stores? Do homeless men wear unmatched socks when the weather gets cold? Would the owner of a store even take it and put it together with a similar sock that was also singular or should she just toss it out?

She brought her mind back into the bedroom and the sock in her hand. She opened the drawer and counted a dozen pairs of white ones with gray heels and toes.

The ringing phone shook her out of her reverie. As she picked it up she remembered she was supposed to be at her daughter’s house in ten minutes to pick her and her little boy up to go to the doctor. Her daughter was counting on her. She didn’t want to go alone. They would be getting test results that would determine where on the autistic spectrum her grandson fell and what the long term treatment would be.

With the phone in her hand Kim dropped the sock in the drawer and said, “I’m glad you called. I got caught up in something and lost track of time. I’ll leave right away and be there in about five minutes. Don’t worry, honey, it will all work out. Things have a way of falling into place.”

Does Size Matter?

2011-07-11T16:34:00.001-04:00

This post is in response to a prompt on Eric Krause's blog, http://ejkwritingspot.blogspot.com/2011/07/writing-prompt-70.html

It's not that I ever wanted to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Nor did I ever consider entering an Olympic high jump or pole vault competition. All I really wanted was to be able to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without standing on my tippy toes, standing on the bottom shelf or, if necessary asking another shopper or store employee to grab a box of FiberOne granola bars. (Why do they always put them on the top shelf?)

While browsing Facebook one day, I saw a link to an article in the Wall Street Journal about a new designer drug that could put a particular drug company back on track. Multiple lawsuits against the company had resulted from TV commercials claiming that birth defects may have resulted from taking any drug they had ever made and the stock had dropped considerably. This new medication, taken in liquid form, could actually cause a temporary growth spurt of up to six inches which would last as long as 24 hours. According to studies, it wasn't recommended that the drug be taken daily, but on an occasional basis it was shown to do no harm in monkeys whose growth was stunted through heredity. Could I possibly be like one of those monkeys? Although my mother was considered short at 5'2", my sister and my cousin were the exact same height as me--4'10-1/2". It seemed worth looking into.

The day after reading the article I made an appointment with my physician to discuss it. Well, actually, I don't see a physician. When I have a medical problem I go to the physician's office and see the Nurse Practitioner. In five years I have never once met the doctor who owns the practice. Although he's a General Practitioner, he and his wife specialize in cosmetic procedures and work together in the office adjoining the one I visit injecting Botox and fillers into wrinkles for baby boomers who are tired of hairstyles with bangs to cover their creasing foreheads and wearing turtlenecks to hide their newly wattled necks. But I digress.

A few days later I went to see the NP and asked her about this new drug. She had read the same article but didn't pay much attention. At a height of 5'8" it didn't interest her in a personal way. I explained to her that I'm terrified of ladders and asked her if she could prescribe it to me so that I might be able to clean the tops of my cabinets while just standing on my little step stool and perform other such tasks that she probably took for granted. After looking over my medical records, she saw no contra-indications and within 30 minutes I was on my way to the pharmacy to fill the prescription.

The next morning, I carefully measured the prescribed dosage and swallowed it in one gulp, like a shot of flavored vodka. I hadn't read the warnings that accompanied the bottle in pharmacy bag but I felt confident I had nothing to worry about. Surely the NP would have told me if there were side effects so I headed for the shower. Daydreaming about what it would be like to have to raise the shower head, I could feel some tingling throughout my body.

Now that I was squeaky clean, I dried my hair and went to get dressed. I got out my favorite jeans and when I stepped into them I found that I couldn't quite pull them up over my thighs. I dropped them to the floor and ran back to look in the bathroom mirror. There was no question that I was taller although I couldn't estimate by how many inches. The horrifying figure that I saw, however, was also wider!

Naked and barefoot I sprinted to the kitchen to read the side effects and there it was. "DO NOT TAKE WITHOUT FOOD. This medication may cause an increase in height up to 6" but when taken on an empty stomach, it may also cause an equal increase in width." With tears in my eyes I returned to the bedroom, put on an oversized tee shirt and yoga pants and waited for the effects to wear off and wondered what was I thinking? Does my short stature really matter that much to me?

Next time I read an article about new medications in the Wall Street Journal, I'll remember they are referring to stock prices of the pharmaceutical companies, not effectiveness or safety of the drugs.

Self-Righteous Blues

2011-06-29T00:14:00.000-04:00

Apparently in 1972 I was listening to a lot of Dylan and Leonard Cohen and took a shot at writing some poetry. I found this one in a drawer this morning amongst others. I hope to hear your comments. Please feel free to be honest!

Self-righteous Blues

By Susan Cross
© Susan Cross 1972

Glaring blank faces
Wide-eyed open spaces
Show up clearly when you can’t relate
To the pace in the mazes
Of the frenzied rat races
That tear down everything you create.

When you feel like you’re beaten
And everyone’s cheatin’
You still bit but the hook’s got no bait.

After everything’s broken
You find yourself tokin’
Long deep hits of thick city air
Some crystal cold coke
And the factory’s smoke
With the people you know didn’t care.

You felt you were been beaten
Everyone was cheatin’
Without something there’s nothing to share.

Games that you played
Going out to get laid
Finding out that the rule wasn’t gold
Scores that you made
Not worth prices you paid
But you knew that some things can’t be sold.

Now you’re sure you’ve been beaten
It’s been days since you’ve eaten
Anything, anyone, young or old.

In two brown paper bags
You packed all your rags
And prepared for a long distance ride.
A little time lags from the junkies and fags
You ran into a place you could hide.

You feel you’ve been beaten
And the city’s been cheatin’
All your desires were always denied.

You tried a new place
Another pretty face
But you knew all along it’s the same.
New tails you could chase
Someone else on your case
Your surroundings were never to blame.

So there, too, you got beaten
The whole trip’s self-defeatin’
You’re asking yourself why you came.

Something you said
Spinning round in your head
All the answers you tried to avoid.
You wished yourself dead
But kept goin’ instead
It was the misery that you enjoyed.

Yes, you liked being beaten
By anyone you were meetin’
You’re still licking the wounds where you bled.

The decision you made
To take out in trade
All the bad hands you thought you were dealt.
Forever afraid of the shiny sharp blade
That could end all the hate that you felt.

You’re the one who’s been beaten
And it’s you who’s been cheatin’
So the anger and pain’d be delayed.

Well, come on big shot
If you think you’re so hot
Try to put it together at last
You’ve bullshitted a lot
Now you’re on the spot
Cut the self-pity crap—do it fast!

Or you’re goin’ to get beatin’
You just can’t live with cheatin’
Now it’s Russian Roulette—just one shot.

Leroy Cooper talks about Nat 'King' Cole

2011-04-11T23:26:00.002-04:00

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. Cooper was the bandleader for Ray Charles for about 20 years. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

During my years spending afternoons with Leroy Cooper he told me stories that paint a picture of American musical history. Nat 'King' Cole was somebody that played a major part in his youth.

*****

"Back in the ‘40s I went to a little church school down in Austin, Texas, Huston-Tillotson," Cooper said. "We used to call it the Pride of the Great Southwest. It was across town from the University of Texas. It was a Methodist school. They’d teach you to be a teacher or a preacher.

"It was a beautiful school, Huston-Tillotson. The band would play and the choir would sing and the president of the college would beg us to play The Bells of Saint Mary and it would make him cry.

"The president of the college would tell the students: 'In the early years, our forefathers got together to bring this institution about to lift the ban of ignorance…' he would say to us."

"People like Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole and Adam Clayton Powell used to come to the school. Every Wednesday night we had a celebrity speaker. They were so happy to see a bunch of kids trying to get educated. I enjoyed it. I played in the school band three years. I was the lead alto player which was a big deal. We had to try out for the school band like a football player. You earned a scholarship. I didn’t have to pay for nothing but books. Everything else was a freebee, food, dormitory.

"Every time Nat King Cole Trio would come through to play, our band would play the opening for them and then the Nat King Cole trio would play. All those bands would come through there and we would see those musicians dressed in those latest styles.

"Nat King Cole, he brought his wife. Well he wasn’t married to Maria then. He brought his girlfriend down. He was playing some job for the school so we used to go and watch them play tennis. I was really watching his girl in those tennis outfits. You know, a little young boy, he was laughing at us. Teenagers. Oh man, he was hitting the ball."

"We school boys didn’t have nothing. We’d be listening to the bands and the professor would say, “Stay in school.”

In another session Cooper talked about his experiences in Birmingham and the south touring with Ray Charles in the early days.

"Down there It got so bad when we’d play a gig they’d say, “No drinking in this dressing room. And if we catch one of you drinking in the dressing room you’re all going to jail. Everybody was calling home on the public phone out there. “Don’t stay too long on that phone.” Picky, picky, picky, picky, picky. To me, Birmingham was the worst place in the world.

"Nat King Cole was from Birmingham and I read that they had him going through the back door in the auditorium. Well with Ray, when our bus came in, they had us pull around to the back and we had to go in the back door."

Before the Beatles were the Beatles and then there was Billy Preston

2011-02-25T00:36:00.000-05:00

This story was told to me by Leroy Cooper during our first session and I transcribed it from the recording. First I wanted to corroborate the story since Leroy was 78 years old and I was checking on his memory. He insisted the club was the Star Club and that they did NOT have a regular drummer during Ray's gig at the club. When I saw Paul, John and George in their 'cowboy clothes' just as Leroy described them I felt I would publish his personal memory of the events that followed. It is all in his own voice.

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

In Hamburg, Germany, I was with Ray and we played in a place called the Star Club. It was a very popular venue in Hamburg at the time. It was very impressive. They met us at the airport with Mercedes Benz convertibles, a whole parade of them.

We went to the club and there was a house band playing there. There was all these guys with English accents and they were wearing cowboy clothes and boots. That seemed real funny to us because they were from England, not from the States. Every night, all we did was play shows but they had to play for the dancing and we used to laugh because they had this black drummer at the time. He was a showman. He really impressed me. He was in the Air Force and just passing through, fillin’ in. We lived at the same hotel as this band

They would say, “Come on over and listen to some records,” in their English accent. You know and we used to hang with them. There were two or three of us to a room because we weren’t making the big bucks, and these guys were all bunched up in one room. We would go and listen to records. Back then, they weren’t the Beatles yet.

So when they came to the States to be on the Ed Sullivan show we were watching these guys and somebody said, “Hey, they are the same guys that were in Hamburg, Germany. They changed their haircuts.” When we first saw them in Germany they were playing rock ‘n’ roll. Now they were doing this other music.

I said, “Wow, they made it. They made it.” From then on they were the Beatles and they were big, big, big, big. What a difference a day makes. What a difference.

*****

Billy Preston

One year we were in Liverpool and we usually packed the place out, but this time the crowd was a little slim. We asked what’s happening?

They said, “They have a local group that’s real big. And they’ve got a movie out A Hard Day’s Night.” We had a big show that same night and that sort of hurt our crowd. So I said this new outfit must be dy-no-mite!

In Ray’s band at the time, Billy Preston was sitting next to me on the front line. He played organ and I played the baritone sax, and he met The Beatles at the rock ‘n’ roll show over here in the States.

Years later we were over in England again and the guys were laughing at Billy, saying the Beatles are big and you are supposed to be such good friends with them and everything.

I said “Why don’t you call them?” You know how guys put you on. “Have another drink. Why don’t you call the Beatles, you’re supposed to know them so much.”

He said, “Okay I’ll call ‘em,” We thought we could get a good laugh.

He calls and the housekeeper answers and she said, “They’re not in at the moment and did you want to leave a message?” So he left a message. Two or three days later he heard from one of them.

They said, “This is so and so and we bought your record contract.” At the time Billy was signed up with Ray Charles. They said, “Oh yeah, we bought it and we want you to join the group.” After that, he was like the fifth Beatle.

This must have been in the ‘60s. I remember he was driving a little ‘67 Plymouth and he was getting five hundred a week. He was always complaining about money.

“I’m tired of these cheeseburgers and I got to have more money,” he told Ray. He got with the Beatles and the next time I saw him he had a white Rolls Royce.

One time we were playing in San Francisco at The Fairmont Hotel there up on Nob Hill. It was real ritzy. We were on stage and I said, “Ray, Billy Preston’s in the audience.”

Ray said, “Aw he’s too big to sing with us now.”

Somebody announced Billy. McCartney and the other guys brought him up to the bandstand and he stayed up on the bandstand with us the rest of the night. The Beatles were sitting right next to him in the audience and Billy stayed up there with us. He didn’t forget. He admired Ray. I’ve never seen anything like him.

Anything Ray would play on the piano Billy would play exactly what Ray was playing and I thought this boy is a genius!

He was a young man at the time. He was so young guys would tell him how to dress. He was eating cheeseburgers and milk shakes. And I didn’t get to see him after he got to be a big wheel. He used to come through here and I was determined to try to get out to see him but you know you can’t get to people when they get that big. It changes.

The Callback

2011-02-24T23:13:00.000-05:00

This story was written as a follow up to a previous Friday Flash called The Audition which can be viewed here.
© Susan Cross

The phone rang. Her mother answered and called to her, “It’s the agency, dear.” She couldn’t believe it—she had gotten a call back from her audition! After setting the appointment she went and packed her satchel to head out to the train station.

Before she knew it she was seated comfortably heading for the city. She followed the same rituals as last time, using the toilet, washing her face, pulling her hair back. She wore the same white blouse tucked into straight-legged jeans with her red belt pulled tight accentuating her waist. Truth be told, these were the only clothes she had that didn’t give away her small town origins.

Before she knew it she was walking toward the office and opening the door. There was only one other girl in the small waiting area. She took a seat and shyly struck up a conversation with the other woman. This woman was wearing a suit and looked much older than she was, maybe in her mid 30s.

“Hi. I’m Mary Jane. I’ve never been called back after an audition before,” she said to the stranger.

“Don’t be nervous Mary Jane. I’ve been here many times. I’ve even gotten a few jobs for my troubles. My name is Abigail. Perhaps you’ve seen some of my TV spots although you probably wouldn’t know it if you did.” Abigail laughed at that notion, and then continued. I like your red belt. Do you have lipstick to match?” she asked.

“Well, no. I don’t usually wear makeup. I just focus on my hands, keeping the nails trimmed and lacquered,” Mary Jane replied.

“Well, I think you might look good with some lipstick. You should try it some time. Red would be a good color, sort of like mine. It would make the color in your belt pop, as they say, and perhaps you would be considered for other ads if you got noticed.”

Mary Jane only wore lipstick on special occasions. A local square dance; a movie date with James and occasionally when she and her mother went to a mother-daughter luncheon at the local women’s club. She chose the softer, more delicate shades.

“Mary Jane Tomlinson?” the receptionist said, her voice lilting into a question mark. She had assumed that Abigail would go first since she had been waiting longer. This didn’t seem to disturb Abigail, though. Mary Jane rose and followed the receptionist into a hallway.

She was ushered into a small office and a man invited her to have a seat. There were no family pictures on his desk or walls. The décor consisted of posters for various ad campaigns.

“I’m Mr. Ballinger. I assume you’re Mary Jane?” he said as he reached out his hand and took hers gently. “You really stood out in the audition. Your hands are very special and the way you applied our product was just perfect. I would like to see that again if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Ballinger.” Mary Jane felt her heart beating a little faster. He had noticed her!

Mr. Ballinger had a bottle of the moisturizer on his desk and handed it to her offering her a seat. She sat down.

“I’d like you to put a small pea-size dab on the top of your left hand and rub it across your skin slowly and sensually. Look down at your hand as you’re doing it and make your facial expression match the feel of the lotion.”

Mary Jane did as she was told.

“Now turn your hand over and put a little bit larger dab onto the palm of your hand. Yes, just like that. Look down and rub the lotion liberally on the palms of your hands.”

Mary Jane’s eyes were closed as she felt the warmth of the lotion on her skin. As her eyes opened just a crack she saw that Mr. Ballinger had unzipped his pants. She saw his ‘thing’ standing up high as he moved towards her. She was afraid she was going to be sick.

“I want to feel the lotion now. Are your hands still moist? Place your left hand in my pants under my balls and hold them, not too tight.”

Mary Jane was horrified! What had she gotten herself into? She wanted to run out the door but she also wanted the job.

“Now with your right hand stroke my cock from the bottom to the top and back again. Yes, just like that. Keep moving your hands like that. It feels very good.”

Within a few minutes, she couldn’t maintain her calm disposition and she pulled her hands away. “I’m sorry Mr. Ballinger, but I just can’t do this. I thought you called me back because you liked my audition and I was going to get the job as a hand model. But I can’t do this.”

“Wait Mary Jane. I think you’ve done a wonderful job. If you’re able to come back next week, we can shoot the commercial and possibly some stills for print magazines as well. Would that be alright?”

“I-I guess so. You’re serious? About the job, I mean? You wouldn’t ask me to do this again?”

“No, no. Next week is the photo shoot. You can make the appointment with my receptionist on the way out. Really I was just testing the product and I believe it’s good. Thank you for coming in.”

Mary Jane moved quickly past him to the door and into the reception area. She glanced at Abigail and wondered if she had been asked to do the same thing in order to get her jobs. Maybe Abigail was his girlfriend and had held back that information. She made the appointment and as she turned to leave she asked Abigail what she thought about the hand lotion.

“Hand lotion? I’m here about the lipstick commercial, sweetie. Did you get the job?”

Ray Charles - Traveling in the South

2011-01-31T16:36:00.003-05:00

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

Traveling in the South

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

There was a Jewish boy in Ray’s band when we were going through all of this named Donald Peake. I didn’t know anything about his religious background. There were about two or three white boys in Ray’s band during these critical times. I took it upon myself to try to be a protector of Peake’s down south and in Florida. Guys were selling Muhammad Speaks, it was the Muslim newspaper, and when they would see him with us, they’d have a circle on him; they were getting ready to do something. I’d come in the circle and say, “Man, he’s with us,” and blah, blah, blah. He’d be terrified, you know, and who wouldn’t? Having all these crazy people around you.

Miami, Florida

When we used to work in Miami, we couldn’t even stay on the beach. We had to stay up in Hollywood and travel down to the job. Ray was the only one who could stay down there. But we had a good old time and accepted how things were. One of our girls, one of our Raelets had bought some snake boots over in Germany. She paid about 700 or 800 dollars for these fabulous snake boots that come up to her knees. She had on a fur stole and all that and we were off in Miami. She went in the bar next door to the motel where we were living and the cops took her for prostitution. Ray had to go get her out of jail. She was just sitting at the bar having a drink and she told ‘em she was with the band but they didn’t believe her.

Things are better now. The hip hoppers can wear those snake boots and they’re all over Miami. Can you imagine putting one of them in jail? They can buy the jail.

Birmingham, Alabama

Ray started going to towns like Yazoo, Mississippi and Birmingham, Alabama. That was frightening. Back in the day, we were in the bus station and I had to be in the black part of the bus station. I was shooting the pinball machine.

This big cop came over with a fat stomach, a regular cop, and he asked the guy, “What do that big one do?”

“Oh, he’s a saxophone player.”

He said, “Can he blow it? Is he good?” In other words, he just wanted to have some kind of confrontation with me. And I kept ignoring him.

It got so bad when we’d play a gig they’d say, “No drinking in this dressing room. And if we catch one of you drinking in the dressing room you’re all going to jail. Everybody was calling home on the public phone out there. “Don’t stay too long on that phone.” Picky, picky, picky, picky, picky. To me, Birmingham was the worst place in the world.

Nat King Cole was from Birmingham and I read that they had him going through the back door in the auditorium. Well with Ray, when our bus came in, they had us pull around to the back and we had to go in the back door.

When we went to Mobile, Alabama they wouldn’t even let us in the arena unless we got rid of everybody we had white in the band. So the road manager told him we don’t have any whites, we have near whites. So the cops accepted that. The girls put powder on [Don] Peake, brown powder and he was scared that night. They made all the white patrons leave and we had to play to the black audience. The white people stayed outside the arena so they could wave to us when we left.

Things changed. Joe Namath, when he got popular years later opened up a club in Birmingham. We played the circuit in the south with Joe Namath. We went to his club and they had us in the biggest hotel downtown. I forget the name of it, and they had a massage parlor on the mezzanine. The manager of the hotel was telling the band, “You had your back rubbed?”

I said, “Wait a minute; that’s not for us.”

“Oh yes, they’ve got some nice girls up there.”

“This is not Birmingham. Time’s have really changed,” I thought.

We played the Bachelor’s Club in Ft. Lauderdale and we were treated royally everywhere and I said it can’t be the same south; it can’t be the same place.

The Audition -- #FridayFlash

2011-01-23T00:50:00.002-05:00

© Susan Cross, January 22, 2011 May not be copied or reprinted in whole or part without permission from the author. It is posted here for inclusion in the #FridayFiction stories.

She hadn’t relaxed enough yet for her body to mold into the faux-leather seat on the train. Looking out the window her thoughts were chasing each other trying to catch up with her emotions. After she had settled her crimson satchel on the seat next to her she rested her hands delicately in her lap. Carefully manicured fingernails were not adorned with any of the latest trends. No two-toned polish or rhinestones. No false, squarely filed extensions painted to match her lipstick. Instead she wore clear lacquer applied to her own healthy nails. They were filed across, squared but gently curving at the edges. Her hands appeared to belong to someone else, as if they were transplanted onto her slim wrists.

She was relieved that nobody was sharing the car to notice her movements. Her goal was to slow down her thoughts and relax for the two hour ride. According to the schedule, the length of time going in each direction was the same but as is always the case, looking forward to a destination gave the illusion of time crawling with each turn of the wheel on the track. The element of the unknown added to her anxiety. The trip home would be quicker because she knew what awaited her when she arrived.

Outside the window the fields were flashing past. Grazing cows and horses were a blur. She wondered how the speed of a train compared to that of a car on a highway. Remove the traffic lights and stop signs and each could cover the same distance but the train seemed to beat the car, even with the occasional stops at stations.

The relaxation exercise was working. Her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes, picked up her satchel and headed toward the rest room. Inside the tiny room, she used the toilet and washed her hands. Then she opened the satchel which held just the necessities. In an instant, she pulled her long brown hair back and secured it into a pony tail. Next she removed a plastic bottle containing a skin cleansing product. In seconds she saw her bare face in the mirror. No makeup; no lipstick. It was a familiar routine. She wore a white blouse tucked into straight-legged jeans. A red belt pulled tight accentuated her waist.

She strolled back down the aisle, head erect. She returned to her seat, folded her legs under her and leaned her head against the window. She wondered if she would ever take this trip again. Once she detrained she took a cab rather than walk the 9 long blocks. She had saved up for this trip to the city.

At the studio, about 40 women stood in line waiting. She had filled out the forms on the website. A man walked back along the line asking each woman’s name and then giving her a sticky nametag with just a number printed on it that corresponded to the number on the form.

Some of the women dressed casually, others overly stylish. She preferred to show off her assets for this audition, thus accounting for her non-descript attire. Some women wore gloves. She had removed hers in the cab. The line moved quickly. She was next.

“Number 22,” the man said. She stepped forward and followed him down a hallway and through a door.

She approached the table on the stage. It was covered with a black cloth. Bright umbrella lights were angled toward the table. A woman told her to put her hands on the table facing the camera with fingertips touching. Then she was asked to turn them over showing her palms. In the bright light, her skin looked translucent. A man appeared with a bottle in his hand.

“Are you left handed or right handed?”

“Right handed,” she replied.

“Good,” said the director. He signaled for the cameras to start rolling.

“Using your right hand, slowly open the bottle and pour a small pea-sized dab of lotion into the palm of your left hand.” She did as she was told.

“Great. Now rub the lotion onto the top of your right hand, slowly,” he said. “Good. Now rub your hands together – be careful not to get any lotion onto your nails. We want the impression that the lotion is so soothing and nurturing that you are having a life changing, almost sexual experience.”

She rubbed her hands together as she had been told. Her face was reflecting the pleasure she would feel if the lotion were truly changing her life, even though the camera was focused on her hands and nobody was paying attention to her body language.

“Thank you. You can go.”

She left having no hint of how she had compared to the others. She would wait for days to find out if she had been selected. She walked outside, hailed a cab and returned to the train station.

Her parents had told her she was beautiful, but she knew better. Her facial features were not symmetrical. Her lips were not full and luscious and could not hide her imperfect teeth. The industry's view of beautiful did not sync with her parents' idealized perception. She had dreamed of being a model for years but she accepted the reality that her face would never appear on magazine covers. She was hoping her one great feature would be enough. She closed her eyes as the train rolled towards home picturing herself in a film studio.

Tomorrow she would get up and go to work at the supermarket. She had been the only employee at the store that had ever worn gloves to work every day. Co-workers thought she might suffer from scars or discoloration but they never asked. Protecting her hands from the unwashed fruit and juicy packages of meat was essential. Maybe one day, her long slender hands would help fulfill her dreams. She would become a famous hand model.

Avoiding Senseless Acts of Violence without Violating Free Speech

2011-01-19T02:03:00.002-05:00

I can't stop thinking about the reports showing videos of Jared Loughner before the shooting; hearing accounts of his erratic behavior; his incoherent speech. Neighbors noticed his unusual movements. His parents witnessed changes. Students and teachers at school were aware that he was not rational. He posted YouTube videos of words that made no sense to me and have been examined by psychologists, psychiatrists, terrorism officials (no doubt) and people more qualified by me, all of us coming to the same conclusion--the young man was disturbed or suffered from some form of mental illness or possibly drug abuse.

The words I keep hearing in the media are: This didn't have to happen. It could have been avoided. If only someone would have reported something to the 'authorities' (whoever they are). This brings me to my point.

Hypothetically, let's say that I meet a stranger in a public place--a jazz jam in the lounge of an upscale lounge in a 4 star hotel, for instance. During the break the fans are standing around socializing. Two people (hypothetically me and a man who sat in on a couple of songs) get talking and learn that they are both writers and both lovers of music. They exchange business cards. Conversation continues. I mention my blog.

"Can you make money on a blog?" he asks.

"No, not really," I answer.

"Then what's the point?"

"I like to write and some people like to read what I write. I don't really care if they read it or not but I write because I have to. A blog. A journal. I make a living writing articles for magazines so this is for pleasure."

"That's the problem with society today," he says. "Just like tonight. This is a jam. Nobody's getting paid. People don't value talented musicians anymore. They don't pay them. It's the same with writers."

My husband interrupts and reminds me that he has to get up in the morning so we must leave. We say goodnight to all of our friends (the musicians--who are unpaid and collect tips to donate to local charities) and depart the lively crowd.

The next day I receive a 'friend request' on Facebook from the writer/musician. (This is all hypothetical, remember.) I read his profile and Confirm him as a friend. The following night I am online, as usual, and my chat box pops up. I sort of recognize the name but can't place it. "Hey Susan." To try to get some context I say, "Hi. Where are you?" He names the town and then I put it together. The conversation--excuse me, chat--starts out comfortably enough talking about music. My answers are short. This man is a stranger and I'm not willing to show too much of myself. His conversations wander until he discloses that he's depressed.. "What's up?" I type. He continues to tell me that he suffers from depression and has battled with it for a long time. "Oh," I type. Then the icon shows me that he's typing so I wait. His next message is about sometimes being immobilized or angry. I don't respond. He types some more. "I used to go to a therapist and I'm thinking about going back."

I see the words on my screen in the chat box. I am not a therapist. I ask if the therapist helped and he says yes. I type, "Then go back." He types some more about the death of a friend and then about a broken relationship. I respond, "Make an appointment." Shortly after, I say goodnight since it's gotten pretty late. He thanks me for the chat.

The next night, hypothetically, I am working (writing) with my laptop on its bed tray gently resting over my knees. I hear a little ping and the chat box on Facebook has popped up. "Hi" he says. I switch from my work and type, "Hi." I am expecting a further discussion of his blues and, having been there myself decide to take a few minutes to chat.

To my surprise, the chat turns into a rant. "People don't respect good writers. They don't even recognize good writing. Most readers think that John Grisham is the greatest writer of our time," he types. Gently, I type, "That's true." Short answers. (All hypothetical, remember?) He goes on to tear down the current culture's lack of respect for literature, philosophy, foreign authors as well as great music. I tried to diffuse his anger unsuccessfully so I said goodnight.

Next night, chat box pops up. "I have to apologize for my tirade last night. I was rude and belligerent and I'm sorry." I simply type, "No problem. Gotta go. Working on something." I know he hates it when I use slang because he has mentioned that and made it a point to correct his own typos immediately in the next entry during previous chats. (Aside: I'm so old-fashioned that when I say 'chat' I think of British Chat Shows--the equivalent of American talk shows.)

The following night I am on Facebook to pass along an announcement of a blues jam taking place at a local cigar bar outside in the back parking lot next to the dumpster. Now, granted, that may sound strange but it was targeted at locals who all know and love the venue. It's intimate, non-smokers can move away from smokers, there are woods behind the parking lot with chirping frogs. A colorful cross-section of people attend these events and a barbecue vendor sets up. Beer, wine and soft drinks are available plus chairs.

This person posts a comment about how this just illustrates how little club owners respect musicians, making them play in back parking lots next to dumpsters, having jams rather than hiring paid bands. He doesn't live in the area and therefore isn't familiar with the ambiance. I follow up his comment explaining this. He responds with a hostile remark about to the effect "oh, so blues isn't music?" Then another, “And do the musicians get all they can eat out of the dumpster???”

I live in a small town and there isn't much live music without driving into Orlando. I am grateful for this monthly blues jam 5 minutes from home. I know the people and the musicians. The owner of the cigar bar is struggling to keep his business alive and makes no money from having the band--he just loves the blues. We support him. I post these sentiments only to be barraged with more negativity so I switch to a new thread about people who create. In that thread I refer to people who write because they love writing whether or not they are compensated or if anyone reads their writing, much as a musician loves to play and plays alone at home just for enjoyment and fulfillment.

That's when things really get nasty. The comments (hypothetically, of course) become more and more hostile to the extent of toxicity. I type a 'comment' asking this person to stop posting on the thread because his poison comments offend me and my friends. His final comment is: "People who create without being paid must be putting out a lot of SUPERFICIAL CRAP!"

I start deleting his previous comments while other Facebook friends (writers) 'comment' on his negativity, defending our craft and need to create. While they type, my fingers are flying across the keyboard finding out how to 'unfriend' him. I am not a Facebook expert but successfully get to the right screen and click the button. He can no longer post 'comments' on my 'wall.'

Now, if something like this happened to you, would you consider this behavior erratic? Aggressive? Hostile? Dangerous? Threatening? If so, what would you do?

Keep in mind that this is not a commentary on Facebook. After all I had (allegedly, hypothetically) given him my business card so something like this could happen via email or even telephone. The depression and desperation might have taken place in Facebook chats, along with expression of aggression and incoherent ranting clearly not intended to be directed at me, and yet I was the recipient.

Would you report this behavior as suspicious? If so, to whom? If a person like this were to perpetrate an act of violence on a club owner for disrespecting musicians or book store customers buying John Grisham books would you say, “I knew there was something strange about him?” Would people in retrospect say, “This could have been avoided if only someone had reported this disturbed person communicating his hostility towards strangers?”

Where does one draw the line? I wonder if the 'authorities' have been deluged with phone calls from people who have had experiences like the hypothetical one described here and chalked it up to fear originating from the shooting in Arizona. And what would those authorities do? No crime has been committed. No direct threats made. Would this be considered doing one's civic duty or over-reacting to a person with 'a lot on his mind?'

And therein lie the questions. Are these warning signs? How can a person tell? Neither parents nor 'the authorities' commit an adult to a mental health facility unless he/she has exhibited a reasonable indication that he/she is in imminent danger of hurting himself/herself or another person. Nor can they arrest him/her for hostility on Facebook. Realistically, can these senseless acts of violence be prevented?

Leroy Cooper...Drafted during Korean War

2011-01-13T23:09:00.004-05:00

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

…Uncle Sam sent me a letter and I got drafted.

I went in the Army. They handed me a machine gun and said, “I’m going to send you down to the heathens. I’m going to send you down to F company where they don’t even give you commands, they give you whistles.” I said to myself, ‘Oh my goodness. I’ve got to audition for this band!’

They would have an all white outfit with a black leader. I went up to an all black band to audition and I tried to get out of playing the baritone. They said “What do you play?” I said ‘Alto.’ They said, “We only need a baritone.” I said, ‘Oh, oh, oh, I play the baritone.’ He said, “Okay, can you read?” I said ‘Yeah’ I saw music they had and it was something I had played every night so for my audition I took this song and said to this guy, ‘Kick it out for me.’ And he said, “Kick it out yourself.” And I kicked it off because I knew the song without the music and I played it and they were shocked.

He said “Okay, just mess around with the horn. I got to go to the office for minute.” I hadn’t played a horn in awhile because I’d been in training so I started messing around with the horn, blowing, and it felt good to me. I was just blowing away and the 55 piece band was sitting on the stage and they applauded. They said “Who was that?”

In Ernie Field’s band when I thought I was just keeping up I was a big deal to these guys. They knew who I was. I was only 21. They said, “We’re gonna get you in the band.”

Meanwhile I went down to my outfit, this machine gun company, and I was getting ready to go to Korea to fight. If you ever witnessed this, it was like a jail sentence. They said, “The following EM have been alerted for FECOM.” That was Greek to me. I said, ‘EM?’ They said, “Yeah, FECOM. Far East Command.” I said, ‘What does that mean, man?’ They said, “You’re going to Korea to fight.” I said ‘Oh Lord.’ They said, “Send all of your civilian clothes home. You won’t need them.” They gave you $10,000 insurance and they asked, “How do want your people to get the money? Ten thousand at once, or break it down?” I said, ‘Wait a minute. You can tell me nicer than that, man.’ I mean, they were sending us off to die. They said, “How do you want your people to be paid?” I said, “Just give it all to them at once, if something happens.” I went to mail my clothes home.

That’s not a good feeling. I was going to Korea, and in the machine gun company. They said, “The biggest man in the squad formation, the biggest man carries the ammo, the ammo bearer. One man carries the ammo, one carries the tripod.” I said, ‘I’m an ammo bearer, man. What do I fight with?’ They said, “You don’t need nothing. You just gonna carry the ammo. They knock you out first anyway.” Oh man, that’s not a good feeling.

Anyway, two days before I was shipping out, I’m in the barracks. Some guys were crying. It was sad, a depressing time. The CO who was the captain said, “Private Cooper?” I said to myself, ‘What have I done this time?’ So I said, ‘Sir, are you looking for me? Cooper?’

“Who is this damn band?” he asked. I said, ‘What do you mean?’ He said, “Who are you?” I said ‘I’m Private Cooper.’ He said, “This band sent a direct order and drafted you away from us. You’re going to that band.” In other words, going to that band is more important than going to Korea to fight? And I said, ‘Pardon the expression, sir, but don’t bullshit me.’ He said, “No. They’re sending a jeep for you as we speak.” Then a jeep pulled up and said, “Are you Private Cooper? We’re looking for Private Cooper. Get your gear; you’re outta here.”

I threw my stuff in the jeep. My buddies waving and I would never see them again. We went up to where the band lived, and we slept on mattresses. And they had two sheets and they were complaining that the sheets weren’t ironed.

On the same post, Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, they had 20 or 40 square miles; four or five bands. It was a city out there. I got up to the band, and, oh boy, at the PX I saw women walking down the streets; I’d been in the jungle down there.

I used to work hard up there and then not in much time, about ten months, I was a Sergeant. I felt so impressive in the band and when the man gave me those stripes, I didn’t want it. I wanted to hang with those fellows. He said, “No, I’m giving you a direct order, I’m making you a Sergeant.”

They gave me an 18 piece band to be in charge of. I was booking one of my jobs. One of my duties was to book Friday night parties for the different outfits on the post. Where did they send me? To the 91st battalion where I came from! This time I had Sergeant stripes, got my own driver and Jeep and I go back down that hill and there was the same Sergeant that kicked me out and told me I would never be nothing, I walked in and said ‘Request command to see me.’

“Oh yes sir, go back in.” I went into the office. “Close the door, son.” He pulled his liquor out and said, “You drink son, don’t you?” We drank and we had this party and all these girls came from St. Louis and talked about the band and after we finished business we talked about anything; telling jokes and everything. Then he said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

In the Army days they called me Boogie Red. I don’t know what that was about but that was my nickname. I said ‘You remember Boogie Red?’ He said, “You used to be down here?” ‘I told you all the time I was a musician,’ I said.

I keep thinking about those Army experiences and I think the angels are watching out for me.

Leroy Cooper, Ernie Fields, Charlie Barnet and Uncle Sam

2011-01-02T22:47:00.004-05:00

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

After I left school, I went to Waco, Texas with the little band. While we were there we met a big band leader that had a territorial band. There was a guy named Ernie Fields from Tulsa, Oklahoma that had a big band and part of his band had quit him. I’ll tell you who he had in his band: J.J. Johnson, the trombone player that wrote for the movies; Miles Davis was in that band; Gene Ammons; and Yusef Lateef. All of these guys went on to be big names but back then they were young so they left his band.

Someone from Ernie Fields band called down to where we were staying in Waco. They heard there were some musicians staying there, and they wanted this trumpet player to come join them. We were all high and everything, drinking our wine.

I said, ‘Tell ‘em you got the greatest saxophone player in the world sitting here.’ The guy put him on the phone and he said, “You want a job?” And I said, ‘Yeah.’

I was all cocky; I was tough and I was big and he said, “Okay, I’ll send you a train ticket to come to Oklahoma.” There was four of us, they sent us train tickets. All the people in Waco said we were going to be nothing and we said, ‘We’re going to join Ernie Field’s band in Tulsa, Oklahoma.’

So we caught the train, and I got to the band, and they were more professional than I was accustomed to. These guys were warming up and I heard the sounds coming out of their instruments, and I was afraid to toot my little horn. So I was just sitting there. The bandleader could see I was terrified because I was just a teenager so he said, “I’ll tell you what. Just play anything you want to play and tell the piano player what key you want to play it in. The guys didn’t even want to speak to me—that’s how musicians are. So I played Lady Be Good. And they got all friendly and introduced themselves. I thought, Wow I made an impression.

They wanted me to take Yusef Lateef’s place. He was a famous tenor saxophone player. I didn’t play tenor, I played alto. So that night in bed I thought, the baritone is the same pitch as the alto, it’s an E-flat instrument. They had an opening for a baritone player and the baritone player didn’t have to play solos because it was a bit awkward. So I told the band leader at rehearsal to let me try the baritone. He said okay. I didn’t have a baritone so one of the guys lent me one. So I got on the baritone and I wasn’t used to playing those notes and going through all those changes, and finally I told the bandleader, ‘Look, you can just give me bus fare back to Dallas and I’ll try again.’ I was giving up.

Back in those days, the band leader was like the father. He called everybody Hoss.

“I see something in you, Hoss.” he said, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you give Hal McIntyre or Mooney who played with Duke Ellington’s band, (he was playing lead alto) you give him a dollar or two when you can afford it, and get him to teach you our book. So I got a room down the hall from Geezil Minerve, who went on to play with Duke Ellington, and I would worry him every day to teach me something. I was practicing every day. He was strict and he was from Orlando, Florida. He was a West Indian guy. And he would kick things up. I would say, ‘Slow it down,’ and he would say, “HuH Hut hut”, so being under him I improved. I got this new instrument that was a baritone and I got to where I could play. Sometimes he would get his flute and I could keep up with him on the flute, and in fact I was getting pretty good and they told me anytime a band comes through, worry the baritone player to death about the ins and outs about the instrument.

Basie’s band was forming in Oklahoma City and I was living in Tulsa. So when they came to Tulsa I would worry the baritone player to death. His name was [Jack] Washington. I would ask him, ‘Why do you do this, and why do you do that?’ He would say “Leave me alone.” But still we messed around.

Ernie Fields gave us our first trip to New York. The band went to do the show at the Apollo Theatre. Charlie Barnet’s band was playing there. Charlie Barnet’s band had all these big studio musicians. I remember the drummer had all these drums up on the stage. I had never seen that many drums and our little drummer had some little $1.98 drums. He was my buddy so he said, help me put my drums up on the stage. He was ashamed to take his drums up.

That night, Charlie Barnet had a birthday party and said everybody’s invited. So I went up there and I was drinking up the booze. And I was shaking hands and they didn’t know we were little country bumpkins from Oklahoma that didn’t know nothing. I went out on the stage and sang that first night. Our little drummer got a job with Dizzy Gillespie so when they took the program out I said ‘We don’t have nobody to sing.’ Lemon Drop was the song. So I said ‘I’ll sing it.’ I was 19 and I would do anything. This was at the Apollo Theatre where they would throw bricks at you; I went out there and sang my little song, baboom boom boom and blew with them so long that I got ahead.

The bandleader was teaching me stage decorum. I went out there and I turned around and he said “back up, back up.” I was learning how to entertain. The band paid me more money than I ever had in my life. He called me into where everybody got paid, this was in the late ‘40s, and I never had seen $100, and this man counted me out 100 bucks and he kept going. I thought ‘He’s counting out the money for the band.’ And then he got to $125 and he said, “Okay. Spend it wisely.”

I said ‘I get all this money? And you get paid like this every week?’ He said, “Yeah, boy.” And I said, ‘Wheee! I got money in my pocket!’ I spent it wisely. It was January and I was wearing my little Texas raincoat. I said I need a coat, so one of the little guys hanging around said “I’ll show you where you can get a coat cheap, and uh maybe I can get one if you get it cheap enough.” I thought he’s pulling my leg because everybody in New York needed a coat in January. He took me to a dry cleaner and all the unclaimed stuff was on the rack. He said, “Pick you out a coat.” Oh man, I got this nice, warm overcoat and the guy said “Give me 20 bucks.” ‘20 bucks?’ I said. The other guy I was with said “Fifteen.” I paid $15 and had a nice warm coat and the other guy got him a coat for about five. So I spent 20 bucks and both of us had coats.

He said “Now you need some snow boots.” For my little $125 I had a new suit and everything for the first time in my life. I wanted to go to a barber shop and get the works—shoe shine, nails—like I had seen it in the movies, so they fixed me up. I thought, ‘Oh, I could get used to this.’

They did a record while we were over in Jersey and a Broadway producer saw me. I didn’t know the baritone was popular like that and he said, “I think I can use you in a Broadway show.” I’m with this band over here and he was paying over 2, and I was traveling. Too much was happening too fast, but in the midst of all this Uncle Sam sent me a letter and I was drafted.

The French Cognac Kiss

2010-12-26T23:10:00.001-05:00

The weather outside is frightful here in Orlando. The gusting wind chill has us down in the 40s or 30s. Tonight we get the light freeze. Tomorrow night, the hard freeze. The fronds on my Addy tree are dying and I'm crying all over again.

Good news? I didn't spend $1000 or more to fly to Orlando from the freezing north before the blizzard hit, pay for a hotel room at Disney, buy the package to get in all the parks and meet the characters in the hopes of getting out of the cold! Maybe to people from your neck of the woods this is warm but for us, losing palm fronds is not a good sign. Disney elves replace their plants EVERY SINGLE NIGHT while Cinderella is asleep in her castle. Not me. I'll wait until spring.

This is the one time of year that Mickey and Goofy aren't sweating out in the sun, if you know what I mean. I don't want to spoil any secrets here for the young 'uns. I'll check the cupboard and see if my Christmas guests left me any cognac. I tried to hide it behind the wine and other bottles yesterday. I kept pushing the vodka with OJ, cranberry or whatever. At the end of the long day, the Stoli bottle was empty and the Smirnoff still unopened so I thought maybe my Cognac was safe.

I crept into the kitchen and took the small snifter from behind the wine glasses where it hides discreetly, I pulled the Courvoisier out from its dark corner and alas, there was barely a quarter inch of the golden brown liquid clinging to the concave rounded bottom of the corked glass bottle. Would it be enough? I feared it would not so I put the snifter back into its hiding place and instead went to the next shelf.

Reaching my short, stubby fingers up high, I stood on my tippy toes and grabbed two small, stemmed liqueur glasses and brought them down to my line of sight. Yes, yes, I would share the last of the nectar with my beloved. I uncorked the bottle and poured. Halfway to the top of the little glass, just slightly longer than my middle finger, I stopped and moved the lip to the second glass. As I watched the darkness dribble into the clear glazed flute I hoped that it would match the amount in its twin. Drip, drip, drip...I turned the bottle 180 degrees so that the opening was facing directly towards the target and one last little drop plopped in. And that was all.

Putting the pair together I saw that one had the equivalent of an extra few sips and I remembered that this is the holiday season. So I put both in the microwave for 5 seconds and with miniature drinks in hand, went in and handed the fuller one to my hubby. We clinked and we drinked--okay so I'm pushing it there--and it tasted good. One sip at a time the warmth trickled down my throat into my tummy and when the glass was empty, once again, I felt like I was back in sunny Florida. My husband smiled as he licked his lips, put his tongue in the glass to get the last taste, and then in my mouth as we kissed to share the French kiss of Cognac.

Time to turn out the lights.

**A special thank you to my good friend Absolutely*Kate Pilarcik for giving me a holiday boost. You can read more about A*K here.

Red Corvair

2010-12-01T22:03:00.010-05:00

What's the point? I figured out that the only revolution I had to fight was my own. I decided that sex, drugs and rock n roll were the way for ME to go. I realized I wasn't going to change the world, I could only change myself. And I did. I got the hell out of Dodge and moved to Florida where the sun shone every day and people were nice to me and we were all broke so I didn't stand out in the crowd. We all shared our drugs and our bodies and our food. Nobody went hungry even if all we had to eat was spaghetti. We did have some University of Miami kids in our apartment complex and they were the rich kids, but they used their money to buy ribs, burgers and anything we could make on the grill on weekends. They fed all of us.

And then when we were all stoned one little moment changed everything. Hank was on his way home from waiting tables at 2 AM and decided to take the shortcut through the ghetto. The bars had just closed so all the drunks were out in the streets. He was tired. It was late. He was going slowly but wanted to get home. A woman stepped out in front of the car and he hit her--the crowd started running to his car and he freaked and stepped on the gas and came home.

When he got to our building he saw my light was still on so he came to my door and we visited for awhile. We talked for about an hour about work and school. Then he said he was really tired so he went to his apartment and I went to bed.

My bedroom was on the corner of the building next to an alley where people sometimes parked their cars. I awoke to the sound of sirens and walkie-talkies and when I looked outside I saw the cops surrounding his red Corvair. I watched them cuff him and put him in the black and white and drive away. I started banging on doors and waking people up. Nobody knew anything. One of the rich college kids was the son of a lawyer. He called his dad. His dad called the court and found out what had happened. He wired money down to get Hank out of jail while the accident was investigated.

The woman was dead. She was black. It was 1969. It was the south.

It was a long drawn out process and Allen's father paid for everything--an attorney, fines, whatever. When it was all over, Hank got a ticket for careless driving.

It changed all of our lives. We were mostly northerners and killing a person (black or white) was a horrible thing, even if it was an accident. Down south there were no charges because she was black. Hank changed. I changed. We recognized that there was no justice. He was so sorry. I thought he was going to kill himself. He was just barely managing to pay for school with that job and he could never go back to the restaurant. He dropped out of school, bought an old pickup truck and hit the road. I was devastated. He was a good kid. His life was ruined. He would rather have gone to jail. He killed a woman and they just gave him a ticket.

We took more drugs. But, one thing we learned was that if one of us was in a bind, the rich kids would come through for us. That was always kind of amazing. Allen and Hank weren't roommates. They weren't best friends. We just all lived in this 40 unit apartment building with a pool in the middle. It looked like a converted motel. It was very communal and we all did the dishes and listened to the Who. Everybody helped everybody else. It was a whole new life. I was so used to being shunned, flat-chested, not pretty enough, and having my mother telling me that I ruined her life, and my family hated me because I was a hippie.

I guess I was on Hank’s side. It was an accident but that woman’s life was worth more than the cost of a traffic ticket. I wonder what happened to him after he left town. A little piece of me left with him in that pickup truck.

E-readers give first time authors a better shot at success

2010-12-01T15:05:00.000-05:00

As I watch some of my #fridayflash friends finish and e-publish novels I wonder if the public is ready to select a book by a previously unknown, unpublished author to read on the Kindle, Nook, iPad, or other device. My instincts told me that if you were not a marketeer, a novel would not do well unless without name recognition of the author. I have been doing my own unscientific survey to get some feedback.

While on a connecting flight from Charlotte to Houston last month, a passenger across the aisle was engaged in work related matters on his iPad. When I glanced over again, I saw that he had closed the application and appeared to be reading a book. I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me for bothering you. I am just curious to know how you like using an e-reader?" I asked.

He was quick to clarify that his was actually an iPad (ahem! Excuse me!) but that he is in fact reading a book on it and enjoys doing so.

"One of the major benefits for me is that I can adjust the font size and don't have to wear my reading glasses. And, I can download so many books that when I travel I am never without something to read." he said. "I can't imagine going back to reading hard copy books after this."

Okay. That was one man's opinion. A businessman or so I assumed.

Today I was lunching with a client for whom I'll be writing some marketing material to be followed up by an article in a national magazine. She asked me if there were other magazines (besides the one that has accepted my pitch) to whom we could possibly pitch her subject matter. I explained how the publishing industry has changed in the past year or so and that magazines were slowly going out of business as people were turning more and more to their computers for reading material.

"I can't imagine a world without magazines," she said. "I just have to be able to hold one in my hands while I look at the pictures and read the articles." (That's lucky for me since I write magazine articles for a living.)

"So you don't think you would ever own an e-reader?" I asked.

"Oh, I didn't say that," she replied. "I got a Kindle for Mother's Day and I'll never go back to buying books again. I love my Kindle. It's so much more convenient to carry and it holds so many books I don't have to worry about finishing one and being stuck until I can get my hands on another."

Hmm. Must have paper magazines but will never buy books again. Interesting.

"How do you select the books to download? By subject matter? By author? I mean, what makes you choose which books to buy?"

"Sometimes I get recommendations from a friend who belongs to a book club. They read only first time authors. I've found some of the best books ever that way. Also, I can read up to 3 chapters and decide if this is a book I would like or not. In a bookstore, I'll read the jacket but I won't stand there and read a chapter."

I told this woman that some of my friends were e-publishing their books and pricing them under $5 since they have not been published previously. She said, "They are underselling themselves! If their book is good, they should price it accordingly. Obviously people wouldn't pay the same as they would for a best-selling author, but I personally would not choose a book based on the fact that it was under $5."

These are not the only two people I surveyed. I am surprised at how many baby boomers are using e-readers. It is obviously not a generational thing as I thought it might be. The capability to enlarge the font might entice older readers even more than younger ones.

"The one down side," she said, "is that I can't share my books with anyone." I used to lend them to friends or donate them.

Chalk one up for the writers! Think of how many books get passed around to multiple readers after being bought only once. Now everyone will have to buy the book if they want to read it. The question is, will fewer people buy it if they have to actually pay for it?

Answers are yet to be seen. All I know is that one year ago when I announced I was self-publishing my first book, I was told that it would be the death knell of my writing career. No agent or reputable publisher would ever consider my work if I self-published. Now, self-published books have become accepted the same way "indie" CDs are and we're moving past that into a whole new phase.

I'm glad I'm not in the printing business. Two of the magazines I used to write for can no longer afford to pay writers and have gone to on-line e-zines. While the tree-huggers were climbing redwoods to protect our resources, the techies were finding their own methods of doing the same thing. The difference is, the techies made money and the tree huggers, well, they didn't even get hugged back!

Early? Late? Learned? Hereditary?

2010-11-22T20:20:00.002-05:00

The bedside clock reads 3:21 AM although the TV display says it’s 3:26. My alarm clock is always five minutes early. I am neurotic about being late. I want—need to be early. The clock in the car is set that way, too. Most of the time I arrive first wherever I go: a business meeting, lunch with a friend or an appointment with a client. My excuse for doing this could be explained—or at least rationalized. I am prepared for traffic, bad weather, accidents slowing down the roads.

Other people arrive a little bit late, occasionally. Nobody questions them or balks at the possibility of a five car pile-up on the Interstate. These things happen. “My alarm didn’t go off,” someone says entering the conference room just as everyone else is being seated. “There must have been a power outage during the night and my clock was flashing when I woke up.” That is perfectly acceptable. But not for me. I usually awake before the alarm to allow myself ample time for my morning rituals.

A few of my friends are chronically late. In the back of my mind, I keep track of which ones they are so I can remember to bring a book if I’m going to meet them. “Were you waiting long?” one might ask. A few minutes isn’t long but I meet one friend for lunch and she is never less than 15 minutes late. If I didn’t suffer from Allegro-phobia, I would adjust my schedule and not arrive 5 minutes before our scheduled time. No matter what, I can’t seem to do that. Even when the restaurant is only a few blocks away.

One would think that a person develops these idiosyncrasies during childhood, that it was learned behavior. My mother was always harping on us, “Hurry up, you’re going to be late.” Those words would resonate in my mind as I hurriedly dressed. And yet, my sister grew up in the same household with the same mother and she made no apologies for being a few minutes late. It was rarely more than a few minutes but still, how could that not bother her, I wondered. Often, she was exactly on time. For years I theorized that she was surreptitiously arriving early and then waiting in her car until the precise moment came to ring the doorbell. A few times I even waited by the window to see if that was the case. It was not. Maybe she was rebelling and I was conforming.

That wasn’t plausible. I rejected other habits growing up, ones that my sister adhered to. For example: I dress for comfort and ease. My mother always coordinated her outfits perfectly, matching her shoes, handbag and jewelry to go with her polyester pantsuit of the day. My sister doesn’t wear polyester pantsuits but she coordinates her clothing so that she is dressed differently but perfectly coordinated every day of the year, or so it seems. I’ve never seen her in the same clothes twice and she doesn’t believe in mix and match. Her second bedroom is filled with clothes. Not just her closet, either. The dresser drawers are full of pocketbooks, costume jewelry, scarves, belts and accessories. I own four pairs of jeans, one nice pair of black slacks, t-shirts from every concert I’ve been to in the last five years, four nice blouses for interviewing subjects of articles and a little black dress for the annual company Christmas party that my husband and I are obligated to attend. Who cares if it’s the same one each year? The ‘LBD’ never goes out of style and as long as it still fits I’m satisfied. Did I fail to mention the two mini-skirts I still wear?

I have not overcome my shoe fetish though. Since the foot surgery, wearing high heels was verboten. Doctor’s orders. I tried but could not totally accept those restrictions. I own a few pairs of flats and sneakers, but recently I found myself unable to resist a pair of exceptionally well hand-crafted, open-toed stilettos made partly from alligator skin accented with smooth black leather. The scalloped edges around the top of my foot were not lost on me when I first spied them in the store. The heels are almost five inches high plus the front sole has a ½” platform that is invisible unless someone takes them off and savors the deliciousness of the craftsmanship as I do. During a lifetime of a limited interest in clothes, I never denied myself a pair of shoes. The black ones were barely wearable and walking in them was an act of bravery that took practice before leaving the house.

Since buying them, I have been drawn back to that same shoe department where I indulged in a pair of patent leather heels, lipstick red with barely visible black streaks underlying the lacquer finish. They are my ruby slippers. I never want to be without a pair in case a tornado sweeps me up and I need a to click my heels in order to find my way home from the Land of Oz.

It is all a matter of priorities, I decided. Early or late or just on time? Carefully put-together outfits or t-shirts and mini-skirts with high heels? We may have inhabited the same womb at different times but my sister and I were too different animals who have little else in common.

Leroy Cooper leaves Ray Charles - the 1st time

2010-11-08T00:02:00.004-05:00

During one of our interview sessions, Leroy told me a story about why he left the small Ray Charles band the first time. Leroy remembered clearly how his feelings were hurt. Just as clearly, he remember his friend, Marcus Belgrave, coming to his rescue. Leroy and Marcus had known each other before they were in Ray's band together, but that's another story. This story speaks for itself and the fact that he remembers the kindness of his friend over 50 years later gives some insight into Leroy's humility and love for his friends.

*****

Ray’s band was in Chicago and I went to Dallas on a break. Our next gig was in Chicago at the Regal Theater. I had to pay everything I had in my pocket for cab fare from the bus station to the south side. I didn’t realize that Chicago was that big. It left me with about two or three bucks in my pocket. I went to see the road manager.

Let me have a loan ‘til payday, I said to Jeff Brown, Ray’s first road manager. Payday was the next day. I had just spent every penny I had on a bus from Dallas to Chicago to rejoin the band.

“I’m sorry, Cooper, I don’t have any money,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it! I said to myself, what am I going to do? A country boy in the big city. I went to Woolworth’s and bought me a jack size bag of popcorn; I ate popcorn and I drank ice water to survive.

We were down in the band room in the theater after I’d asked for a loan and he said he didn’t have anything, he came downstairs and told the straw boss in the band, “I don’t like the neckties the guys in the band are wearing.”

There was a little shopping center up there and he said, “Go buy some kind of neckties that I like.” I was looking in another direction and he put his hand in his pocket and came out with a Philadelphia roll. That really made me feel bad. I said, Wow, he didn’t have any money and he brought out a roll like that.

“What kind of ties should I get?” He said, “I don’t care.”

Marcus Belgrave

The trumpet player, Marcus Belgrave [right] saw me and he said, “You don’t have no money do you?” I said no. So he straightened me out until payday. But I said to myself once I get back to Dallas, I won’t worry about leaving home anymore. That was the first time I was out of the band for a year and it was because of Jeff Brown. He used to not treat me too nice when I was first in the band. I was sensitive.

Here was this man, the road manager, having money in his pocket and not letting me have enough to survive. That’s when I said, when I get back to Texas I’ll be staying there, (I didn’t tell them that) and that’s what I did.

Ray was living in Dallas back then. When they got me back to Dallas, I was home. When they got ready to go back out I said I’m not going, man. They traveled by car in those days. I lived out by the airport in Dallas. Ray came out to my house.

“What’s wrong? How come you’re not going?” he asked me after we had returned to Dallas from Chicago. I had decided I would never tell him that I was upset about what happened in Chicago.

Interview with David 'Fathead' Newman

2010-11-01T15:09:00.002-04:00

During the many afternoons I spent with Leroy Hog Cooper he talked about so many of his friends. Some of these people were relatively new friends, people he knew during his 20 year stint at Disney World playing in the Dixieland band, the jazz band and at private functions held in the park and hotels on property. Others were people he met after he retired and became more involved in the local jazz, blues and society bands that filled up his calendar and kept his lips on the mouthpiece of his various horns.

However, in the beginning of our time together, Leroy spoke mostly about his old friends. The ones he knew growing up. The ones that he played with in the school band. And the ones he played with in clubs. Probably the most important one of these was a fellow who was a couple of years younger than Leroy that he knew in school. They both played saxophone. And eventually, this friend would be the one that changed Leroy's life forever. His name was David Newman, also known as Fathead.

Here is the transcript of a telephone interview I did with David on April 23, 2007. Unfortunately, at that time I didn't have enough information to ask more relevant questions and my interview was mostly targeted at his relationship with Leroy. David was soft-spoken, warm, friendly and expressed his love for Leroy, just as Leroy had expressed his love for David.

Susan Cross: How long were you with Ray Charles?

David Newman: From September 1954 to 1964; 10 years. Then I went back in 1970 to 1971, so altogether 11 years.

Susan Cross: What was your relationship with Leroy?

David Newman: We were very good friends and colleagues. We go back a long way. Growing up in Dallas, I was a few years behind Leroy in school, being younger than he was. We got to know each other when we both had the same band director at Lincoln High school, Mr. Miller.

Susan Cross: Was that Uncle Dud?

David Newman: Yes. That was his nickname. I lost touch with Leroy when he went to college and then into the Army. When he got out and came back to Dallas, we got back together.

Leroy joined the Ernie Fields big band and was playing the baritone sax by then. He had started on the alto, but he was such a big man he was blowing the buttons off of it, not literally, but figuratively. The baritone was very fitting for him being the big guy that he was.

Susan Cross: How did Leroy join Ray’s band?

David Newman: Ray’s band needed a baritone sax and knowing Leroy, I recommended bringing him into the band. Later on, I also got James Clay to join.

When Leroy joined, it was a small band. It became a big band in 1960.

The movie, Ray, was inaccurate and so unfortunate.

Susan Cross: When did you start playing the sax?

David Newman: When I was about 8 or 9.

Susan Cross: Was it your first instrument?

David Newman: No. My mother had me taking piano lessons for about 2 years and the other kids were calling me a sissy. So I told my mother that I wanted to play a more masculine instrument. She asked me, like what? I said, I don’t know. A horn, maybe, a saxophone. So I started taking lessons on the alto sax which was the second smallest, soprano being the smallest. Mr. Miller gave me lessons.

In our youth, there was a place called the American Woodlands Hall. All the musicians would go there and jam and get to know each other. That went on for years.

Leroy’s dad was a fine musician. I never heard him play, but Buster Smith was my (and Leroy’s) main influence growing up, and he knew Leroy’s dad and said he was a fine musician.

Susan Cross: Who are your favorite sax players today?

David Newman: James Moody, Jimmy Heath, Benny Golson, Eric Alexander, Javon Jackson.

At the end of the conversation, David told me to feel free to call any time if I had more questions. Unfortunately I did not make a second call. David died less than 2 weeks after Leroy in January 2009. Their music lives on. You can learn more about David 'Fathead' Newman click here.

Milan Kundera - The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

2010-10-25T21:30:00.001-04:00

Books will someday disappear and become a memory for old people and a concept that young people will never understand. Imagine showing a 9 year old child Pong, one of the very first video games that challenged and entertained so many of us as adults. They would look at us as if we were mentally challenged and unable to negotiate the intricacies of modern gaming where athletes look like they are in your living room swinging a bat or dunking a basketball.

In the meanwhile, I am happy to be young enough and old enough to enjoy the choice between hard and virtual versions of a book. For now I am still choosing hard, paper, pulp which I can hold in my hands and turn the pages with my fingertips. That may change but here is one reason I like my books on a shelf in the bookcase.

In the process of moving my office from one room to another I packed up all the books. While putting them back on the shelves I found a collection of books by Milan Kundera, most of which I probably read in the 1980s. I picked one, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, and took it into my hands. Randomly I opened to a page and read a paragraph about 2/3 of the way.

"My talk with the taxi driver gave me sudden insight into the nature of a writer's concerns. The reason we write books is that our kids don't give a damn. We turn to an anonymous world because our wife stops up her ears when we talk to her."

I don't recall the plot or characters of this book. Obviously it's time for me to read it again. That's one reason why I like to have my books where I can touch them. The other is that most of the books I buy and keep are so well written that there are sentences and paragraphs that can be read independently, still have meaning, and be relevant all at once.

In this particular case, I've been struggling with the question of why I write and whether my writing is important to anyone but me. Do I have something significant to say in a novel? I don't know. Can I write a sentence or paragraph that has an impact on a stranger like this one did on me tonight? I don't know, but that alone is something worth striving for.

I've often wondered if other writers read the way I do, in small bites--sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph--or if they swallow a book whole and digest it in its entirety. Apparently many nibble at the syllables and words and savor every morsel as documented here and on many other websites and yes, even in paper/pulp hard cover and soft cover books.

Charles Bukowski - Ham on Rye

2010-10-23T15:24:00.002-04:00

As I said in a previous post, I made the decision to explore the Bukowski phenomenon. I had trouble choosing from the 11 Bukowski books on the shelf at Borders. Thanks to my own bad judgment and recommendations from nobody, I chose a novel called Women. I was not impressed however I was intrigued. Why were there 11 books on the shelf and fewer books in stock by Updike? Or Bellow? Or other Pulitzer Prize winning authors? So my studies continued.

After my original post I was directed to read Ham on Rye which features the same character as the one in Women, Henry Chinaski, in his earlier years (which helps define his adult life in the second book--which by the way was written first). I like continuity in characters which is one of the reasons I loved the Rabbit series by Updike. So I returned to Borders and bought Ham on Rye. The appeal was immediate and I found myself unable to put it down. This, I thought, is a book that could make a writer great. (Just my opinion, of course.) There were certain parallels to Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye although I haven't read that in so long I may be wrong about that.

Did you know that the 2005 movie, "Factotum" was based on a novel by Charles Bukowski? I did not. On the imdb website Fac-to-tum scored 6.5. Not having seen the movie or read the book, I will not comment further.

I would like to share some of my favorite quotes from the book, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. Since it is written in the first person they were spoken or thought by the lead character, Henry Chinaski.

"My spoon was bent so that if I wanted to eat I had to pick the spoon up with my right hand. If I picked it up with my left hand, the spoon bent away from my mouther. I wanted to pick the spoon up with my left hand."

"I had decided against religion a couple of years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish."

"One of the failures of Democracy is that the common vote guarantees a common leader who then leads us to a common apathetic predicatability!"

"Never trust a man with a perfectly-trimmed mustache."

"Dying in a war never stopped wars from happening."

Keep in mind, these are quotes from the book. This just gives you a peak into Bukowski's character. When I read a book, I always seek out sentences that can stand alone as quotes, out of context. These are the ones that stood out for me. If you disagree with any of the quotes, don't let that stop you from reading the book. These are just five short quotes out of an entire book. I rate the book 5 *****.

Unchosen -- #fridayflash, poetry

2010-10-15T11:29:00.000-04:00

Little girl, little girl
hurting so much.
Why does it hurt so bad?
When do I get my shot,
something for the pain?
Please nurse,
Something for the pain.

If I can't have sometihng
then at least give the doctor some pain
so that he knows.
It isn't fair for him to deny me
when he doesn't hurt.
Give him a chance to suffer
if only for a short while.
I have little doubt
that he'll give us each a shot
if he has a taste of this.
He'll not endure what I do.
Sitting there on my bed
looking down with his sad eyes
feeling sorry for someone
lying on under the white sheets below him.
Let him join me and see
if he doesn't hit us both up.

Why am I so lucky
to be given the chance to prove my strength?
I did not ask to be the messiah.
He chose to be the doctor.

Pressed Flower

2010-10-14T17:03:00.002-04:00

Pressed Flower

In the beginning I only consumed what was necessary to be just a life-sustaining formula.
And then came breakfast which was forced upon me to start my day, to fill me with energy.
Lunch was almost always just a matter of feeding my id. Dissatisfaction confused me.
But now I'm tired of eating tofu and greenery, pretending I live a clean, healthy existence.
I feel like a spring flower being pressed in a book during mid-winter,
preserving appearance but under such weight!
How long do I have to wait before dessert is served?

*****

While going through some old papers I found some of my poetry in a box. I have decided to publish some of it here, along with some new poems thanks to Anthony Buccino, poet from New Jersey who has inspired me. You can see his poem of the day here. Thanks Anthony for reminded me of something I used to love to do.

Interview with Pat Travers, 03/2008 - Boom Boom--Out Go the Lights

2010-10-13T22:44:00.002-04:00

It seems that the title of this entry "Boom Boom--Out Go the Lights" caused quite a reaction. I had over 100 hits on this post from all over the world, many of which had a duration time of 0 seconds. Perhaps they were looking for a more juicy news story. I've changed the title of the post, putting the subject matter first and the name of the song second. I didn't mean to alarm anyone or get on any government lists. I should have thought before I started with a title like Boom Boom...Let's try this again.

Pat Travers has toured the world -- performing, writing and composing music that is catalogued on more than 40 albums. Over three decades after his first album was released, Travers is still experimenting with his music but as a Central Florida resident his priorities have changed just a bit.

When I called him to do the interview I asked him if it was a convenient time. He said it was, that he was just in the middle of making a PB and J sandwich for his son who had just come in from school.

Susan Cross: When did you first come to Orlando?

Pat Travers: I came here in 1980. I was living in Miami at the time. We were recording a live show at the Great Southern Music Hall in downtown Orlando. We took a break because they were doing some sound checking and I had a friend drive me around. I was a young man looking to buy a house and I was ready to leave Miami. I moved to Rosemont where I lived for 22 years. I’m in Apopka now. I’ve been all over the world and I think that Central Florida is a great place to live.

Susan Cross: What local activities do you enjoy?

Pat Travers: I tried golf for awhile but I could never break a hundred so I got into martial arts. For the last four years I’ve been doing karate training. I’m a black belt now. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do.

Susan Cross: How does touring affect your family life?

Pat Travers: My wife is fantastic; we’ve been married for almost 17 years and been together for 20. For my kids, it’s what they were brought up on, but I try not to be away for too long.

Susan Cross: Of all the albums you recorded, do you have a favorite?

Pat Travers: I think the Crash and Burn album I did in 1980 came out pretty good. An album I did in Miami called Black Pearl is another one I really like.

Susan Cross: What are you working on now?

Pat Travers: I’m working on a new album. I’ve been getting more and more bluesy in the past several years. I figure that’s more dignified at my age. We were a party band for years but I prefer to do something that will appeal to a broader demographic. The tunes will be more song oriented.

Susan Cross: Do people in the area know your background? Do you get recognized?

Pat Travers: Yeah, sometimes I walk down the street and they say, hey aren’t you…? But I go to the grocery store and I’m just a normal dad.

To get up to date view the website here Pat Travers or look for Pat on Facebook.

Leonard Cohen tribute brings young and old together

2010-09-28T20:53:00.001-04:00

I recently had the pleasure of attending a Tribute to Leonard Cohen organized by Jeremy Seghers and featuring some Orlando musical talent and poets. The show opened with a short a capella harmony performed by Benoit Glazer, his wife and 3 children. It was a song that Cohen often closes with, a Bible verse. It set the mood for a fabulous and inspiring evening for an old hippie like me who has been listening to Leonard Cohen albums since the 1970s.

What was most impressive to me was that the people seated around me spanned several generations. Some of the musicians appeared to be in their 20s. One young man thanked his mother (who was in the audience) for exposing him to Cohen's music at an early age.

I'm not proud to admit that I had not seen the Shrek movie in which Cohen's Hallelujah was introduced. I'm also not proud to admit that I first heard the song on American Idol and was shocked when Randy Jackson complimented a young singer for tackling a Leonard Cohen song in his audition. I was stunned, actually. Through the magic of animation, a great poet, songwriter and novelist has carried forward his music and hopefully tricked some of our youth into examining a 'new' artist. Possibly some of them will look back at his old work. More likely they are inclined to think that the song was written by a Disney Imagineer for the movie soundtrack.

Anyone who looks behind that track will learn that Cohen has led an extraordinary life, writing about love, betrayal, war, religion and a broad scope of other topics. Most don't know that he lived in a Zen Buddhist monastery for several years. The subject of religion comes up often through his lyrics and I believe they are often misinterpreted. People of various religions like to claim him as their own but my guess is that Cohen has taken little pieces of his religious studies and expressed them throughout his work.

Cohen's classic, The Chelsea Hotel tells just one of many stories that took place during his stays in the hotel notorious for the artists who have slept there. His reference to Janis Joplin is documented in this performance and gives great insight into the times http://bit.ly/cSoeR3. These lyrics are pretty simple to understand but this is an exception.

In most cases, the wondrous thing about poetry is that only the poet knows exactly what he means with the careful choosing of words and cryptic arrangement of them into verse. Everyone interprets the poems differently based on their life experience, perspective and beliefs. In a way, that's also the tragedy of poetry--only the poet knows exactly what he means and perhaps we are missing something when we add ourselves to his equation.

At age 76, Cohen has continued touring and sharing his music with audiences around the world. I only wish that his tour was bringing him to Orlando.

Charles Bukowski -- Love him or hate him?

2010-09-23T19:28:00.004-04:00

I have just finished reading Women by Charles Bukowski, the somewhat famous poet, essayist and novelist. I say somewhat because I had never heard of him before my association with the #Fridayflash group. One of the writers in the group, Anthony Venutolo calls his blog Bukowski's Basement. Although I consider myself fairly well read I tend to follow particular authors and without recommendation I am slow to pick up a book (yes I still buy books) by an author with whom I'm not familiar. After reading some of Ant's flash fiction I decided it was time to find out from whenst his obsession--I mean draw to Bukowski had originated. Ant and I are from the same county in New Jersey and he writes for the newspaper that I grew up reading. Perhaps I wanted to find out what he knew that I didn't, at least about this particular author.

So my loyal reader(s), I'll give you my take on Bukowski after reading only one of his books.

Let me begin by saying that anyone who is offended by 'mature language' should stay away from this author, poet, essayist. By page 3 of Women I almost put it in a drawer. There are no small children in my house, in fact there are no large children in my house, but I was afraid my little dog would see some of those words and be shocked at my taste in literature. Instead of giving up, based solely on Anthony's portrayal of Bukowski, I read the entire book.

The main character is a low-down struggling writer who left his job at the post office to write poetry. Living in a hovel in a bad neighborhood in the Los Angeles area he is occasionally summoned to give readings in a variety of venues--colleges, night clubs, book stores, etc. Apparently, fat, ugly, aging poets with missing teeth and zits (his description throughout the book, not mine) have groupies. That concept may be hard to grasp at first, but consider the number of young girls that followed the Rolling Stones in the early years hoping to make intimate physical contact with any or all members of the band, including Charlie Watts, that handsome devil!

The protagonist, Henry Chinaski, adheres to an existential philosophy reminiscent of Meursault, the lead character in The Stranger by Camus. I'm assuming that this comparison isn't lost simply on me. In both stories the protagonist is a single man living alone in a rented flat who makes decisions without giving any consideration to possible consequences of his actions. Both men take the phrase "living in the moment" literally. The results are different but the method is the same. Both Chinaski and Meursault stay somewhat detached from personal relationships. That is where the similarity ends.

Chinaski has an enormous appetite for alcohol and young women. It's hard to imagine when he has time to do any writing. But, alas, the book is not about his writing it is about his life. My first impression was that this was a stark glimpse into the lives of people who possess little or no self respect. Each new character introduces a different perspective on that same theme. Eventually I found the descriptions of the gratuitous sex scenes boring. Yet, I did not put the book in the drawer--I continued reading and in the end I admit there was a point to it all. I will leave it at that. I wouldn't want to spoil the fun for anyone who may also decide to look inside Chinaski's--I mean Bukowski's mind. My guess is that Bukowski may appeal more to men than women but I prefer to read works by male authors in order to get insight into the other half of the population.

I will conclude by saying that I am intrigued and will read more Bukowski before deciding if I feel he is under-rated and deserves more editorial space on my blog or over-rated in which case my posts will be Bukowski-free in the future.

Any and all comments are welcome. If you are a Bukowski fan, please jump in and express yourself.

Interview with Wanda Sykes - May 2009

2010-09-17T12:20:00.001-04:00

This is an interview I did with Wanda Sykes for Orlando Home & Leisure Magazine prior to her appearance at the Hard Rock Live in Orlando in 2009.

Susan Cross:     Which do you enjoy most, standup, TV or movies?

Wanda Sykes:   My first love is standup because that’s where everything started. TV, movies came along as being known for doing standup. But I do have to say that I love the paycheck of TV and the New Adventures of Old Christine is the best show I’ve had in TV. I absolutely love it over there. The writers are great but I do still love the excitement of doing standup.

Susan Cross:     Since you and Julia [Louis-Dreyfus] have backgrounds as writers do you contribute or stick to the script?

Wanda Sykes:   I am scripted. They do a great job so I’m not going to do something to change what works fine. The character of Barb is pretty defined so it makes it a lot easier to follow the script.

Susan Cross:     Is there something that you would like to do that you haven’t done?

Wanda Sykes:   I have a show coming up and that will probably be the top rung for me – doing the White House Correspondent’s Dinner on May 9th [2009]. I’m very excited about doing that. Actually that wasn’t even on my radar when I thought of different things I want to do so when it came up it was like WOW! Before the President? It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I’m one bad joke away from getting deported or something. I made sure all my taxes are up to date; everything is good; staying out of any scandals or anything; I don’t have any dealings with Bernie Madoff, so that’s all good.

Susan Cross:     Do you think that aging is different for men and women?

Wanda Sykes:   For men it seems like they don’t talk about it as much as we do. It doesn’t seem like it’s as much of a concern for them. Men, they get older, they just date younger. We have all kinds of things going on – body issues and all kinds of stuff. With men, a little Viagra and that’s pretty much they’re chore – date younger.

Susan Cross:     If you were going to be reincarnated what would you like to come back as?

Wanda Sykes:   Oprah!

Susan Cross:     In your personal life have you gotten green?

Wanda Sykes:   Yes, but the doctor gave me an ointment and he said it should clear up. Oh, you mean GREEN. Oh yeah, I recycle; I drive a hybrid; I do the light bulb thing. You try.

Susan Cross:     Is there anyone you’ve worked with that you’d like to work with again?

Wanda Sykes:   I’d like to work with Jane Fonda again but hopefully I can get her to lift that restraining order. And Chris Rock but I would have to lift my restraining order against him. Steve Carell is great.

Susan Cross:     Have you seen a change in your fan base over the years?

Wanda Sykes:   Yeah, people are getting fat. I got to play bigger venues but it’s not because there’s more people it’s because the people are just more! We’re all at the age where we’re spreading. Even me, I need a bigger stage. I’m getting more of a cross section of people now and that’s good.

Leroy Cooper - One Man Band - in his own words

2010-09-16T15:40:00.003-04:00

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

Listen!
If the title doesn't show at first, refresh the page to listen.

Leroy Cooper had a wonderful life. His musical accomplishments include about 20 years as baritone sax player and bandleader for Ray Charles.

In addition, he was a great story teller. I had the great honor of sitting wth him and listening to him recount his tales. Here is a little clip about how his interest in music first developed.

To see Leroy back in 1975 leading the Ray Charles Orchestra, click here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spJ1zGY6w5I

You can hear Joe Adams introduce him. The man with the very large Afro hairstyle playing keyboards when Ray comes out is the magnificent Ernest Vantrease, a.k.a. The Deacon. Ernest was with Ray for about 30 years and now plays keyboards for B.B. King.

Happy birthday, Kenny

2010-09-14T21:02:00.001-04:00

Listen!
http://audioboo.fm/boos/182063-happy-birthday-kenny-cross

Thank you to Tony Noland for providing the audio for this to help wish my husband a happy birthday. Visit Tony Noland at his own site to hear more audio recordings and read his fabulous writing!

In a Corner Near the Ceiling

2010-09-10T00:31:00.003-04:00

It was Christmas Eve, 1975. My mother came home from work and found me in the hallway struggling to breathe. She frantically called the doctor and then carried me to the car and started driving. My gastroenterologists were all Jewish so they were at the office that day. Dr. Leo, the oldest, was like a father to me. He had been treating me for about ten years for the intestinal disease. He came out to the car and carried me inside to a treatment room.

When he saw my swollen abdomen he knew. I looked nine months pregnant when just that morning I had been emaciated. His brother, Dr. Albert, gave me a shot of morphine but the pain didn’t subside. The third doctor was the youngest so he carried me to my mother’s car, a 1969 blue Chevy Nova and drove with his hand on the horn, blaring, running red lights. I was stretched out in the back seat holding on, bracing my body against the agonizing pain. The next thing I remember was being revived in the ER. I heard voices, “DOA.” “BP is dropping.” I saw the blur of bright lights and heard the wheels of the gurney rolling on the hard floors. I closed my eyes and drifted.

I awakened in a little room. There were doctors surrounding my bed. I remember smiling and telling them I wasn’t afraid. They said they were trying to put an IV in my arm but my veins had collapsed. They were going to have to do a cut-down. I didn’t know what that meant, but I told them the pain was gone now so I didn’t care. One doctor told me that I was in shock so they couldn’t sedate me. He apologized for what they were about to do. I watched as they prepared my left arm for surgery. One doctor used a scalpel to make a two inch cut just inside my elbow to reach the vein. He threaded a tube into it and kept threading it until it stopped. I felt a twinge near my shoulder. Then he stitched the incision closed around the tube. I saw the bag of fluid hanging on the IV pole. The fluid was dripping rapidly from the sack down the tube and into my arm.

I slipped away. I wasn’t on the table anymore. I was hovering in a corner near the ceiling of the room looking down at my body and at the backs of the men wearing white jackets. I watched them fussing over my empty shell. I heard no voices. I saw a doctor pound on my chest; then again. And I slipped from the air back into my body and looked up into the doctor’s eyes. I smiled at him. I wanted to tell him how incredible it had been to be watching from above but I was too weak to talk.

The doctors said they didn’t want to operate until I was stable. They waited until 3 o'clock Christmas Day and then moved me into the operating room. The surgeon introduced himself to me. He had an Italian name and I felt bad because he had to work on Christmas. He put a large mask over my face. He said it would give me the maximum amount of oxygen. The mask was so large that I couldn’t turn my head with the straps holding it tightly, covering my nose and mouth. I listened to nurses talking and the sound of the metal instruments being prepared for surgery. It seemed like hours.

Then the surgeon told me there was no more time, he was going to operate to relieve the pressure inside my body. My blood pressure was so low that they were afraid to anesthetize me completely, he said, so they gave me very little anesthesia. I was awake when the surgeon started to make the incision, but compared to the pain I had of my failing organs, the knife was like a fingernail scraping against my skin. I was strapped down to the table and couldn’t move. The anesthesiologist was watching the surgeon so he didn’t see my pleading eyes looking up at him. I couldn't talk. My tongue felt swollen in my mouth because of the oxygen. Finally, I wiggled the big toe on my right foot. Since he was looking in that direction he was startled by the movement. Then he looked at my face, horrified when his eyes looked into mine, and increased the drip. Finally, it was dark and quiet and I felt no pain.

Interview with Lynyrd Skynyrd - June 6, 1975

2010-09-07T13:12:00.004-04:00

By now, most of you surmised that I was not a young pup after reading interviews I've done with the likes of Arlo Guthrie sparking my own memories of Woodstock. So the fact that I interviewed the original Lynyrd Skynyrd in 1975 should come as no surprise.

Life was just a wee bit different in those days. I had a tape recorder, with a real tape in it, and batteries that were fully charged when I went into the penthouse suite of what was then the Americana Hotel in New York City. (This was the same suite I had been in the week before when I interviewed Barry Hay, the lead singer/songwriter for Golden Earring, a band most recognized for their hit song, 'Radar Love'.)

When I was escorted into the large room by a press agent every seat was filled. Ronny Van Zant sat in a throne, while other band members were comfortably settled on the sofa. As I glanced from right to left I was most surprised to see Al Kooper of the Blues Project slouched down at the end of the couch. Kooper had discovered Lynyrd Skynyrd and was somewhat responsible for their success. My interview was scheduled to last 15 minutes. Over two hours after entering the room I was really getting down to the nuts and bolts of what would be used in the article I was writing.

As soon as the publicist left the room, Van Zant jumped out of his chair to confront me. Although a huge presence on-stage, he actually stood 5’7” tall (with his boots on), towering over my 4’10” frame.

“I want you to know before we get started that I hate writers so whatever you have to say, say it quick!” he shouted in my face.

Standing nose to nose with him (I have always been pretty gutsy) I asked, “Why do you hate writers? You just met me. Why would you hate me?”

“Because writers lie. They take everything I say out of context and then print it to make me look ignorant,” he said.

“You see this? It’s a tape recorder,” I told him. “I intend to record this interview and when it is printed, if you are misquoted, taken out of context or made to look ignorant I swear I will never do another interview with anyone.” What was I thinking? I was very naïve, but I meant what I said.

“Really?” he said. “Ya know, I kinda like you. And you're shorter than me, too. Sit down.” There was no place to sit but the floor so I made myself comfy on the carpet. (Yes, my hair was long and dark then and my signature felt hat was part of my identity.) He introduced his friends and when he got to the end, I said, “You don’t have to go any further. I know who Al Kooper is!” Kooper just looked at me silently, expressionless. I admit I was disappointed. I would rather have been interviewing him at that moment.

Van Zant proceeded to offer me a drink and I declined. He called room service and ordered screwdrivers for everybody. We chatted for awhile, conversationally, and then the tray of drinks was delivered. Van Zant placed them on his lap, offered them to his friends and after they declined he started drinking. Later on, the interview began.

The resulting article appeared in the front section of a magazine named SWANK. Yes, that’s right, my loyal readers. Susan Cross (under a pen name)had a short article that appeared in a magazine often found under the beds of teenaged boys. In my defense, I proudly am included in the same issue as author Henry Miller (Tropic of Capricorn) and Ed Naha (screenwriter who wrote ‘Honey I Shrunk the Kids’) so, yes, some people really did buy the magazines to read the articles.

The two hours that followed were very revealing but I was there for a specific reason—to ask about his relationship with Alabama’s Governor George Wallace who was well known as a segregationist.

In Skynyrd’s song, ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ there is a line, “In Birmingham they love the Governor, boo, boo, boo,” expressing the band’s opposition to the Guv’s racist leanings, although it is often taken out of context and misunderstood as a result of another line, “I hope Neil Young will remember, southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” Neil young was recognized for his anti-racist attitude. (There are plenty of explanations of this on the web so I won’t go into further detail here.)

Following is the portion of the article as it was submitted and later published in the magazine.

WARNING: Ronnie Van Zant used blunt language which some people might find offensive. If you are one of those people, either stop reading or cover one eye and skip any words that start with the letter ‘f’ and end with the letter ‘g’.

Article:

So where does George Wallace enter the picture? It seems that each member of Lynyrd Skynyrd was presented with a plaque, technically making them members of the Alabama State Militia. In the past, this honor had only been bestowed upon country-western musicians making Skynyrd the first rock band (albeit ‘southern rock’) to receive the recognition.

How do the boys in the band feel about this honor? Ambivalent. The three musicians to whom I spoke, Ronnie Van Zant (lyricist-vocalist), Leon Wilkerson (bass guitarist) and Gary Rossington (lead guitarist) unanimously expressed their respect for the good Governor who had come forth announcing to the world during his campaign for re-election that he had experienced a change of heart.

“Van Zant expounded, “We respect him because he’s a man of principles. And he does stick to his fucking principles. He’s a tough motherfucker, and we respect him for that. But as far as going out and campaigning for him, I don’t want to go out wearing a bullet-proof vest when I get on stage to sing.”

As far as Lynyrd Skynyrd is concerned, in reference to Governor Wallace, nothing of any relevance has gone down between them. As spokesman for the band, Vant Zant goes on record as saying, “George Wallace don’t know any fucking thing about rock ‘n’ roll and I don’t know any fucking thing about politics.”

Meanwhile until George Wallace is seen and heard onstage, playing electric guitar and singing about some ‘pretty mama he knew for a night’ don’t expect any of the musicians in Lynyrd Skynyrd to be giving campaign speeches or running for office!

Nice to meet you. What do you do?

2010-09-01T14:26:00.004-04:00

It seems to me that when you are introduced to a person for the first time you should ask them something about themselves. Something personal, I mean. Unfortunately, the most common question is, "What do you do?"

I do a lot of things. I quilt, I paint, I walk my dog, well you get the idea. But that's not what they're asking. They really mean, "What kind of work do you do?" Somehow a person's employment has come to define the person. That doesn't sound reasonable to me.

What is even less reasonable is the response most people give. "I work at ??? Company." The question wasn't, "Where do you work?" It was, "What do you do?" So now we're taking it one step further--defining a person by what he/she does and where he/she does it. If the answer to the first question is, "I'm an engineer," does it matter where? Is the question meant to define the value of that person's worth?

As most of you know, I'm a writer. Or at least that's my job. For whom do I write? I write for Central Florida Lifestyle Magazines. Would you think more of me if I was a technical writer? Or if I wrote for Vanity Fair? (Or maybe less of me, depending upon your opinion of those examples.)

Here is a link to my articles in the September issue of Central Florida Lifestyle Magazines.

http://bit.ly/axcJh5

My point is that people who clean toilets are just as important as the President of the United States. After all, without them, we'd all be sitting on dirty tiolets! (Anybody who was in NYC during the garbage strike knows what I mean.)

Real

2010-08-27T22:55:00.000-04:00

“You’re not my real mother!” he shouted as she took the device out of his hand. “I hate you.”

She took it to the master bedroom and placed it in a drawer remembering a time when those words were like fingers on the video game controller, pushing her buttons and controlling her as if she were one of the characters on the screen.

Mondays were like this, she had learned. After spending a weekend with his birth mom it took him a day to get back into the routine of family life. On weekends there were no rules. No bedtimes. No restrictions. No homework. No chores. But there was also no basketball hoop. No friends. Nobody to play with. Nobody tucking him in at night. Nobody to say prayers with him. From Saturday morning until Sunday night he lived in a different world. His mom was there but she worked at nights and got home very late. She slept during the days.

His favorite food was pizza. Good thing. Every Saturday evening his mom ordered pizza for him. Pepperoni—his favorite. He ate about half of it and put the rest in the fridge for lunch on Sunday. Breakfast was just as good. His mom always bought a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts on her way home from work in the early morning. He got to choose whichever he wanted. Sometimes he ate half a glazed donut and a couple of bites of a chocolate frosted one. If he wanted, he could take a bite out of every one and he still wouldn’t get in trouble.

While his mother slept he watched movie videos. Some of them were R rated. He would not be allowed to watch them at home and he had sworn to his mom that he would keep it a secret. He didn’t like keeping secrets.

One Sunday night he came home and announced that he had earned some money at his mom’s. She let him do some work sweeping floors and helping to clean at her business which she told everyone was a travel agency. He had difficulty repeating the lie and just said, “I earned it cleaning at my mom’s work.”

He didn’t realize that there were no secrets at home. His dad and step-mom never questioned him because they had taught him not to lie. They knew that his mom told him not to tell so they just let him be. As long as he was not there when the business opened they kept their mouths shut. The dancers didn’t arrive until well after he had eaten his pizza back at the apartment and was already watching videos or playing video games. He knew but he didn’t understand. If there was nothing to be ashamed of, why was he sworn to secrecy?

As he got older he realized that he was living in two different worlds. That’s when it began. The confusion. The guilt about lying. The anxiety. But she was his mom. His real mom. The one who had shown him the scar on her belly where the doctors had cut her open so that he could be born. “And don’t you forget that,” she told him. “She didn’t have to be cut open to have you. Remember that. She’s not your real mom. I am.”

Tuesday everything was back to normal. He woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, got dressed for school and poured milk over his cereal while this other woman made his lunch and helped to made sure his backpack was ready. She had helped him with his homework the night before, after she took away the video game controller. His dad got home in time for dinner and they always ate together—the three of them. Dad left early for work, before he got up, but he was always home for dinner. He helped with history and science homework. His step-mom helped with English and math.

He played basketball after school with a friend who lived down the street. They were on a team together but he missed a lot of games that were played on Saturday afternoons. He liked it better when they were morning games and he could play before his mom picked him up.

Wednesday was early day at school. His classes ended an hour early so the teachers could have their staff meeting. He usually went bowling with some kids on a league. That way he would get home about the same time as his step-mom did. He didn’t like being alone in the house even if he was in his room drawing or watching TV. When his dad got home they had some time to throw the baseball before dinner. They were all baseball fans but on weekends there was nobody to watch the games with at his mom’s.

On Thursday he had his favorite class, art. He sketched very well and the teacher praised him. She told him he was talented and should pursue his interest in art. She was his favorite teacher. And Thursday was the best night for TV shows. He, his dad and step-mom all liked to watch Survivor and guess who would be voted off. He secretly giggled when they showed the women in their bikinis. He was at that age.

Friday was a good day. The end of the school week. An evening of relaxation. But by bedtime his mood was already changing. His dad had hugged him and said goodnight but there was sadness in his eyes when his step-mom sat on his bed and said prayers with him.

“What’s the matter, honey? You look so sad,” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“C’mon, you can’t fool me. What are you thinking about?”

“Jody, do I have to go to my mom’s tomorrow? Can’t I stay home just one weekend?”

Florida voters have their work cut out for them!

2010-08-25T21:09:00.000-04:00

The Florida primary is over and I did not vote. It’s not that I didn’t want to but my voter’s registration card lists me as NPA—No Party Affiliation. I don’t vote the party line and never have. My practice has been to investigate the candidates and base my vote on the results.

In yesterday’s election I did my homework. Even though I wasn’t eligible to cast my vote, it appears that I am one of the few people who bothered to look closely at the Republican candidates, Bill McCollum and Rick Scott. McCollum has been Florida’s Attorney General for several terms and therefore was labeled a ‘career politician.’ The general consensus in the country is following President Obama’s campaign call for change, which I’m waiting to see occur—but I’m sure it will eventually, I just have to be patient.

Ah, but I digress. (Here we go with the clichés again, but at least I didn’t write, “That being said…” or “Having said that…”)

Any fool with a computer—not implying that if you are reading this on my blog that you are a fool—could have Googled Rick Scott and learned that he was the founder and CEO of a healthcare company in Texas that was found guilty of the biggest Medicare fraud in history. In his ads, he flashed his coy smile and admitted that the charges were true but that he was unaware of what was happening around him. Now isn’t that the kind of guy you want to elect to serve in as Governor? One who doesn’t know what’s going on in his own offices?

The results are in and the lemmings followed the leader into the land of ‘vote ‘em out’. Rick Scott, who financed his own campaign with the money he stole from his company, crushed Bill McCollum by more than three percentage points! I guess you would call that a big win in some places. To me, it was a photo finish.

Regardless of the election outcome, the numbers are in and McCollum is out of the running. Apparently nobody was aware of the fact that Florida clinics, partly owned by Rick Scott, are under investigation by the federal government. Of course, even if they were, since it was Attorney General Bill McCollum that brought the charges, it would simply have been a finger-pointing campaign where Scott insinuates that McCollum’s future grapes may just go sour.

In other news, the Florida Senatorial race is heating up. Governor Crist who was way behind Rubio in the polls jumped out of the Republican party a la Joe Lieberman and is running on the Independent ticket. Crist, whose latest accomplishments include vying for the most photo ops with President Obama since the BP oil spill, knew that Floridians noticed his break from the party. Rumors have it that once he is elected (those are his words, not mine) he will change parties yet again and officially become a Democrat with the hope of replacing Joe Biden on the 2012 ticket with his new BFF.

I have nothing personally against Crist. I just don’t think he has done a particularly good job representing the people of Florida as their governor. He seems like a nice guy. Very sincere, in fact. Actually, if he finds himself out of work next year, I think he may find a second career as a model selling suntan products or possibly as an actor stealing roles from George Hamilton. After all, George is getting a little old.

The problem with Socialism...

2010-08-25T20:13:00.001-04:00

This is a guest post from an old college buddy of mine--someone who marched with me against the Viet Nam War. I will just identify him as "Marco." He breaks down his political philosophy into terms that almost anybody can understand--especially someone who has ever lived with a roommate! Take it away, Marco...

The problem with "Socialism" is that it isn't very social. There are the people that work and then the people that take. Eventually you run out of people, who will do the work and PRODUCE, and also their money! The philosophy behind the whole thing is based on unrealistic assumptions about the nature of mankind and the ability to CHANGE it!

Personally, I learned the whole thing was bullshit when I was 19 and lived at a fraternity house in college. Regardless of whatever "touchy-feely, family" interactions there were, one simple thing always stood out...NO ONE WOULD DO THE DISHES!! And someone always took your food from the fridge WITHOUT ASKING!

Those 2 elements repeated themselves in all commune-type living experiences I had. Even in California, when I lived on a ranch/farm with a group of hippie/socialist types. The freeloaders always drag the thing down to the point where everybody just goes home. Except in a place like a country--there's no place to go TO! Once America gives up its natural heritage of self-sufficiency, survival of the fittest and all that, the place will be doomed.

I have an idea about declaring a state of our choice to be the way America should be and everybody who believes in that would all move there and force the freeloaders the hell out! I would pick California. It's damn near perfect as far as a geographical area is concerned. It's big and has EVERYTHING. Texas is big enough but the Gulf Coast just doesn't do it like the Pacific! Like my idea?

Thank you Marco for your 2 cents. Anyone wishing to comment on this guest post, please feel free. I will pass along your comments to the author.

Tony Bennett, In a Class by Himself -- Interview by Susan Cross

2010-08-24T18:37:00.001-04:00

On stage at UCF Sept 2008, courtesy Charles Wells Photography

In September 2008 I interviewed Tony Bennett before he performed at the University of Central Florida. This was one of my most difficult interviews. Let's face it, what could I ask him that hadn't already been asked and answered before?

Susan Cross: If you had to choose, would you rather be known as a singer who is also a painter or a painter who is also a singer?

Tony Bennett: I have been very fortunate to have been able to do the two things I love the most – sing and paint. I have been doing both all my life and I don’t view them as two separate endeavors with one taking more importance over another. Instead, they are pursuits that enable me to stay in a creative zone all the time – they balance each other in the ying-yang tradition.

Susan Cross: Your paintings cover such a wide range of subjects including musicians, landscapes, still life and self portraits. Do you paint from memory, photographs or while actually looking at your subject?

Tony Bennett: I love the spontaneity of capturing a moment on canvas but there are times when that is not possible so if I discover something that I want to paint and there is not time to work on it on the spot I will take a photograph to use as an inspiration for a painting.

Susan Cross: So many cities are featured in your paintings. Besides New York, do you have a favorite city or region that you find particularly scenic?

Tony Bennett: I paint so many of the cities that I travel to while I am performing -- -but I vacation In the Tuscany region of Italy and love to paint those landscapes.

Susan Cross: Why did you name the Exploring the Arts public high school "Frank Sinatra School of the Arts" rather than using your own name?

Tony Bennett: It was a wonderful way to honor a great performer and a very dear friend.

Susan Cross: Do you plan on opening similar schools in other cities?

Tony Bennett: With my wife Susan, we started Exploring the Arts which supports arts education In the public schools and the Frank Sinatra School of the Arts, which is a public arts high school is our first endeavor. The permanent building for the school, which was designed by Polshek Partners who are world renowned architects, is the first of what we hope are many such schools.

Susan Cross: How many self portraits do you think you've done over the years?

Tony Bennett: Many.

Susan Cross: It appears in your book that you favor watercolors. Is this your favorite medium?

Tony Bennett: I love watercolors as they are easy to travel with so I can take them on the road with me and I compare them to jazz music which is a spontaneous, in the moment, way of playing. Watercolor is a quick medium and it’s very immediate.

Susan Cross: How much of an impact do you think your CD "Duets" had on a new generation of music lovers?

Tony Bennett: I had a great time performing the songs of my catalog with a host of contemporary artists -- all of whom were very professional and well prepared. It turned out to be the best selling CD of my career!

Susan Cross: Are you flattered by the fact that young artists such as Michael Buble and Diana Krall are performing standards that you originally made famous?

Tony Bennett: I am thrilled that the Great American Songbook has attracted such talented artists and this is the finest music that American has ever created. There was a golden age of songwriting in which these songs were crafted by masters such as Cole Porter, the Gerswhins, Duke Elllington, Harold Arlen and it is a national treasure.

Susan Cross: How does it feel to have received Billboard's Century Award when it is obvious that you are still "Young at Heart?"

Tony Bennett: I received that award during my 80th birthday year which was such a memorable time for me and it’s always nice to be honored but I tend to not dwell on the past too much and always look forward to what is coming next.

Susan Cross: To what degree do you feel that your passion for art, music and family have contributed to your long, happy and productive life?

Tony Bennett: My philosophy is to do what you love in life and you never need to retire.

Susan Cross: What is it about New York that has such a hold on you?

Tony Bennett: There is no city on earth like New York – all the world is here.

Susan Cross: Before you step out on the stage, what thoughts go through your head?

Tony Bennett: I still get butterflies which I take as a good sign – it tells me that I still care about how the show is going to go that night – will the sound be good, will the audience enjoy themselves – it’s about caring.

Hunting, Nesting and Gathering -- #Fridayflash

2010-08-20T23:49:00.003-04:00

Their lovemaking was like a choreographed dance, pillows moving to cushion and elevate body parts for maximum pleasure. When they were spent, she nested as he prepared to leave. He left her there surrounded by pillows of varying thicknesses and density, one beneath her head, one behind her as she lay on her side, one between her knees and the last one up against her abdomen which she hugged closely.

He was gone about an hour while she dozed in and out of consciousness. Her peaceful face held the smile of satisfaction and anticipation. She heard the door open then close and she smiled, moving the pillows so that several were behind her back supporting her as she pulled herself up to a sitting position.

Sounds emanated from the kitchen. He entered the bedroom with a bakery box and two forks. She opened the box folding the top backwards to display the delectable reward.

“Ummm, my favorite,” she cooed. “Key lime cheesecake.”

“You see, I remembered,” he said. “I had to go to three different bakeries to find the one with key lime. Apparently white chocolate strawberry cheesecake is more popular right now but I want to get used to your cravings. We’ll be dealing with this for another seven and a half months. Have you started thinking about names yet?”

Nothing had changed in a thousand years. He was the hunter, she was the nester and soon would be gathering things for the nursery.

I am a WINNER!

2010-08-19T12:58:00.010-04:00

I have won Tony Noland's contest. (View Tony's blog and listen to his voice here: http://www.tonynoland.com/)

This is very exciting for me. Tony has a beautiful voice and as a prize he will record a reading of one of my stories. My problem is that I am not a very good judge of my own stories. So I am enlisting your help. Please read my flash fiction and help me decide which one would sound best when read aloud. Let's challenge Tony and see what he can do. Type Fridayflash in the search bar to the right to read my stories. Then leave me a comment telling me your favorite. I'll pass it along to Tony and once done, sit back and listen.

Thanks for helping me out! Again, I AM A WINNER! Sorry for repeating myself. I don't often get to say (or type) those words.

Susan Cross Interviewing Arlo Guthrie, June 2009

2010-08-13T12:46:00.009-04:00

I conducted this interview for a cover article which was printed in GRAND Magazine in August 2009 to commemorate the 40 year anniversary of Woodstock. If I have to explain to you what Woodstock was or who Arlo Guthrie is, you probably won't be interested in the interview. This is just an excerpt targeted at the magazine's market, grandparents. The remainder of the interview has not been published but I may transcribe and publish it on the blog at a later date if response to this one is large enough. So read along with me, remember young Arlo at Woodstock and get to know him as he was one year ago.

Arlo Guthrie Interview – May 5, 2009

Susan Cross: How many members of the family will be touring with you?

Arlo Guthrie: Well that tour begins in October so they’re not with me yet. But when we do get together, there’ll be 4 kids, Abe’s got 2 so that’s 5, 6, Annie’s got two, so that’s 7,8 and Cathy’s got 2 so that 9, 10. Anyway, there’s 7 grandkids and they will all be with us, not all of them [performing]. Obviously some of them are too young to do much but we will incorporate them all in the show and uh the major portion of the show will be handled by me and Abe, Krishna is 18, he’s a great player, and Johnny [Irion] and Sara.

Susan Cross: What are their names and ages?

Arlo Guthrie: Abe is my oldest, and his oldest is Krishna, he’s 18; Serena is Abe’s daughter. She stole my 50th birthday so I always know how old either I am or she is because it’s exactly 50 years to the day. She is 11 at this point. She will be 12 by the time the tour starts. Then my daughter, Cathy, she has a little daughter, Marjorie. Marjorie is about 2 so she’s not going to be doing a whole lot but she’s going to be dancing around the stage somewhere. My next daughter is Annie and her oldest is Mo and Mo is or will be about 16 and I could have these wrong by the way. And Jacklyn is also Annie’s daughter and she’s about 8. And then Sarah Lee has a daughter, Olivia and Olivia is the same age as Jacklyn and they also have a little daughter Sophia who is the same age as Marjorie. That’s it, all 7 grandkids.

The small ones will make an appearance at some point but we may have to get some cattle prods. We’ll get them out there just to dance around at the end but most of the work will be handled by the older ones.

Susan Cross: When you’re not on the road do you live close to the family?

Arlo Guthrie: Just about. All of my kids live within a few miles except for Cathy who lives in Austin, TX. We’re in the far most reaches of MA going west toward the hills.

Susan Cross: Which are writing music and lyrics?

Arlo Guthrie: All of my kids do. Also Krishna is now starting to write songs.

Susan Cross: Do their lyrics reflect the same social consciousness like you conveyed to us in the 60s and 70s?

Arlo Guthrie: Some. I mean all of my father’s were not about social consciousness. There were a lot of love songs, broken heart songs, got drunk too many time songs, lost my dog songs. I mean there’s all kinds of songs but we do not neglect songs about things that are going on.

Susan Cross: You used a lot of humor. Has your sense of humor played a role in keeping your family so close?

Arlo Guthrie: Uh, my family has a pretty good sense of humor. If you listen to the records that have come out so far there’s just some wonderful stuff that puts a smile on your face. My daughter Cathy sings with Amy Nelson who is Willie’s daughter. And they have a little duo called Folk Uke. And they are very funny. You cannot play their stuff for your kids, though. Very very funny.

Susan Cross: Times have changed in the past 40 years. What issues are you involved in now?

Arlo Guthrie: We’re involved in all different things because obviously we’re all different people. We don’t have a herd mentality when it comes to social consciousness. I think everybody’s very individual.

You’d have to almost hear it. Some of the songs that Sarah Lee and Johnny, her husband have just released a record of children’s songs because they think that real children’s songs, as opposed to ??? about jelly bean characters running around are not really that helpful toward growing up right. So they put together a great collection for kids, even little kids, that are passionately wonderful. The Smithsonian Folkways is putting it out so anyway it would be like if NPR or PBS would be putting it out. It would not be your commercial variety. So they’re involved with young people growing up because they have young people growing up.

I don’t write as many children’s songs as I used to but I did put out a book a couple of years ago; it’s still in print; called Mooses Come Walking. It was illustrated for me by my friend Alice [Brock], who is THE Alice of the song. It’s still going strong. We have all done some work for children. As a matter of fact the whole family got together for the first time back around 10 or 15 years ago and we put out a record that my father and mother had begun to create. It was a project that they had never finished. And we finished it and we put it out. Not just with my kids and some of their kids but with my brother and his son and my sister and her daughter and son. So we’ve worked some family stuff a long time ago. This is not new for us. That record was called Woody’s 20 Grow Big Songs. It was primarily written and recorded for kids about 2 or 3 years old. That was the first time we really got together as a family and not only that we incorporated the voice of my father singing some of these songs so it’s my father’s generation, mine, my kids’ and my grandkids’ – four generations on that one record. We’re trying to recreate that spirit although for an older crowd on the tour that’s coming up. We’ll have some recordings of my father, even my mom, so there’ll be a huge time span that we’re trying to invent into a two hour show.

It’s not even just my father’s legacy. In some ways it was passed along from his mother when she was singing Indian songs so it’s inter-generational. It doesn’t start with Woody Guthrie and it doesn’t end with the youngest crowd today. It’s just something we like doing.

Susan Cross: Did the children stay close all these years?

Arlo Guthrie: Well they did go off in different directions but they snuck back. That’s probably due to my wife. She’s the anchor of the family and she’s not a performer but when the kids were young she could play enough guitar and sing stuff to get them to fall asleep anyway so it’s my wife Jackie who’s really kept the entire family together over all these years and she’s still doing it. I think this year’s going to be the 40th anniversary. We got married in ’69. I went and did Woodstock and then…I can’t remember the order of things. Four things happened in 1969: that was a big year for me. Went and did Woodstock; went up to Massachusetts and bought an old farm, got married on the farm and then the movie “Alice’s Restaurant” came out. That was all within the last three or four months of ’69. We’re still doing songs from Woodstock, still living on the farm, still married to the same wife and we don’t watch the movie anymore. We have it somewhere.

Susan Cross: What do the grandkids call you?

Arlo Guthrie: They call me Pop.

The concert with the Boston Pop in Bethel Wood is coming up in August on the 40th anniversary of Woodstock so I’m going right back to the same place I was in 40 years ago. I’m bringing a bigger band with me this time, that’s all. The family won’t be at that one. It’s just me and the Boston Pops.

Susan Cross: Do you think that the world is a better place since Woodstock for your grandchildren to grow up?

Arlo Guthrie: Absolutely. No question about it. We were the ones who lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis when we were on the brink of annihilation and thankfully we got over the brink and we have not had a moment like that since. We’ve had some awful moments don’t get me wrong but we haven’t had one like that.

Susan Cross: Do you have concerns about how current events will affect your grandchildren?

Arlo Guthrie: I think you can boil down all of the events if you want to call it that to a single source of frustration and that is people locally have become afraid that their way of life, their language, their culture, their religion is under threat by some kind of global world government or something. Or when you look around the world right now everybody is convinced that their way of doing it is under attack. This is just as true in the United States as anywhere else. And when you have people living in fear like that you have people rise to take advantage of that fear so you get the kind of government that we had recently, and you get the kind of Osama bin Laden kind of guys and you get the juntas that take over and the jihad and they’re all riding on the fear of people losing their way of life. I think that one of the great things that we’ve done in the last 6 months or so is to leave that mentality behind.

It’s not a political thing. We have conservatives and liberals on both sides of all of these things. This is not a democrat republican thing. It’s people that are comfortable with the way things are going as we get through this era of fear when people are still afraid. And that’s where the dividing line is. Sometimes it forms around the democrat republican lines and sometimes it forms into moderate and what’s the word we use overseas? Hardliners or something like that. It’s the same line around the world. It doesn’t matter where it is. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the Middle East or in Africa.

There are some people who are trying to take advantage of their neighbors and their friends and their families and others. And there are some people who are just trying to figure out how to get along together. That’s the group we like to think of ourselves as being. If I could speak for the whole family I think that everybody would agree with me that we’re aligned with just the regular people.

The Mask of Invisibility - #Fridayflash

2010-08-12T17:24:00.002-04:00

It was an easy question, really. Should she stay in the car or get out and go inside? More questions raced through her head. What kind of mood was he in? Would he be mad at her for being gone so long? Had he eaten or waited for her?

Being away from the house for the day was a pleasant experience. Wandering around stores, talking to salespeople trying to sell her things she didn’t need. She overheard a store manager telling a new employee to "treat each customer as if she were a guest in your home. Put on a smile and welcome her. Offer to help and then show her the new products as if she were a friend stopping in for coffee and you were excited about some new acquisition that brightened your living room." It was an import store specializing in home décor. Even though the manager was male, he referred to the customers—guests as female.

In the bookstore everybody knew her and called her by name. They were the only ones who knew that she was the woman whose picture was on the back cover of a book crammed in between so many other mysteries. Customers just saw an aging woman wearing shorts that should be longer, a tee shirt with a graphic on the back worn so thin from washing that it was impossible to recognize and those wraparound black sunglasses. She always wore those sunglasses, even in the store, like a mask.

Tonight she would be attending a play at the local theater with a friend. Although they were only one year apart in age, her friend would be wearing a long skirt, a ruffled blouse and makeup. She would change her shorts and tee shirt and put on clean ones. Nobody would guess that she was reviewing the play for a magazine.

The writer’s life is an odd one, very different from a musician’s. People don’t recognize writers by their faces, even when they are successful, unless they look like Kurt Vonnegut or Truman Capote. Being anonymous was almost as good as being invisible. It gave her the opportunity to observe people. But when she introduced herself to strangers she often detected a change in demeanor; passed her business card and suddenly she had an identity.

Her decision made, she opened the car door. Rather than go in through the garage alerting him with the sound of the mechanical roll up door, she walked up to the front door, key in hand and inserted it into the slot. She pushed the door open and it was quiet. She called his name. And then he came to her, sniffing her legs to see if she had cheated on him. Of course, she had not. She knew better than to pet any other dog; it would hurt his feelings when she got home.

Strippers, Planets, Months and Days

2010-08-06T16:39:00.003-04:00

“I can’t believe I let her do it to me again,” Bill said. “We’ve been doing this dance for almost 15 years and I fall for it every time.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were too tough to get snookered by some broad,” Liz said.

“She told me she loved me. I mean, that was big!”

“But 15 years?”

“She was a teller at a bank when we met. We connected right away. I went up to her window to deposit a check and she gave me that smile, you know the one girls give you when they’re interested.”

“How much was the check for? Do you think that may have had something to do with her smile?”

“C’mon Liz. She told me how unhappy she was in her marriage—and…”

“Her marriage? You have been holding the torch for a married woman for 15 years?”

“She was going to leave her husband. She said she couldn’t stand sleeping in bed next to him let alone having sex. We started seeing each other two weeks after we met and 15 years later I’m still listening to her excuses. I moved to California, then to Colorado, got some chick pregnant and now I’m a dad but my son has the wrong mother. It should have been her.”

“I don’t think so. And anyway, he’s got the right father. At what point did you get it that she might not really leave?”

“Last night. She finally pushed me too far and now I’m sitting here watching the ball game sulking, pissed off at myself for letting this happen. I came here for vacation just to see her and in two weeks I’ve spent less than an hour with her. I could have taken my boy to California.”

“Who is this woman? What’s her name?

“Summer.”

“Summer? You fell for a girl named after a season? I’ll bet she was born in December, too. I had a co-worker named April once and I asked her which day was her birthday and she said August 4. And her parents named her April. Explain that to me, would’ja?”

“Well, I’m heading back out west tomorrow and I’ll see my other girl—not girlfriend, just a friend. That will make me feel better.”

“And what’s her name?”

“Dallas.”

“And I’ll bet she’s from New Jersey, right?”

“No, Ohio.”

“Okay, Bill. I’m going to give you some rules on dating. It’s obvious your rules, if you have any, aren’t working or at your age you’d be married.”

“Go ahead, I’m game.”

“It’s all in the name. Do not, did you hear me? Do not date any woman whose name is a city, especially if she’s not from that city. Or one whose name is a season, especially if she wasn’t born in that season. Are you with me so far?”

“Yeah. Is that it?”

“Nope. Pay attention now. No stripper names, you know what I mean. Think about it. Why would a mother name her daughter with a name that sounds like a stripper? Candy? Pepper? Ruby? Sapphire? Foods and precious gems are out—they mostly sound like stripper names to me anyway.

“If the woman’s name is a noun of any kind, forget it. If she has two first names walk away. For instance, I would never date a man named Ronald Conrad. And on top of that, nobody with two last names—I once dated a man named Smith Young. Well, you can see that didn’t work out. My last name isn’t Young, is it?”

“Whoa. Liz, you’re really starting to scare me.”

“I’m not done, Bill. Planets and flowers, definitely avoid them. I know flowers sort of fall under nouns and Venus probably could be a stripper name, but there’re women named Moon or Sunny, too, even though the sun’s not a planet it still counts in my theory.”

“So what are you saying? If I meet a woman named Tuesday I should just say, nice to meet you, I’ve gotta go? What if she’s attractive and seems like a nice gal?”

“That’s how you got into this trouble. Attractive. Nice. You don’t have good judgment in women. You’ve proven that. Nice, attractive women can become stalkers or be married. Married women, especially if they’re unhappy, make it a point to make themselves more attractive if they want attention outside the marriage.”

“I never thought of that. Makes sense, though. Men do the same thing—or so I’ve heard. Having never been married—I was in a long term relationship once and when it was closing down I made it a point to get right to the gym before it ended.”

“See what I mean? Why don’t you just go on match.com like everybody else? At least you can start out with eliminating names and that’s important. People tend to mold themselves to fit their names even though they had no choice when they were born.”

“I’ve got too much pride to go on match.com.”

“A year ago I wouldn’t have advised you to use an online dating service but it has finally sunken in that it’s no more dangerous than picking up a stranger in a bar,” Liz said with conviction.

“That’s true. Well, you’ve been married for almost 20 years, way before online dating started. How did you meet Chris?”

“Didn’t I ever tell you that story? I was meeting my roommate in this little pub because her boyfriend’s brother was playing in the band. Chris was there with his softball buddies because one of them was the drummer in the same band. We met at the bar and it was love at first sight. We were married about two years later.”

“Wait a minute. You never told me his name was Chris. You always referred to him as your hubby. You’re giving me advice about women and their names and you married a guy named Chris Cross?”

Brains and skulls and ringing bells

2010-07-30T10:18:00.005-04:00

Here's another #Fridayflash story. Please comment and critique. Constructive criticism is always welcome. So are compliments, of course.
JJ’s headache started behind her eyes and spread out sideways and upwards feeling like a swimming cap two sizes too small. Her face didn’t hurt so she concluded that her sinuses were clear. There was a history of headaches in her family but her health had always been great with the exception of the burst appendix last year, and that could happen to anyone. Besides, you only had one appendix and when it bursts and the mess is cleaned up, if you live through it, you never have to worry about it again. A head is a whole lot different than an appendix. You need it every second of every day. If it explodes thinking is no longer a problem.

Every sound was amplified. She lay in darkness in her bed hoping for absolute silence. Then she heard a fire alarm ringing. It stopped. It rang again and stopped. Oh my God, she thought, why is a fire alarm ringing in the house? We have a smoke detector. Each time the alarm rang her pain sent streaks of lighting from one ear around the lower back of her skull to the other ear.

It took four rings before JJ realized it was the telephone on the table next to the bed. Glancing at the clock, she tried to get her voice to sound normal as she picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” From the inside her voice sounded chirpy but the rasp of sleep and pain was not completely hidden.

“Hello, is this Jane,” the voice said.

Without thinking she said, “Yes.” Immediately she wished she had said “Jane’s not available” because in fact, she didn’t feel available for a telephone conversation at the moment.

“Hi Jane. This is Nellie, your neighbor across the back yard and one house over. I’m sorry to bother you but I know I didn’t wake you.”

How could she know that? JJ thought. Although her bladder felt like it would burst, she had fought the sensation and held it so she could finish her dream and then that damned fire alarm—oh no, the phone—started ringing.

“Hi Nellie. What’s up?”

“Your dog has been barking for over an hour. You know I wouldn’t normally complain but Nate woke up with a terrible headache and the sound is driving him crazy. Could you bring her inside and quiet her down?”

“Oh, Nellie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize she was out on the porch barking. It must be the squirrels on the screen. You know how she gets when they stop still and she can’t get to them. I’ll go get her right now. I hope Nate feels better.”

As JJ dragged her body out of bed she reached down and picked up the pair of shorts on the floor and pulled them up over her wide hips. Thank God for elastic waistbands. The throbbing continued but at least the ringing had stopped, she thought. Her footsteps resonated so she carefully shuffled her feet toward the sliding glass door. Indeed, the dog was barking continuously. For a 9 pound dog, Sadie could register high on the decibel ladder but how she was able to keep at it without taking a breath was astounding.

Opening the door, JJ called to her, “Sadie, get in here.” Her own voice was like that of a soccer announcer speaking through a microphone at a World Cup Championship game. The dog looked at her. This time she whispered, “Sadie, you come in here right now.”

Sadie sat on the hard cement floor, looked at JJ and tilted her head staring into JJ’s eyes, trying to understand the language. That’s when JJ remembered something she had seen on TV, the Dog Whisperer. He had made a sound like shushing a baby, but with a p in front of it. JJ tried it.

“Psssssshhhh!” Sadie stared at her, but at least she wasn’t barking anymore.

“Psssssshhh,” JJ repeated. “Come,” she whispered. The dog put her little white fluffy head down and slinked through the doorway silently. She went directly to her crate, stepped inside and laid down on the towel that served as her mattress.

The lack of sound immediately caused the muscles around JJ’s scalp to ease. How long did Nellie say Sadie had been barking? She noticed that her headache had slipped away, perhaps exiting through her ears which was exactly where it had entered.

Then she pondered her decision to install a doggie door in the slider. Whose brilliant idea was that?

Photo Album -- #fridayflash

2010-07-22T23:45:00.000-04:00

The photograph is old—black, white and a million shades of grey. The date is written in ballpoint ink on the white frame around the edge of the photo. Apparently that was the way photos were printed back then, with white borders on glossy paper. This good-looking young couple would become parents in about three years but in this picture the glow of newlyweds shines through their eyes.

In the next picture the woman is standing in the doorway holding a baby wrapped in a huge blanket. The bunting covers the entire infant except for the tiny face with narrow eyes and chubby cheeks. Her mouth is a little round dark grey circle. The snow on the ground is on both sides of the steps but the stoop is clear.

On the next page of the small album the man stands next to a smiling little girl on a shiny tricycle. It must be spring time. The grass is a dark grey and the child is wearing a sweater and pants but no coat. The man also wears a sweater with a large diamond pattern on the front. Opposite this one is another picture of the girl in profile with her foot on the pedals of the trike looking toward the woman whose hands are outstretched in a welcoming gesture.

From that page forward, all of the photos include only two people—either the woman and the girl or the man and the girl. Color is introduced in the next pages. The child’s short red hair is highlighted in the sun. It is a little darker than the woman’s long locks. The child is smiling but the woman’s mouth does not look natural. She is posing for the camera.

A story is evolving with each turn of the pages. According to the date on the white border around the photograph the girl is about five years old. She stands next to the woman. They are showing off holiday dresses, looking at the camera. The joy of the season is not evident in their faces.

The child is alone now, sitting on the brown porch steps. In the picture you can see her head resting on her little hands, elbows on knees. She is fatter than in previous shots. Her face is barely visible as she looks down at the steps below her feet.

The final photo in the album is of the smiling woman dressed beautifully. Her red hair is coifed in an upswept style. Her lipstick is a darker shade of red. She poses coquettishly in her fashionable dress and the full shot shows her high heeled shoes with thin straps across the ankles. All of these details are more evident because she is alone. But more disturbingly part of the photograph is missing. The left side was squared off with the white border but the right side of the picture is ragged. The photo has been carefully cut right along the edge of the woman’s silhouette so that the gorgeous, happy expression has been captured but the person who once shared this scene is surgically removed. In the border is written “Patricia’s 30th birthday.”

Agent->Publisher->Self publisher->E-publisher

2010-07-18T21:06:00.004-04:00

About a year ago I was polishing off my manuscript. I had made a deal with a small self-publishing house with years of experience and an excellent reputation. Friends with agents and professional editors who had been published by major publishing companies warned me: "Don't do it! Self publishing is the death knell of a successful writing career. Once you're self published," they said, "you will never be taken seriously in the industry."

Since my book was a memoir of Leroy 'Hog' Cooper, bandleader and baritone saxophone player for Ray Charles, I knew that it would only appeal to a niche audience. My market was limited and the likelihood that an agent or major publisher would be interested was miniscule. I had no writing career to ruin so I was going forward with the project as a labor of love. I would probably print only 1,000 copies and be happy to sell those.

I repeat, that was about a year ago. My manuscript was due at the publisher's on September 1. The wheels were in motion (I hate cliches), I had a professional cover design, had used an editor who was a friend and the book release party had been scheduled to take place at B.B. King's Orlando Blues Club. Over 300 people had RSVP'd and I had 3 bands scheduled to play in Leroy's honor for free. And then someone put the breaks on and the wheels came to a screeching halt. Since then, needless to say, the book did not get published. due to legal issues with the verbal contract (boy was I stupid--verbal contract with a 78 year old man whom I loved, expecting his word to follow after his death).

Back to the point. By the end of the year, self-publishing was becoming so popular that the NY publishers were starting their own imprints for writers without agents to take advantage of the market. Why lose out on their cut? If we were going to publish our books anyway, they wanted in on the action. Ah, but perhaps they were too late.

The fire behind Kindle had already started burning soon to be followed by Sony's e-reader and Nook and others. E-publishing became the new way medium. People can download books by Pulitzer Prize winning authors as well as those with niche markets for a relatively small amount of money. For a few bucks you might find a book that an agent would never have paid attention to but SHOULD have.

Let me recap. One year ago I was told that self-publishing was the worst thing a new author could do. Then I was told it was the best way for me to get my book published as long as I was willing to market it, which I would have to do even if an agent sold it to a publisher.

And then came e-publishing. Could it be that the green movement got to somebody high up in the government and convinced whichever czar is in charge of such things that printing books was destructive to our planet? To create books you have to cut down trees, create inky chemicals and glues. Surely this is bad for the environment. And so the story goes, like so many others, technology has solved another problem and will save the baby seals near the polar ice caps.

Gee, I wonder how many forests were leveled to print Al's book. Hmmm. Al, how could you? His publisher printed and sold a whole lot more than mine would have. What an 'inconvenient truth.'

Peaches - #fridayflash

2010-07-16T00:18:00.003-04:00

Alicia thought she recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him. And then it hit her. The guy always made a spectacle when he arrived at the little blues bar on his Harley. He went through a ritual of dismounting, taking off his helmet, then his leather gloves and making sure his vest hung open just enough to cover his beer gut and minimize its appearance at least at first glance.

He was fondling the peaches in the produce aisle. Alicia thought about how odd it was when she saw someone outside her frame of reference and their persona was shed as they became just another human being. In this case, he wasn’t the macho biker but a man buying groceries. He was intent on choosing the fruit that was not overripe but almost ready to eat. He hadn’t noticed her watching him.

Alicia turned away and picked up a bell pepper, inspecting it for flaws. Then she placed it on the scale. Grocery shopping was part of life. She was a coupon clipper, careful with her money. Working at the book store was her dream job but it paid just above minimum wage. Her job had its benefits the best of which was being able to bring the books home to read as long as she reviewed them for the “staff picks” shelves.

As she tore the plastic bag off the dispenser and placed the pepper in it she almost bumped into him. He looked at her blankly at first and then a glimmer of recognition crept into his eyes. He was trying to remember where he had seen her before.

“Hi,” he said. “I recognize you from somewhere.”

Alicia was just about to respond when he continued talking.

“You work in the book store, don’t you?”

She couldn’t hide her expression of bewilderment. How did she not notice him at the store? She was there 40 hours a week, sometimes more, and yet her mental association had gone directly to the blues bar.

“Yeah. I do,” she said. “I’m Alicia.”

“Nice to meet you Alicia. Name’s Marv. I’ve noticed you there but you always seem so busy. That other lady with the short hair helps me find what I’m looking for most of the time.”

“I’m sorry, Marv. I thought I knew you from someplace else. I didn’t realize it was from the book store,” Alicia said. “I do keep pretty busy there and I don’t normally run the register so I can’t keep track of who’s in and out unless they have a question.”

“Well, you’re not usually in the economics section. I kind of hang out there most of the time. I’m a financial advisor so I try to keep ahead of the trends. I see you around fiction and literature,” Marv said.

“Yeah, I’m a fiction reader so that’s what I know. It’s always better to help people with questions in my area of interest. I wouldn’t know how to recommend an author in economics,” Alicia said. “You know, I thought I had seen you at a blues bar a few weeks ago. Do you have a twin?” She laughed as she said it.

“No twins in the family. That would have been me. I’m a big blues fan. You really go to that bar, too?”

“Yup. I’ve been going there for years. I’m a writer. I like observing people at the bar and I love the music. I love working at the book store. Being around books inspires me. Every time an author debuts her first book it gives me hope that someday people will be handling mine.”

“Wow, that’s really cool. Makes sense to me. Writing and reading go together.”

“Are you going up to see that new band this weekend?” Alicia asked.

“Probably not. My Harley’s in the shop. I’d look stupid driving up to that bar in my Beemer. I’ll wait ‘til I get my bike back. Don’t want to ruin my image.”

“Stop in the book store next week. I’ll let you know if they’re any good.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll stop in. Nice meeting you. I’ve got to get home to feed my dog. Boy does she love peaches.”

I think I've traveled back in time...40 years later

2010-07-15T11:13:00.012-04:00

And now for something a little bit different...This picture is of Arlo Guthrie (registered Republican with Libertarian leanings), his children and grandchildren in 2009. Doesn't look that much different than a family from 1969 does it?

Last weekend my husband and I were on our way to check out a musical event. On the we were talking about the state of the country and the level of pessimism that’s creeping into various segments of the population. Then I said, “Let's go back to 1970 and think about what was going on then.”

In the ‘60s and ‘70s our country was caught up in an undeclared, unpopular war which we had no chance of winning. Our friends were dying in Viet Nam and there was conflict here at home. We were singing folk songs with Peter, Paul and Mary, Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez. Offbeat poets like Allen Ginsberg were appearing on late night talk shows—real talk shows, not entertainment talk shows—like David Susskind. Bob Dylan was writing songs that nobody understood but the poetry and sound of his voice were hypnotic.

And then there was an impromptu gathering of pacifists from all over the country who traveled long distances to a little farm in New York—Yasgur’s Farm. I only lived about 100 miles away but it took almost 12 hours to travel those miles on Route 17 as half a million people were heading in the same direction. We were all going to a music festival called Woodstock. Nobody expected attendance to reach those kinds of numbers. But you’ve heard this all before. The point is we were REALLY pacifists. That many people gathered in one place and there was no violence. No guns. No metal detectors. No gate after the early morning hours when the gate was knocked down by the hoards of people.

The culture was at a turning point. We said we'd rather get high than die. The country was on the verge of revolution. The Black Panthers. Abbie Hoffman. Back then it was the liberals rising up against the establishment who were the very politicians that kept us in that war. Figure that one out! This country was at a turning point. A major change was taking place in the music world. Young Brits were coming to America singing in styles that were new to us. Now, 40 years later, those same musicians are doing interviews explaining how inspired they were by Black American blues musicians. Yes, I said black, not Afro-American. All of our citizens are Americans but the great music was evolving from the black culture who was singing the blues.

I remember gas rationing and water shortages right here in the good old US of A during the ‘70s. Cars would line up for blocks to buy just $5 worth of gas. Gas was only 38 cents, then, I think, but the gas guzzlers used a lot of gas! (I drove a VW bug, by the way.)

When we got where we were going last night, it was a small Bastille Day Street Party. I don't know why they were celebrating Bastille Day in Orlando other than it was a reason for celebration and one of our great musicians and patrons of the arts is a French Canadian who conducts Cirque du Soleil La Nouba (here in Orlando) and he was playing with a quartet at the event.

The Stardust Cafe and Video, where the ‘happening’ (as we used to call these things) was taking place was about 3 stores wide. It was decorated with art done by the locals and videos lined the walls. There was a folksinger on stage and people of all ages were dressed the same way I was in 1972 in Coconut Grove. Remember, all of those who were protesting back in the ‘70s have grown up to be "US" now. People were excited about singing songs about freedom. The place was bustling. They had a full bar and sandwiches. It was a delightful journey into the past—only it wasn’t a tribute to the ‘70s. It was a reflection of what is happening in forty years later.

Once again we have an unpopular war, a president who has lost his popularity and we have the conservatives rising up in the form of the Tea Parties, the Libertarians, etc. They want to bring our soldiers home and protect our personal rights and freedoms. We have double digit unemployment and problems producing enough clean energy. Sound familiar?

Perhaps we are at a turning point in this country. The young musicians who were playing original songs that day were dressed like we were back then. One had a John Lennon tee shirt on. There's no question the country is going to get worse before it gets better, but then something is going to happen. Like Woodstock happened. What was thought to be a handful of dissidents turned out to be millions of people across the country. If 1/2 million of us showed up there, (yes, little Suzi Cross--not my name at the time--was one of them) then remember that the rest of the nation was watching on TV and young people everywhere were saying, YES!

Good music is being written again and most of the new stuff is is the folk genre; young people sitting at pianos or holding acoustic guitars single softly. Norah Jones. Fiona Apple. And blues is getting very popular. Eric Clapton tours and tickets are sold out in 10 minutes. (I buy mine in advance—I never miss Clapton.)

The natives are getting restless and change is coming. Not the change that was promised in the campaign. No candidate can possibly imagine what it’s like to be President until they are sitting in the Oval Office faced with the responsibility of the resolving issues.

The old pacifists are buying guns now, the very thing we opposed back then, to protect themselves from the government. We were pacifists then, and we still are. This time it doesn’t look like those grown up hippies are going to go down smoking dope. If the government was smart they would legalize pot and keep all of us quiet and dreamy. Willie Nelson seems like a happy guy, doesn’t he?

21st Annual Chicken Day Celebration - #fridayflash

2010-07-07T13:35:00.002-04:00

Photo credit Paul Rausch

LuAnn and her family had moved away from the tiny town ten years ago. She brought them all back to celebrate the most important annual holiday, Annual Chicken Day. She was shocked to notice a new business downtown. It stood out like a sore thumb. LuAnn was horrified when she saw the large sign up 15 feet in the air: “Popeye’s Chicken.” She was reminded of the line from the old Joni Mitchell song, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot” only she substituted the words Popeye’s Chicken for parking lot. In the windows to the fast food restaurant were posters boasting the best fried chicken in the state.

Oblivious to their new surroundings, the local chickens strutted throughout the parking lot as if it had been there forever. Nests with eggs in them were shaded by the shrubbery surrounding the black paved parking lot. Strangers driving past might have thought, “Wow, that place must serve really fresh chicken! I wonder if they have breakfast sandwiches made with the eggs.”

The town councilmen had tried to keep the business from opening but corporate lawyers used words and referred to documents that council members had never heard before. They were no match for the big city attorneys. On the day of the grand opening nobody showed up but it wasn’t long before the parking lot was filled with cars driving through on their way to the big city ten miles down the road. The locals were curious. The smells emanating from the structure were tempting, but they did not give in. Today the lights were off, the doors were locked and the parking lot empty except for the roosters and hens.

Spirals of red, yellow and orange balloons formed arches that criss-crossed diagonally over the intersection. They were anchored on each end with sand-filled gallon sized Glad Bags covered with red tissue paper and tied up with ribbon like birthday presents. Broadway and Main Street were blocked to vehicular traffic to prevent disruptions to the festivities. Someday there might be a traffic light here but for now the four way STOP signs sufficed.

People walked from all directions toward the stage that was erected under the intersection of the arches. The lawn in front of the First Baptist Church was dotted with people and their picnic baskets. Canisters of iced tea and fresh-squeezed lemonade lay side by side like sleeping lovers on red checkered cotton cloths. Tuna fish, peanut butter and jelly and roast beef sandwiches were waiting to be eaten, but no egg salad or chicken salad.

Twenty one years ago today a new ordinance had been put into effect. “It is decreed that no chickens are to be kept in pens or coops. They shall be allowed to roam freely throughout the town. Anyone caught harming a chicken or egg in any way shall be sentenced to 67 days in jail and a fine of $248.” Chickens and roosters had gained freedom to wander the streets of downtown and mate to their little chicken hearts delight.

The doors to Ace Hardware on the opposite corner of the street were closed in honor of the celebration. No tools, paint or propane—not today. The oak trees outside of Ace provided a lot of shade. It was a favorite nesting place for the chickens. The employees often put on gloves and carefully moved nests and eggs out of the driveway to the safety of the grass around the side of the building but today there was no need.

Suddenly the church bells started ringing. The excitement was generating from the small crowd as the mayor climbed the three steps onto the stage and took the microphone in his hand. As soon as the bells had rung their final tone, the mayor greeted everyone.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome to Oviedo’s 21st Annual Chicken Day celebration. As always, Huey Lambert is going to play our theme song on his fiddle. C’mon up here Huey.”

The crowd cheered as they rose to their feet.

“Is everybody ready?” Huey asked. Everybody knew the song. They played it at all the community functions and school dances. Even those with two left feet were not ashamed to participate. And then Huey started fiddling and people started dancing. Everybody knew the chicken dance. First they closed their fingers twice then like chickens clucking, then flapped their elbows twice like wings, then wiggled their tushies to show off their best waddle and clapped two times. And then it all began again. When the song was over everybody yelled, “Woo-hoo, Happy Chicken Day!” and sat down to eat their sandwiches and drink soft drinks as the band took the stage. LuAnn sat with her back to the Popeye’s and hope that her children would remember their first Oviedo Annual Chicken Day.

Monday, Monday

2010-06-28T10:23:00.006-04:00

Mondays are always challenging in my house. My husband leaves for work before the sun comes up and my dog goes back to sleep. I stay up late writing so I don’t get up until the light of day when the dog starts barking because she is ready for her morning constitutional. She may be ready but I am not! Of course, I get up anyway because it’s easier to drag myself out of bed, pull on some shorts under my nightshirt and get her outside than to clean up the carpet. Besides, she is hungry for breakfast, the most important meal (and often the only one she eats) of the day. She is my alarm clock which is good I suppose.

What follows is the sad part. Once her little belly is full she starts walking around looking for my husband. She is a daddy’s girl so Monday’s are particularly tough on her. She gets up with Daddy at 5 AM, runs to the door with her little back legs crossed until he gets there with the leash. She no sooner gets outside and a puddle forms under her on the grass. Ah, she made it once again. Good girl.

Back inside, my husband gets his coffee and sits down in the family room half asleep. She crawls up in his lap and lays there with him. They are both happy. She lies across his lap or legs pinning him to the chair so he won’t get up. Eventually, though, the coffee kicks in and he has to roust her from her comfortable position and she slinks back into her crate to go back to sleep while he gets ready for work.

People keep telling me that dogs don’t have emotions. Maybe they don’t share the same kinds of emotions we experience but there is no question that on Mondays this little doggie is sad. Her companion and playmate is gone for the day and she’s stuck with me who sits at the computer for hours at a time, working. Sure, when she rings the bell hanging from the door knob I jump up, get the leash and take her out, but sometimes she just wants to play so when I get to the door she grabs a toy in her teeth and starts to run around the house like a racehorse on a track, expecting me to chase her at a similar speed. I stand in one place and stomp my foot and that seems to satisfy her as long as I growl when she runs by with the toy.

Then I’m back to work and she’s back on the chair next to mine. She has her own office chair to curl up on and sleep. Dogs sure do sleep a lot! In general, Mondays are a mopey day for her. On the weekends, even if my husband isn’t playing with her, he’s walking around doing things in the house and she follows him around like his white shadow. During the week, I sit in one place, at my desk, for long periods and that’s no fun at all. Then I get dressed and go out, leaving her alone. What nerve! Going out and not taking her with me. She looks at me with those sad questioning eyes, pleading to go with me. But this is not Europe. I can’t take her into stores or cafes (like I really go out to cafes during my workday, NOT!) and office supplies stores.

You can set your clock by this dog. She can tell by the measure of sunlight when it’s time to go to the front entryway and lay down by the window and wait for my husband’s truck to pull up. And then happiness returns to her home for a few hours.

All of this may seem normal to other dog owners but the one thing that is remarkable about this little white ball of fur is this. Every night we are sitting in the family room together watching TV, reading, working on our laptops or chatting and she is there with us. That’s where her crate is so it’s like we are visiting her in her room. At 9:20, not 9:19, not 9:25, the dog pulls herself up from wherever in the room she is sleeping, usually my husband’s lap, and slinks off to her crate for the night. In the past, we used to say “It’s bedtime,” and she’d run to her crate knowing that she’d get her favorite treat before slumber. We used to feed her the treat, close the gate on her crate and cover it with a blanket. She likes the dark safety of her cave. Now, we don’t have to tell her, she doesn’t wait for her treat, she just drags her tired ass into that crate, lays down, curls into a neat little ball and goes to sleep. Another day. Monday’s over. She knows that this is the beginning of a long stretch of days before daddy will be home for her on the weekend.

For her, it’s another day in her doggie life—or is that seven days in human for every one of mine?

She was so good last week I took her to the beauty parlor so you can see the before and after pictures.

Seeing Red

2010-06-24T11:17:00.013-04:00

“What made you do this? I can’t believe it,” my neighbor said. “I would never have imagined you going this route.” And this is what I told her.

Well, you know those commercials for the red Cadillac CTS where the gorgeous red-haired actress from Private Practice smiles seductively while driving around a curve? Then she looks into the camera and asks, ‘When you turn on your car does it do the same for you?’ Well, I fell in love with that car, way out of my price range, because it was red. Red was always my favorite color. I’ve always owned a pair of red shoes, which I referred to as my ruby slippers since I was about 9. Then I saw this sleek red Cadillac—my favorite luxury car maker—and thought, “I want that.” It was totally irrational. I didn’t need it. My gold Ford Focus gets me where I want to go just fine. And still that red Cadillac CTS haunts me.

I am a person who wears concert tee shirts, specifically from various Eric Clapton and B.B. King tours, with a Willie Nelson and Leon Russell one thrown into the collection (none of which are red, by the way). I do wear some red tee shirts showing my loyalty to the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team, and let’s face it, they were named for a beautiful red bird—or at least the male is a beautiful red bird while the female is just kind of brownish. I am not the type of person that would drive a Cadillac CTS. I certainly do not in any way resemble Kate Walsh, the tall, sophisticated red-headed actress who plays an obstetrician on TV. Perhaps Kate, or Addison, her character might be driving this car, but me? A two bit writer of articles about local people who make changes in our community?

After all, she’s famous and on TV. I just write stories about a determined Gulf War veteran who has been able to achieve her dream through the Habitat for Humanity program. And how the conductor and musician for Cirque du Soleil La Nouba, a world renowned extravaganza here in Orlando has volunteered his time to revive the jazz band in his son’s public school while he performs ten shows a week, gives music lessons and brings worldwide musicians to perform in his home while a local artist paints a masterpiece on stage during the music.

My job is just to find these special people and write articles about them, not to be seen weekly by millions of people who follow the scripts that Addison—I mean Kate—remember (or read) so well. And she gets to walk down RED carpets. She is so perfect in that car. I want that car. I want to be perfect in that car. I want to be seductive Kate in that car. I want to walk down red carpets after someone helps me step out of that car in my red stilettos and gown slit up to my hip (which would look stupid since I’m 4 foot 10 and my hip isn’t very high off the ground.)

Alas, I am a little, blond writer who has passed the time of midlife crisis although I never really experienced one. Maybe I was just a little slow, busy raising the kids and getting the grandchildren started in their new little lives. And now I have time for a midlife crisis. Perhaps that is what this is all about. Besides, my grandmother was a very successful businesswoman and always wanted a Cadillac. My grandfather was thrifty (that’s the nice way of saying cheap) and insisted they drove a Ford. That woman was my hero so maybe that’s the underlying reason why I want that car. And she had red hair, too. And when it wasn’t quite so red anymore, she went to the beauty parlor to keep it red, almost until the day she died. She had her red hair but never her Cadillac.

So it would seem that my reasoning here is two-fold, maybe three. I have an obsession with the color red that dates back to the Wizard of Oz, an obsession with red haired women which stems from my grandmother, mother, aunt and sister all having red hair and my being brunette (now blond with a little help from L’Oreal) like my father and I have an obsession with Cadillacs, especially this new CTS.

Knowing I could never own the Cadillac, I talked myself out of driving down the self pity route in my Ford Focus. And then I saw this new Dell laptop in the stores. It was red. I decided that since I was planning to buy a laptop anyway I would buy that red Dell computer. I went to the local Staples store that was advertising them, knew the price was within range about $549, then bought the software I needed to work, plus the case and the 3 year extended warranty, a package of DVDs and before I knew it I was checking out. They were still trying to sell me services when I looked at the total which was over $1,100! For a $549 laptop! What had just happened here? I got home looked back over the receipt to see what these extra charges were for. Some of them were ludicrous. I didn’t even take the computer out of the box and install the software. I was in shock.

The next day I returned it all except for the software which I knew I would have to keep because I had in fact broken the seal. I needed help so I went to Best Buy to talk to a geek or two. I expressed my obsessive desire for the red Dell computer. The salesman understood—he owned one himself! Then he asked me what I would be using the computer for and I told him. I’m a writer. I write articles and short stories. I am working on a book but it’s not War and Peace or the Brothers Karamazov.

“Do you download movies?” he asked. I thought he was joking. “Do you do a lot of gaming? How about programs, do you download a lot of them? Are you planning on loading a lot of specialized software?” No, no, no, no and no. “Then you don’t need this computer. Why don’t you go with this nice little HP Compaq that has a lot of gigs of memory and RAM and a DVD slot, etc. for $399? If you want to buy the extended warranty you’ll be insured against breakage from dropping the computer, spilling water on the keyboard, lightning strikes or anything else.”

Similar to my experience at Staples, I was asking myself what just happened here? I came in to buy the pretty red Dell and the salesman DOWN sold me to a less expensive model that will meet my needs and make me happy and be insured, with a case all for under $750 including tax. Ah, but there was that one little thing that I played down—it wasn’t red! I took my extra money and got over that fact in a hurry.

So now here I am again about to make a fairly large purchase. Larger than a laptop but nowhere near as large as a Cadillac CTS. Did I happen to mention that the car was red? This should be a simple decision.

We need a new sofa. My husband and I had made a final decision to buy leather this time. He said he was leaving the decorating to me because I’m the one that’s good about that stuff. We’re putting in walnut colored laminate floors and I took the large sample of the flooring with me today when I went to the furniture store just to start looking. The salesman approached me as I knew one would. He asked me if I knew what I was looking for and if he could help me find it. With no hesitation whatsoever I told him matter-of-factly that I was looking for a red leather sofa—oh and it had to have recliners on both sides. Yeah, right. Like they would even make such a thing.

“Right this way,” he said. I was starting to tremble. I had even gone online and Googled red leather sofas and came up with very little. The salesman led me to the most beautiful red plush back sofa with soft cushy arms and POWER reclining seats on each end. POWER! You sort of push a button similar to putting up and down your windows in your car. The foot bar goes slowly up until you stop it at the desired height or you can push the other way and it will go down a little or all the way. All I would have to do is plug it into the wall. And how much would this little baby cost me? $1,500, plus $99 delivery and $200 for a 5 year extended warranty that covered any spills, ink, marks, stains or damage to the sofa. For $200 less I could get the regular old fashioned recliner where you grabbed something on the side and the foot bar sprung up into place. It was just as comfortable but not as sexy.

When I got home it was time to tell the hubby that I had found the sofa I wanted. Then I showed it to him on the website. Even though we had discussed the topic and I had informed him of my intention to get a red sofa, he never thought I would find one so he had happily agreed. Surprise!

We got past the issue of color and started talking about floor plans and how I would like to move the furniture and then I told him about the power recliner as opposed to the standard one.

“We don’t need power. That’s silly. The old way works just fine. For $200 I think the price is a little steep but with the 4th of July discount it will be manageable with the zero percent interest for one or two years.”

I had only one word. Wrong! I can’t get the Cadillac CTS and I couldn’t get my red Dell laptop. By golly, or more to the point, Damn it! I want the new power recliner. I don’t want to compromise. I want the red one and I want the power one and I’d better go buy it tomorrow before I am utterly overtaken by rational thinking and the realization that we’ll have to paint walls and maybe buy a chair to go with it. The area rug we had already planned on would be easy to find and I’m creating the wall art myself, some abstract brush strokes on canvas using the colors in the room to tie things together.

I hadn’t thought it through beforehand. I just knew what I wanted. Now I know I am obsessed with the color red ever since equating a pair of red shoes with being home, wherever that was at the time. I am obsessed with my grandmother—her red hair and desire for a Cadillac the first of which she did not pass on to me but the second she obviously did. I even named my dog after her. And to some degree I am craving luxury, thus the power recliner as opposed to the manual. Now when they come out with wi-fi version I will really be impressed but for now I think I will be happy for a long time.

And that, my dear neighbor, is the answer to “Why?”

Kevin Costner puts his money where his mouth is #oilspill

2010-06-19T17:35:00.003-04:00

Being a Central Floridian who enjoys the beaches on the Gulf of Mexico west coast of the peninsula as well as those on the Atlantic east coast, I think it's very admirable that a bunch of celebrities have decided to coordinate a telethon to help clean up the oil spill. They are very kind to donate their time in order to attempt to collect money from taxpayers, many of whom are out of work during these tough economic times. After all, they are donating their precious time and images to this most worthy cause--the worst environmental disaster in American history.

When my husband and I were driving down the road today, I couldn't help but notice the new Good Will store that was built not far from where I live. We drove a little further and saw a new Salvation Army store--this one was not a new building but it occupied what was once a Rooms To Go furniture store, not a small facility. There were new thrift shops and in an upscale town called Winter Park, there was a large sign outside a building that said "Free Food and Clothing". This is a middle class neighborhood, not lower middle, some upper middle and it's obvious that people need help. Giving $10 may seem like a small amount for people living in a country that whose fabric is made up of givers, but many are finding themselves donating their money to their children and grandchildren so that they don't lose their houses and have food on the table.

Along comes Kevin Costner, a soft spoken actor with a couple of hit movies and a handful of flops, most of which he financed himself because he believed in the projects. It seems that when Costner believes in something he steps up and does something besides donate time or go on a speaking tour about it, getting paid six figures for his appearances.

Once more Costner has come forth and invested in technology that he believes may help to clean up the oil spill. After the Exxon Valdez disaster he wanted to find a way to address any future incident that might threaten our ecological future. He didn't win a Nobel Prize for his interest in "Going Green" he just put his efforts into finding the right people to develop technology and be prepared. Whether or not his project is successful, Costner gets my award for Man of the Century. He used $23 million of his own money toward helping mankind and animal-kind and didn't ask me for one single cent.

If each celebrity who participates in the upcoming telethon donated 1 percent of their own money before they went to an awards dinner I would have more respect for them. I'm all for a free market economy and personal wealth. I just think that many of these people who will get all drippy in appealing to us regular folk are hypocrits. Kevin Costner, you are my hero!

My latest article published by Central Florida Lifestyle Publications

2010-06-18T20:02:00.010-04:00

Well, folks, for those of you who wondered, I really am a writer for a print magazine that also appears on the web. And yes, they do actually pay me for my articles.

The name of the publication is Central Florida Lifestyle Publications. For those of you who are music fans visit www.centralflorida-lifestyle.com to view one of my current articles about the First Lady of Blues in Central Florida, Miss Jacqueline Jones. (I tried to insert a link but it didn't work. Back to the design board.)

Although I write human interest stories, arts & entertainment is really my specialty. Every time I say that, I have the opportunity to write about a local person who is quietly doing something to help the community and then I decide that I prefer writing those stories. Only problem with that is, if it has anything to do with charity I find myself donating to the cause. Once I've gotten up close and personal, I can't seem to resist. That's not a bad thing and I'm not complaining. In this crazy world it's good to interview a person who helps people because he or she just feels compelled to do so, or who has helped himself/herself to get through a difficult time and been successful in meeting their goals.

All in all, this really isn't a bad gig. It's not the great American novel but I realized a long time ago that I'm not the person to write that and if I were, nobody would recognize it until I was dead anyway. For now I'll stick to writing about other positive people and playing with flash fiction just for fun.

Roses are Red—and Yellow—and White

2010-06-15T10:27:00.003-04:00

This is my #Fridayflash story for the week of June 15. Comments and constructive criticism are welcome, as always.

Eduardo had been gone for four days this time, a business trip or so he had told Eve when he packed. He walked through the door and smiled thinking it was good to be home. His smile disappeared when he heard her heavy footsteps on the stairs. In her hand, Eve was waving a document. Her red face was screwed up into a snarl. Her pink scalp was showing through her thin, blond hair which was almost standing up from the blood rushing to her brain.

He took a step backward and felt the door behind him. He should have opened it and run back to his car.

“What the hell is this?” Eve wailed. “Flowers?” She was close enough now that he could see it was a Visa bill in her hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think I don’t know what you do when you go away on business? How could I not know? You send your whore roses and charge them to my Visa, you asshole! Were they roses?”

Eve had him by about eight inches and almost 50 pounds. He was obviously afraid of her but he could never leave. She owned the house and paid the bills. He had quit his job weeks ago but had failed to mention that to her. Being 12 years younger than Eve, Eduardo felt like a child.

“I’ll bet they were red, too, weren’t they?” she bellowed. It seemed like her face couldn’t get any redder and yet it did. The veins in her neck were bulging with anger.

“White, actually,” he said quietly.

Eve was trembling now. Eduardo was making himself smaller and smaller against the door. She had never struck him and he hoped he would be able to say that again tomorrow but he had never seen her like this.

“She’s just a friend, you know? I don’t love her like I love you. You know that, honey. I could never love anyone like I love you.” He hoped his voice sounded sincere and sorry enough to calm her down—at least a little bit.

“A friend? This one’s a friend? And what about the one last month, is she just a friend, too?”

“No, no, last week I was visiting my cousins in Miami. Really. You know I haven’t seen them in over a month.”

“And who did you send the roses to last month? Your cousin? And what color were they, huh? Go ahead and lie to me one more time, Eduardo, go ahead.”

“Last month?” He hesitated. “Yes, they were for my cousin. She’s getting divorced and she was depressed so I sent her roses to cheer her up.”

“What color?” Eve screamed. She didn’t believe they were for his cousin. He had so many ‘cousins’ that she hadn’t met that she didn’t know if he actually had any family at all.

“Yellow. They were yellow. It wouldn’t have been right for me to send her red. Red is the color for love.”

“You bastard! You send roses to your girlfriends and charge them to my credit card and then make up stories and expect me to believe you. Why did I ever marry you?”

Eve turned and stomped back up the stairs. He heard the bedroom door slam and then the lock engaged. The next sound he heard was crying. Tough as she was, she cried. He had been a bad boy. He had hurt her feelings—again. He smoked cigarettes and drank wine until he fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning he heard Eve make her coffee and pack her lunch. He kept his eyes closed and pretended he was asleep. His head hurt from the wine and he didn’t want another confrontation. He would have all day to recover. Well, until 1 o’clock when he was meeting Noreen in the park for a picnic. He would just go by the grocery store and buy a bunch of pre-packaged flowers and pay cash. He hadn’t sent her roses yet.

At work, Eve attended the early morning staff meeting. She wore her usual scowl. Nobody at the office had ever seen her smile. She was always mad at something or somebody. When she got back to her desk the little red light on her phone was blinking. She had a voicemail message waiting. She picked up the phone and heard the receptionist’s voice. “Hello Eve. This is Donna in the reception area. Please come up here when you get this message. Thanks.”

What on earth could Donna want? Eve walked toward the elevator. As the elevator slowly moved from the first floor to the second, she watched people walking in the corridors through the glass. The sudden stop startled her back to reality. The door slid open and she stepped out heading deliberately toward the reception desk. On the desk she saw the vase holding a dozen red roses with ferns and baby’s breath. They were beautiful!

“What’s the special occasion?” Donna asked.

Eve’s cheeks were pink. She was blushing. “No special occasion,” she said.

The flowers were heavier than she expected so she used both hands to hold the vase and carry them back to her desk. It was lunch time. She took out her pink insulated lunch bag and ate her sandwich. By the time she was done with her apple it was 1 o’clock. She picked up the phone and called the house. It rang four times before the answering machine came on. “Eduardo and Eve are not home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll return your call. Have a nice day.” She waited for the beep.

“Eduardo? Sweetie? Are you there? I called to tell you that they’re beautiful. I can’t wait to get home.”

Innovative solutions for catastrophic oil spill in Gulf

2010-06-11T17:41:00.004-04:00

As you can see from the picture on my blog, I am a resident of Central Florida located about half way between the east and west coasts. It saddens me when I think about the short and long term effects that the BP oil disaster will cause to our beaches, wildlife and ecosystem.

Although I am not an engineer or ecologist, I have an idea that may help resolve some of the issues involved. Bear with me now, this is a little bit unconventional.

Rather than having the Army Corps of Engineers and the BP engineers looking at this problem strictly from an engineering perspective with their focus on oil spills and their experience with past incidents, I think that the government should retain the services of some innovative inventors who would look at this issue from a totally different point of view.

The first person that comes to mind is James Dyson. According to commercials for the Dyson vacuum cleaner with the ball technology, Mr. Dyson "has been obsessed with vacuum cleaner technology" for over 12 years. At the end of the commercial his name appears and underneath it, his title: Inventor. It is obvious that Mr. Dyson has the ability to focus on a particular product and use his extraordinary problem solving skills and talents to improve that product. Perhaps he would have some valuable input suggesting ways to 'vacuum' the oil off the surface of the water as well as the plumes emanating from the depths.

Another man that thinks outside the box is Dean Kamen the inventor of the Segway. In addition to this amazing innovation, Kamen specializes in robotics often for use in the medical field. If you put Kamen into a room with Dyson and several other inventors, perhaps their 'different kinds of minds' would come up with something totally abstract and out of the realm of an engineer's rigid training and way of thinking. These are the people that should be addressing this problem...in my humble opinion.

Please save our beaches, plant and animal life and prevent Florida from becoming one big tar beach with cans of kerosene at the boardwalks to clean your feet before putting them back into your shoes. This is a memory I have from my childhood along the Jersey shore--cleaning my feet with kerosene. Lovely, isn't it?

Taking a Break -- #Fridayflash

2010-06-04T11:51:00.004-04:00

This is a #fridayflash story. Comments, good or bad, are welcome. Constructive criticism is particularly welcome.

People in the bar were getting restless. They had come to hear some jazz. A 20 minute band break had turned into 30. The drummer was missing. Finally the musicians gathered on stage without him and started playing with the bass player picking up the rhythm on his own. Elena was singing the Girl from Ipanema. The guitar player looked at the sax player with raised eyebrows and shrugged. He hadn’t shown up in the underground garage to participate in the early coke break. Now after the second break everyone was buzzing along without him.

Cadillac Jim was sitting in his Toyota mini-van, tears running down his cheeks. Everyone wondered why his nickname was Cadillac when he drove a Toyota but that was not important now. He knew he should go back into the bar. It didn’t matter. He would not be able to contain his emotions and they would be incongruous with the jazz he was hired to play. But the demolition team, in the form of his future ex-wife, had turned his happy future into a slow motion implosion similar to the one he had seen on TV when the old basketball arena had been torn down last week. Both his life and the arena would be rebuilt in new locations with new designs.

Lily had slammed the Toyota door and run to her own car just minutes ago. She was hysterical. She had wanted to drive away immediately but her shaking hands prevented her from gripping the steering wheel. They had only been engaged two weeks and now they were not. She knew this might happen. His divorce wasn’t final when they met but his wife was already living with another man. The wildcard was his daughter. There would be a custody battle. His gigs were always at night so he had essentially been a stay-at-home dad raising his little girl while his wife worked long hours. He couldn't imagine daily life without his child. Lily understood that. During their relationship she and Janie had gotten so close that this was like a divorce for her, too. She was not only losing Cadillac but also Janie and there was nothing she could do about it.

Cadillac was startled by a knock on his car window. It was Jeff, the bass player.

“What are you doin’ man? You missed a whole set. Get your act together and get back inside. We don’t want to lose this gig. I brought you a little blow to get you back on track,” Jeff said.

“Sorry, Jeff. Lily’s gone. Kelly told me last night that she doesn’t want the divorce. She wants to try and patch things up. As soon as she found out about Lily she broke up with her Elvis impersonator boyfriend. I guess Janie told her about our engagement.”

“Wow, man. What are you gonna do? I feel your pain. You know how much trouble I’ve had juggling my wife and Liv. My wife plays dumb about Liv but I know she knows.”

“I just can’t imagine never seeing Lily again. Do you think there’s a chance she’ll still want to see me?” Cadillac asked Jeff.

“Trust me, man. She’ll go on seeing you. I learned long ago, when it comes to women in this situation they’ll always hang on. After all, 50 percent of something is better than 100 percent of nothing. Come on. We’ve got to get back. You want some blow or not?”

B.B. King goes to Europe at age 84

2010-05-28T11:22:00.012-04:00

If all goes according to plan, B.B. King and his fabulous band have crossed the pond by now and will be in Paris Sunday or Monday. I won't be going but I hope the Europeans will be as kind to B.B. as the Americans have been. Keep in mind, he is an 84 year old blues legend and that can never change.

Why, you ask, is this significant to me, a little (4'10-1/2") blogger like me? Two of my dearest friends are likely to meet somewhere in France in the next few days. B.B.'s keyboard player, Ernest Vantrease, a.k.a. The Deacon, as he was known during the 30 years he played with Ray Charles, will meet with one of the co-founders of Soul Bag magazine, Joel Dufour. There should be two dots over the 'e' in Joel but I don't know how to make that happen on my blog.

Joel has devoted many years to interviewing and writing about American blues musicians, mostly black (or if I'm going to be p.c. African American or is it now Afro-American?) We all know what I mean and no offense is intended toward anyone, obviously since many of these musicians are my friends.

In his quest to identify the musicians behind the musicians, those whose names are recognizable only to serious music fans, Joel has sought out the people who played horns, drums, keyboards, guitars, etc. in order to give them credit and keep their memories alive. He is truly one of a kind.

I've seen a lot of concerts in the past 6 months. Each front-man introduced the members of their bands but usually the applause was louder than their names. Clapton gives his musicians their due and so does Roger Daltry but the only names I remember from their recent tour was Peter Townsend's brother (whose name I didn't catch) who is playing guitar in Peter's place due to his battle with deafness.

I realize the musicians in the background change from tour to tour, but don't you think that Clapton hand-picked those who would back him up? Can you name them? I can't.

Leon Russell and Willie Nelson did a better job. I liked the fact that Leon had a young guitar player, introduced him and let him do one of the guitar player's songs with the spotlight on him. That was classy.

When I saw Tony Bennett, he gave credit to every songwriter who had written the song he was about to sing as well as the artist who originally recorded the song and made it famous. That was super-classy, but I guess when you are 80 years old you have learned humility although Bennett always struck me as humble. Maybe that is something you can't learn.

Michael Buble is a terrific crooner who puts on a great show but he has not written a single song; he co-wrote "I just haven't met you yet" with his keyboard player, whose name I can't recall. He gives no credit to any songwriters and the young fans who created an atmosphere that could only be called 'Michael-mania' screamed and carried on, throwing roses on stage just as a teenager might for the Jonas Brothers. I interviewed a few of these love-sick girls, who would be very disappointed to know that he has a steady girlfriend, and asked them if they knew who wrote the songs he sang. They all believe Michael did. He sang a song written by Leon Russell, one written by Bobby Darin and the list goes on. I also asked if the girls knew who the bandmembers were and they could not name a single one.

Alas, Joel Dufour has taken on a mighty task. Many of the great musicians he is trying to credit for their work are no longer alive but still deserve to be remembered. Leroy Cooper, of course is one of them. Most people don't know his name even though he stood front and center leading the Ray Charles orchestra for 20 years, doubling on baritone sax.

So it is with a happy heart that I wish for my friend Ernest Vantrease to meet with my committed friend, Joel Dufour to try to put together some of the musicians with the songs and albums on which they played and got no credit for on the liner notes.

Hats off to both of them for doing something that rarely gets done anymore, remembering the greats that are no longer with us but whose music will live forever.

Rent-a-Cow

2010-05-26T19:22:00.003-04:00

My husband an I attended a barbecue at a friend's house last week and were delighted to meet some new people. The party was in the next county in a lovely home with a pool. It was somewhat removed from the big city. We got into a discussion about property taxes and I learned about something that I thought I should share.

Did you know that in the state of Florida you can actually RENT cows? Apparently there is a law to provide a tax exemption for land being used for agricultural purposes. There are people buying property and putting cattle on the land, either buying or renting them, in order to receive a property tax exemption. You can read more in an article published in 2006.

There was one problem that is outlined in this article. Developers were buying up property, paying three times the value, in order to build large developments in the future. Until that time, they were putting livestock on the property and paying zero taxes as a result of this Florida law.

Governor Charlie Crist (I always wondered if his legal name is Charles or Charlie--just like I wonder about Charlie Sheen--real name or nickname?) vetoed a bill in 2009 to thereby reversing this exemption. He was applauded by some for doing so, although some disagreed. Please read the comments at the end of the article. There is one referring to someone's wife...I won't quote it here.

After reading this article, however, it does not appear to affect a small investor who puts some cows or goats on their undeveloped property. While eating hamburgers at the barbecue, I was informed that you can actually rent cows in order to get the agricultural tax exemption. I have not done any research but I keep hearing of celebrities and musicians who own ranches even though their primary residences are in other states, or in the case of musicians, they live on tour buses 40-50 weeks out of the year. I haven't done the research to find out if the tax exemption is valid in other states. I am not arguing the merits of this kind of law because it really doesn't affect me, however the people who commented certainly had some strong opinions.

Since I don't own any pieces of property other than the one on which my house sits comfortably in the middle of a subdivision whose Homeowners Association prohibits livestock within the gates, I am not going to have to worry about this any time soon. I could paint some black spots on my Maltese and possibly attach some udders but it is unlikely that she would pass for a cow. That being the case, I doubt I could rent her out as one, either.

Local news - Orlando

2010-05-24T21:06:00.003-04:00

Although prisoners continue to escape from the Osceola Jail and guards continue to get fired, no doubt reducing the staff which results in more prisoners escaping, I think it is significant to note that no alligators were trapped today while visiting neighbors whose homes were bought for their lakeside locations.

It might be worth noting that as of the moment, there may not be anything new regarding "The Case against Casey" although the local media may manufacture something for the 11 o'clock news if no alligators have been trapped by then.

By the way, even with a change in venue to another Florida city, how on earth can Casey Anthony get a fair trial after she has been featured on the news for the last two years almost daily? This just in--well actually it's a few weeks old--the tax payers are now providing legal expenses for the alleged murderer now that her attorney has sucked her dry and she has been declared indigent. No wonder there is a new cigar tax increasing the price by $1-4 depending upon the quality of the stick. I guess the cigar smokers are going to be footing the legal bills while the small business owners of the local cigar lounges go out of business. After that, I guess the soda drinkers --- Argh! That's me! --- will have to take over the cost.

And then there's the cable news networks

2010-05-20T16:33:00.003-04:00

I remember when cable news started, CNN to be exact. It was all news all the time. I even visited the CNN building in Atlanta while waiting for a Braves game to start. There was an afternoon talk show, with a live audience, at 3 PM and I sat in on that one and asked a question on live TV. Oh boy! My face was broadcast all over the world! Perhaps that's what brought the station down. Maybe I was the beginning of the unraveling. I dare say I give myself too much credit.

Around the same time that CNN was unveiled, the Ted Turner company (who owned the Braves at the time) followed up with HNN, Headline News Networks, for people who only had 30 minutes to find out every possible news story that was happening around the world within the last 24 hours. A tough task, don't you think? Well, it must have been too tough. Now, HNN no longer has news headlines. CNN no longer has news shows. Of course, we may as well add in FOX News, which came along much later.

The point is that if you are really interested in knowing the news you have no choice but to go to the Internet. Those cable channels no longer broadcast news. They are devoted to providing forums for one hour editorials but some very extreme personalities. In this case, I'm giving them too much credit--some of them don't even have personalities. I like Anderson Cooper well enough. He's a pleasant kind of guy and has a famous mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, but she must have been very overbearing because he is one of the dullest guys on TV.

Contrast that with Glenn Beck. I have some friends and relatives who are Beck fans but he just makes me nervous to watch, even with the sound off. Cooper could put me to sleep at night and Beck could give me insomnia! I used to like Greta VanSusteran until her ratings got too high and they had to boost O'Reilly's (also not a fan) so they ruined her show and made it just another show. Now, let's talk about Nancy Grace. Where do they find these people? I don't know of a single 1 hour comedy or drama show that hasn't had a Nancy Grace lookalike (Boston Legal comes to mind) satirizing her role, which is what she appears to be playing--a role--on her show.

My biggest quandary came when I had started watching a morning news show on CNN years ago with Bill Hemmer. Then he disappeared. And then he reappeared ON FOX! Okay, Bill, make up your mind. You're doing an 'Arlen Specter' here. Bill started out on CNN which became the liberal news network and then went to FOX which is supposed to be the conservative news network. Are you having a problem, Bill? Change of heart as you get older?

I could go on and on but instead I think I'll go watch the only news personality I like on any of the networks: Neil Cavuto. Neil's such a nice guy. He never mentions the fact that he has some serious health problems related to MS and that he's a cancer survivor. He doesn't play victim. He's optimistic even on a day like today when the market is down 374 points. He likes junk food and listens to both sides of an issue without cutting people off. I don't know if I'm any better informed after watching his show but I just like the guy. He's from New Jersey and so am I.

Local news - New revelations

2010-05-20T14:17:00.004-04:00

It may sound like I'm obsessing on the boring subject of local network news but I feel compelled to follow up on my earlier post "Taking credit for the news." Keep in mind I normally read, write in my journal or figure Sudoku puzzles (I read it prevents Alzheimer's disease) during the news so I'm not always WATCHING the news; it's more like background noise. I guess I have become somehat of a news analyst--not exactly an analyst of the news itself but of the newscasts.

As I stated in that piece, I have switched to a different station at 11 o'clock while waiting to see what Nightline is featuring, who Jay's guests will be and then most likely switching to the Colbert Report, as long as it's not a rerun. By the way, who reruns shows that are so based on real-time events? That's a rhetorical question--the obvious answer is The Comedy Channel who broadcasts old episodes of the Colbert Report. Isn't that sort of like rerunning the local or national news two weeks after it happened?

Even before I switched, I remember asking myself why it takes two people to read the news. Sometimes the female anchor will read the first line of a story and then the male, says, "That's right, Marti" and continues to read the rest of the story. I shouldn't complain about this considering the problem of unemployment. At least the networks are doing their part to save jobs.

Last night I actually watched the opening of the show on my newly adopted channel. Did you know that the anchors on this new show actually read the news standing up? These two attractive people stand in front of the camera, often in full-length shots, while they read the news? The woman has carefully coiffed flowing blonde hair and great legs accentuated by her high heels, (even though according to John Wiswell they were banned in France due to their negative effect on foot health). The man is quite handsome--unfortunately they don't show his legs, though, and he isn't wearing high heels as far as I can tell.

Can someone explain to me why it adds to a news broadcast for the anchors to be standing up, holding sheets of papers in their hands instead of sitting at a desk with the papers flat in front of them? And why there are any papers anyway when they're reading off of the TelePrompTer? Is this happening in other markets around the country? You probably can't answer that because I'm the only person in the country who still watches local news on television.

I have just one more comment before I let go of this subject forever. The weatherman on this channel reports the weather (again holding papers in his hands) with one eyebrow cocked, chin tilted down, staring up at the camera using a voice similar to one I saw in a John Candy movie years ago. At first I thought I was imagining it, then I thought he was just fooling around. Now I know--THIS IS REALLY HOW HE REPORTS THE WEATHER! Weather in Florida is a joke to begin with because weathermen here have the only job in the country where you can be wrong 50% of the time and still stay employed.

Well, my friend(s), there is only one network station left and I seriously doubt I will even bother to take a peek, although now I'm curious to see what kind of gimmick they've got going on. There's the station that takes credit for the news, the one where the anchors are young and attractive and stand up during the newscast and--yes I will have to find out about the other one. I can't resist. After all, I am a news show analyst now. If only I could get paid for this!

One last footnote, the alligator last night was 11 feet long and trapped only a few feet from a homeowner's front door.

Taking credit for the news

2010-05-18T16:51:00.005-04:00

I try not to be a complainer. Really. I don't whine, I don't criticize and I'm tolerant of most human flaws. I stay out of politics and don't discuss religion because everybody has their own perspective and I respect that. But something finally got my goat and I feel the need to say something.

Most people I know don't watch the local news programs--and with good reason. Often the reports are inaccurate or by the time they hit the airwaves new developments have occurred and it's too late to change the TelePrompTer (I don't know why, but John Irving spelled it that way in The Fourth Hand and I defer to his genius and will follow his lead).

It goes without saying--nix that cliche--let me start again. News on the Internet is much more current. It seems to be updated almost before it actually happens. Perhaps some soothsayer is using a crystal ball predicting what twists and turns a story will take. Ah, but I digress--nix that cliche, too.

Back on topic, I am the one person in the Orlando area who still watches the 11 o'clock news almost every night. It's not that I really am interested in who broke into which ATM or drove through a storefront in Marion County. I watch it because John Stewart is a little too animated for me at bedtime and there's nothing else on before Nightline, Colbert or Leno. Each night I have to make the major decision on which to watch after the news. I won't even mention Letterman--oops! I just did. I don't watch him no matter who his guests are.

Since I usually enjoy Nightline I turn the channel to the news that comes on before it. I won't mention the call letters but they start with WFTV. The anchors have been anchored there for so long that they are both about my age and I like that. I've met them at local events and feel like we're old friends. However, they have finally lost one more viewer--ME--and I wonder if they will survive now that I'm gone!

What could have made me change channels, you ask? (Well if you didn't, I asked for you.) It's a simple thing really. Whoever is writing their scripts has decided that the most important word in the English language is "we." Before each news story whichever anchor is reading the first line starts out with the word "we." I'll give you an example. "We were on the scene earlier this evening right after a man robbed a liquor store. We first told you about this story on the 5 o'clock news." Okay, so then why are you telling me that you already told me? If I had watched at 5 o'clock I wouldn't be watching now. Sometimes they even go way out there, "We first told you about this story last July when we were the first ones to report the original story that we uncovered."

"We were the first camera crew on the scene at the school where a bomb threat was called in." Who cares if you were there first? Which is the story--that you were there before the other camera crew or that there was a bomb threat at a school?

By the end of the 35 minute broadcast--which, by the way is something else I don't understand--why is the news 35 minutes now instead of 30?--I think that even Elmer Fudd would be tired of starting words with a 'w'. I told my husband about this and he thought I was exaggerating so he stayed up later than usual to check it out. In the first three minutes of the broadcast, five sentences had started with the word 'we.' Hubby looked at me as if I were a purple pineapple! He couldn't believe that the man he had watched long before he met me had gone down this wayward path. Sad, so sad.

In all fairness, I did write to the station manager before I posted this on my blog. I got no response. I didn't expect one. The wonderful thing in America is that we have freedom of choice and all I had to do was pick up the remote and press a button and there were two, younger, more attractive people actually reporting the news such as it was. It was a slow news days and they spent an inordinate amount of film footage showing a three legged alligator slowly trying to make its way from someone's front lawn back to the lake. It is alligator mating season so there's a story almost every night about these reptiles trespassing on homeowner's property and footage of trappers capturing and returning them to a lake somewhere. But this story was different. No trapper was needed. The alligator was headed in the right direction, moving slowly with its right hind stump toward the camera lens and the anchors saying, "Awwww."

That, my loyal reader(s) is why I switched from one local news program to another. At least this guy and his co-anchor weren't saying, "We watched the gator in awe because we wondered how he had lost his leg and why we didn't have a camera crew on hand when it happened."

Thanks for the Song - #fridayflash

2010-05-15T11:42:00.003-04:00

The faraway song of the sirens had grown to a screeching wail before stopping abruptly. What seemed like nonstop footsteps replaced the wailing. I was expecting a loud thud as the emergency team broke through the door. The sound of the turning knob was somewhat disappointing. Apparently the door was unlocked. Uniformed firemen rushed into the bedroom. On the bed was a small figure propped up on pillows, arms wrapped tightly around the midsection. The wild words of pain were written across the face. No sounds were uttered. Eyes resembled those in “The Scream”.

Paramedics did their job. Checked vitals, carefully unfolded the trembling body and transferred it onto a gurney. There was a snap as the height of the gurney dropped and carried it down the stairs, only slightly heavier when then they’d brought it up. And then the sirens started again. They sounded buffered from inside the bus, enveloping the mind. The hospital was only blocks away. Again the snap as the legs of the gurney extended so the wheels would reach the pavement. Then, no more pavement—smooth floors—wheeled into an examination room. People in blue surrounded her. Voices were indistinguishable. It was just noise. This is what it is like to be in shock. Everyone was moving and doing something but all sensation was focused on the pain. Finally sleep came as a release.

The hospital room was quiet. The IV drip was infused with morphine. Pain was replaced with peace but the quiet was deafening. There was no TV in the room. No radio. No roommate. On the bedside table was a phone. After dialing the number a friendly voice finally broke through. WNEW, Vin Scelsa here.

“Hi Vin. It’s me. I’m in the hospital.”

“Oh my God. What happened? Were you in an accident?”

“No, I don’t think so. I woke up with so much pain I couldn’t move. I called 911 and now I’m somewhere in Teaneck in a hospital room.”

“Do they know what’s wrong? Can you hold on a minute?

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And that was the haunting sound of Leonard Cohen to cheer up those depressive listeners.”

A commercial could be heard through the phone.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m still here. I love Leonard Cohen.”

“I know. What are you doing in the hospital?”

“Mostly just laying here enjoying the morphine right now. I woke up and the pain was gone but nobody’s been in the room so I assumed it was night and I took a chance and thought I might get through to you. I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got my attention. What do you think is happening?”

“I don’t know. I was okay when I went to bed but right now I’m hoping that death will come soon and put me out of my misery. If the drugs wear off I won’t be able to stand that pain again. I’d rather be dead.”

“Don’t say that! Stay on the phone with me while I get some music going. I’ve got something cued up. It seems only logical to follow Leonard with Joanie. You’re listening to Vin Scelsa on WNEW-FM. Okay, I’m back. Can you hear the music?”

“Yup. It’s so good to hear music.”

“I’m going to help you through the night, Suzi Butterfly. Just tell me what you want to hear and I’ll let you program the show. Will that help you hang in?”

“Just hearing your voice, Vin, helps. It’s good to know I have a friend who I can call in the middle of the night. The music is great. Weird to be in a room with no TV or radio. Mostly the radio. You know me, I can’t live without my music.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Something bluesy by Clapton. How ‘bout Bell Bottom Blues?”

“Coming right up. Just relax and keep listening. Don’t let go, okay? I’ll stay with you through the night.”

The dreaminess was surreal. The darkened room. The telephone laying on the pillow next to her ear. Music flowing from the receiver interrupted by her friend’s voice and encouragement.

“There’s no place like home,” Dorothy said. That was the morning sign-off to his program that started at midnight with, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Vin took his listeners on a trip to Oz every night and then brought them back again. Many of them were enjoying the trip anyway.

Vin was now talking in his velvety voice without interruption.

“The sun should be coming up soon. Are you still with me?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry you’re going home, though.”

“Do you want me to come by the hospital on my way?”

“No. I’ll just wait for the doctors and find out what’s going on.”

“Alright Butterfly. Call me at home as soon as you know. Fredda should be up by then and you know I don’t go to sleep until later.”

“Thanks, Vin. If I live through this, this is a night I’ll never forget.”

“Don’t say that, Suzi. You’re gonna get through it. Call me.”

Reverie swept her into a place far away. Maybe this was Oz. A nurse came in and shattered the delusion. Time for vital signs again.

“The doctors will be in to talk to you in a few minutes.”

And then there were men in white jackets. Was this an asylum?

“The tests show your gall bladder is full of stones. We’re going to operate this morning. After we get it out of there you should feel much better.”

Widening eyes looked up at their blurry faces. Surgery?

“Do you have any questions? Who can we call?”

“Nobody. I’m on my own. Do I need to sign anything?”

“The nurse will be in with the paperwork. We’re getting the O.R. ready. You’ll have to stay here for a week after surgery and then you should be good to go.”

Alone again. The shuffling sound of feet brought back reality. The nurse was standing by the bed with papers to be signed.

“Why is the phone off the hook?” she asked as she picked up the receiver and put it back in its cradle.

Meeting Leroy Cooper - memoir of conversations

2010-05-12T11:17:00.005-04:00

The great philosopher Yogi Berra once said, "If you come to a fork in the road take it." I had come to that fork. I have written a book that is near completion was not taking the right course. I had almost decided to ditch the book and close my business. I make a decent living writing articles and I thought that maybe I should stick to that for now.

Last week I had an epiphany. I saw my friend, Ernest Vantrease, keyboard player for B.B. King. The band was in town for a show. After visiting with Ernie and feeling the strong bond we share I considred our history and how we got to know each other. When I traced my steps back to our meeting I realized that I was taking the wrong approach to the book. My original plan had been to write Leroy Cooper's memoir. In fact, that project took on a life of its own during the 2-1/2 years that I worked with Leroy. I met many people who knew him, did interviews with a variety of people, many of whom played with Ray Charles when Leroy was his bandleader, and even had one of them visit and stay in my home in order to attend Leroy's funeral.

After seeing Ernie I realized that what I should be writing is my brief memoir describing the experiences since I met Leroy Cooper and how that first meeting led me to where I am today. Of course, Leroy's stories are a large part of my story but each one took me in a direction that I chose to pursue in tracking down old friends of his and forming some new relationships. And therein lies the story.

I have a new plan and will follow this path right up until the present. I have heard the expression, "Write about what you know." Well, there is nothing I know better than my own experiences told from my point of view. I was never intended to be a ghost writer on the project and I am not a ghost. I am a writer and have decided to start from the beginning, about 3 years ago and bring it forward.

I don't care what they say...

2010-05-08T17:38:00.007-04:00

There's an old song that was recorded by Peter & Gordon back in the '70s I think. It's called A World Without Love. The chorus goes something like this: "I don't care what they say I won't live in a world without love."

Of course I agree with those sentiments but I'd like to add that I wouldn't want to live in a world without music. As some of my favorites age I am looking for young musicians to listen to. I need to be prepared to replace my favorites with new ones.

In the past 6 months I have been to many concerts including: Willie Nelson, Eric Clapton, Roger Daltry, Leon Russell and B.B. King.

Russell has been a favorite of mine since I heard his first album A Song For You. He is 68 and has had brain surgery recently but is still performing and putting on a good show.

Nelson is 76. He's recording some great music and sings like a bird with his unmistakeable voice.

Daltry (not to be confused with Daughtry, an up and coming rock star who was voted off American Idol) is the only member of the Who left performing. Peter Townsend, the brilliant songwriter who brought us our first rock opera, Tommy, is stone deaf and expected to have implant surgery. If it is successful, Daltry said, they will be back on the road touring together within the year.

King is 84 and I would venture a guess that his recording career may be over. He has left us a great deal of music and will never be gone in my heart and ears. He is still touring but probably not for much longer. He has a GREAT band who should keep going when the time comes. His keyboard player, Ernest Vantrease a.k.a. The Deacon, played with Ray Charles until 2004 when Ray died (passed, as they say now). Ernie is still young and will find another gig when the time comes. He is my friend and I go to see B.B. every time he comes to town just to see Ernest and hear him play. (The picture above is from 5/4/2010 with my friend Ernie and my hubby.)

And then there's Clapton. I've been listening to Clapton since his first album with Cream, Disraeli Gears, was brought across the pond. I have watched his life take twists and turns. Nobody thought he would survive his addiction and then the loss of his son. His music has evolved in rhythm with his life and strangely enough, with mine.

I listen to him a little bit every day--or almost every day--at least in my head. I could not tell you which of his albums is my favorite. Every year I wait anxiously for a new one to be released and I fall in love with him--er, I mean his music--all over again.

Eventually, everybody has to die. I know the current politically correct word is "pass" not die but either way he won't be recording anymore. I fear that day.

Let me simply say that I hope he outlives me because I don't care what they say, I don't want to live in a world without Clapton! Okay, okay. I'm not going to do anything stupid but I think I've made my point. Have to go now, Eric's on TV singing Hoochie Coochie Man.

In line with my last post, I think I'll designate May 8 as Clapton Day. And maybe, May 9. And maybe, well, let's just say that every day is Clapton Day in my little world.

New Hallmark Holiday

2010-05-08T14:40:00.004-04:00

Hallmark has built a whole segment of its business creating new fake holidays. I'll bet that if you search the world wide web you could find something to celebrate everday and if enough people recognized that day Hallmark would create a card for it. Google, you may have noticed, beat them to the punch by displaying graphics for some of the most obscure days to celebrate. Of course, everyday you wake up (as opposed to not waking up) is a holiday in my book and should be celebrated accordingly but I can't envision a card that says,

Happy Day,
You woke up today to see the skies
Weather is just weather you realize
Cloudy, rainy, sunny or overcast
Live today like it's your last.
Have a nice day!

Actually, that sounds like a pretty good idea but I won't be calling it in to Hallmark any time soon.

And to keep in line with tomorow's holiday I think a special day should be set aside for step-mothers. Mothers should be acknowledged for being mothers. After all, they went through the process of childbirth and there's a lot to be said for that.

Personally, though, I don't think step-mothers should be celebrated on Mother's Day. I think that we should have a day of our own. It could be on a Monday or Wednesday Those are both bad TV nights in my house so any excuse to go out to dinner is worthy.

Administrative Assistant Day is on Wednesday and it is most certainly a Hallmark holiday that was originally Secretary's Day before being a secretary became a shameful occupation. That's the day when managers of both sexes acknowledge their surrogate wives/husbands for taking care of them for 8 to 10 hours a day.

I know this country is abundant with step-mothers. Wouldn't you like to have a day when you weren't competing with birth mothers? Children wouldn't feel obligated to figure out how not to offend one or the other and birth mothers wouldn't have to say "She is not your mother. Only I am your mother."

Ah, heck. Forget it. No more holidays. No more cards. Being celebrated, thanked or respected for just one day out of 365 isn't that important. Let's go back to my earlier idea. Each day is a good one regardless of whether someone tells you it is or not. Celebrate it as if it were you birthday. Be good to yourself and kind to others. When a cashier says, "Have a nice day" as he hands you your receipt, say "Thank you, I will because today is my day."

I think I'll celebrate waking up this morning and go shopping and buy myself a present! That sounds like a plan.

Happy Mother's Day and for the rest of you Happy Day!

Blue Sweater - #Fridayflash

2010-05-07T22:04:00.004-04:00

Here is my Mother's Day story for #Fridayflash (check it out on Twitter). Please comment and/or critique as you see fit.

“I can’t find my blue sweater,” Addy whined from her bedroom. Addy had that frustrated look on her face that is so common with tweens—you know, the ‘whatever’ generation. Her mother was preparing lunches downstairs for Addy and her brother and looked up with a half smile on her face. She recognized the tone of her daughter’s voice.

“Have you looked in your closet?” she yelled to her daughter.

“Of course I looked in my closet. What are you making me for lunch? Oh no, not peanut butter and bananas again. My friends all bring things like ham and cheese and they think I’m poor because you keep giving me peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”

It was obvious that her mother didn’t understand what being a 12 year old girl was like these days.

“What did you do with my sweater, Mom?”

“Did you look in your middle drawer? Why not look in all your drawers. Maybe I just put it in the wrong drawer after I did the laundry.”

That would be just like her mother, Addy thought, putting her sweater in the wrong place.

“No, it’s not in any of my drawers. I wanted to wear that sweater today. It’s my favorite. I’ve looked everywhere. What did you do with it?”

“Addy, what can I do to you if I come upstairs and find that sweater in your room? Hmmm?”

Silence.

“Can I ground you for the weekend?”

Silence.

“Can I spank you?”

Silence.

“Can I take away your cell phone for a week?”

Finally, Addy couldn’t stand it anymore. She knew her mother wouldn’t find it in her room so she yelled, “Yes! Yes! Yes! You can do all of those things. But you’ll never find it because it’s not There.”

Mom finished packing the lunches and walked up the stairs and stood in Addy’s doorway. Her daughter sat on the bed in her bra and jeans sulking.

“It’s lost!” she said.

Mom walked over to Addy’s closet. The floor was covered with clothes, some clean and some dirty. Bending over the pile, her mother lifted a pair of rejected jeans out of the stack. Under those there was a tee shirt with a peace symbol on it and spread out beneath that was a nightshirt.

“See? I told you it was lost,” Addy whined.

And then her mother picked up the nightshirt and there it was—the blue sweater. Without a word she picked up the sweater and smelled the armpits. It hadn’t been worn since she had washed it. She put it on the bed, smoothed it out while Addy looked on in amazement.

“You found it!” she wailed. “Oh mom, thank you!” she said as she slipped the sweater over her head.

“Turn around,” her mother said.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why?” Addy said as she started to turn.

“Because I’m going to spank you, and then take away your cell phone and, by the way you’re grounded for the weekend.”

Addy’s face froze. “My cell phone? Grounded for the weekend? Go ahead and spank me but don’t take away my cell phone!” Panic had overcome Addy’s 12 year old face.

“Say please,” her mother said.

“Please, mom, please?”

“Okay, Addy. You’re blue sweater looks nice but you should take better care of your things. Go downstairs and get your lunch. You’re going to miss the bus.”

In a flash Addy was down the stairs leaving her mother standing there smiling. As she ran out the door her mother heard her say quietly, “I love you, mom.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Addy knew.

© Susan Cross May 2010

Clark as in Bar

2010-04-29T22:18:00.005-04:00

This is my #FridayFlash story for week 49. I am open to critiques and comments.

Shellie sat at the bar sipping her Stoli on the rocks following with a swallow of water with a wedge of lemon floating in it. She always ordered her liquor on the rocks with a glass of water on the side. That helped her keep track of how much she drank. The band would be starting soon. She only went to clubs that featured live music, preferably rock.

Now that her divorce was final she fantasized about what direction her life would take. Perhaps she would flee this city and start out fresh assuming a new identity. Maybe go back to using her full name, Michele, and her maiden name enabling her to disappear from her past.

The air stirred and she glanced to her right as a man pulled out the bar stool next to her and sat down. He waved at the bartender and ordered a Michelob. Shellie stared at her drink, picked it up and took another sip, another drink of water. As she put the water glass back on the bar the beer was delivered to her new neighbor. He reached for it and she saw the black leather sleeve with a ragged tattoo peeking out. She glanced at her cell phone next to her drink to check the time. As usual the band was late. She turned toward the stage and saw that they were at least standing there pretending to adjust amps and equipment.

Before her body swiveled back toward the bar, she felt fingers on her wrist. They tightened instantly. It happened so fast she didn’t quite absorb the feeling of foreboding danger. When she looked up to her right the man in the leather jacket looked her in the eyes. His greasy black hair was hanging down over his temples, parted in the middle. He had a firm grip on her now and he spoke very quietly. Then she heard that sound. She recognized it from the stairwells in high school so many years ago in northern New Jersey. Click! It was the unmistakable sound of a switchblade.

“We’re going to get up quietly and walk out of here together smiling. Understand?”

She couldn’t speak or move. He pulled up on her wrist. She looked at him trying to figure out what to do. Scream? It was pretty loud around the bar. Would anybody hear her? The bartender was busy mixing margaritas. It finally occurred to her that she should be scared but somehow her body didn’t register fear. After her violent marriage it seemed like all her fear had been used up.

He was standing now tugging on her arm. She felt the point of the knife through her tee shirt. The smile on his face was glaring at her as if he had already claimed his conquest.

Suddenly the house lights dimmed as the stage came alive with music. She was frozen. He was sneering at her, standing next to the barstool, one hand on her wrist, the other holding the knife tip against her skin. She felt a tap on her left shoulder and turned away from her assailant.

“Hey, how have you been? It’s been weeks since you’ve been here. It feels like months. C’mon, let’s dance. If I remember correctly, this is one of your favorite songs.” She had never seen this blond man before in her life. Smiling widely he took her left hand to help her off the barstool. He looked genuinely happy to see her and she didn’t have a clue who he was. Could she have met him somewhere else when she was too drunk to remember?

Her right wrist was suddenly released. The pressure of the knife blade instantly disappeared. She peeked over her right shoulder as she moved toward the blond stranger. Leather jacket looked disgusted as he stepped down off the bar stool and headed for the door.

She forced her feet to follow this blond man to the dance floor. He put his arm around her back and took her hand in his and started to dance, holding her close but not too close. He looked into her face and smiled. She looked blankly back.

“I was waiting for the bartender to come over and I saw that guy pull the knife. You looked like you needed rescuing.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Clark Graham. What’s yours?”

“What?” She thought she must have heard him wrong. The music was very loud.

“Clark Graham. You know, Clark as in bar, Graham as in cracker.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Why would anyone make up a name like that?”

© Susan Cross, April 30, 2010

"Tomorrow" written for Poem in your Pocket Day

2010-04-29T13:29:00.005-04:00

Copyright Susan Cross

Frustration fills my mind. My body overflows with hurt. I ask myself, is the world coming to an end?
Dressed in tank top, shorts and flip flops I walk 11 blocks east to the beach.
Sitting facing the water I wait for the waves to stop flowing. They keep slowly gurgling toward the sand.
If the world were coming to an end, the ocean would become still.
I sit for awhile listening to the water lapping towards me and then receding revealing seashells of different colors and shapes.
Eventually, I look at the blue sky, pull myself up and walk 11 blocks back home.
Tomorrow will follow today and hopefully extinguish these feelings replacing them with hope and joy.

The trip is half the fun of reaching the destination

2010-04-28T09:46:00.008-04:00

I stopped by Twitter one day last week and read a tweet that made me joyful. Don't get me wrong, tweets often make me laugh, some make me snarl, some make me wonder if the tweeter has a life other than that on Twitter but ah, this one was different. I learned that Yann Martel, the author of Life of Pi has a new book out. Beatrice and Virgil is now available. I waited until my coupon came from Borders in my emailbox and rushed down to buy a copy. To my surprise, it was not up front in the New Books. It was not on the shelf in the New Fiction section. It was not even on the Staff Picks display. I had to ask Louisa, one of the booksellers, as they are called at Borders where I could find it. I was shocked to learn that it was already in the fiction/literary section filed away with authors going back as far as Balzac and Dumas. What an injustice!

The good news is that I bought the little book and have it right underneath my journal on my bedside table. I'm trying to put off reading it for a few days because I always feel that the anticipation is almost as good as the experience.

It feels almost the same as when I crave a package of Golden Oreos. I love Golden Oreos! Two weeks ago I went to the 7-11 and bought a pack of 6 because if I went to the grocery store and bought the large package I would have eaten them all. I kept that little packet sitting on my planner right next to my computer for 5 days! Five days! I looked at them. I could almost taste them. Just knowing they were there gave me comfort and something to look forward to, and then it happened. I got an email with some unexpected news and I knew the time had come. I grabbed that little yellow packet in my stubby little fingers (I have small hands) and tore it open. The first cookie I ate in two bites. The second I put in my mouth whole and just let it dissolve on my tongue as if it were a Tic Tac mint. Then I became more deliberate. I took little tiny bites of the third one and cherished every morsel. By then I could have stopped and saved the other three but I didn't. I felt a tidal wave pushing my fingers back to the packet and alas, before I knew it I had eaten all six. The sad part is I don't remember the last two.

Well, back to my new book. I am going to try to wait until this weekend to crack it open, but just in case I can't I know it's within reach waiting for me.

Thanks to Jai Joshi for her inspiration. Check out her blog. You will see a pleasant surprise today. Be prepared though, the picture can be a little unnerving for you gentlemen.

Why I Write

2010-04-23T17:32:00.005-04:00

I finally understand why I write as opposed to other arts, some of which I'm fairly good at (not great). Two months ago I offered to make a quilt for a fundraiser at the Cape Canaveral Branch of the National League of American Pen Women. Whew! That's a mouthful, er lineful.

My intentions were good. I do enjoy quilting but haven't made a quilt in about a year. I have enough fabric to make at least 20 quilts but that is normal for a quilter. I bought an under-the-bed container to hide my precious store away but it was so full it didn't fit under the bed. So the quilt room, which was going to be converted into a guest room or office, remains a quilt room.

After the meeting of the NLAPW at which I made the commitment I went into the quilt room and started looking through the fabric. Originally it was going to be a scrap quilt to use up odds and ends of the smaller pieces in my scrap box. Can you believe that some quilters throw them away? Just because they're only 2 inches squeare...

I got out a pattern and cut the scraps into squares and triangles and followed the instructions to throw them all in a bag, pull them out one at a time and sew. The pattern assured me that they would all go together and look great once it was done. WRONG! After cutting and digging out squares and sewing them altogether I had the ugliest quilt top I've ever seen! I realized I was going to have to get more serious about the project. Now keep in mind that I write for magazines and therefore I'm very deadline oriented, which means that I always meet my deadlines, just barely. This quilt project would be no exception.

Six days ago I selected fabrics with blues, yellows, greens and white in them, got out a non-scrap pattern and started cutting--again. Then going step by step (and there were a lot of steps) until finally the quilt top was done three days later. By the way, if you don't quilt, making the top is the fun part so I was enjoying myself. Then came the not-so-fun part. I had to piece the backing, sew it, press it and pin it to the rug; put the batting on top and smooth it out; lay the beautiful quilt top on that, smooth it out; and then get down on my hands and knees and start pinning the 'sandwich' together. By the time I was done with that, day 4, every muscle in my body ached.

I spent day five catching up on real-life things, like grocery shopping, going to the bank and other such mundane errands. When I came home, there was no way to avoid it. I had to start the quilting process.

"Honey, Jeopardy's coming on," my husband shouted to me over the whir of the sewing machine. I told him to keep his score and I'd have to skip one night because I was running out of time. I started stippling. Stippling is a term that means you sew in little patterns that resemble jig-saw puzzle pieces continuously until the entire quilt is held together. That takes a LONG time and hurts your neck and shoulders. I got about 1/4 of the quilt stippled before I stopped for the night.

Today is day 6. I finished stippling. It took hours but looks great. Now all I have to do is cut the binding strips, sew them together end to end, add them to the quilt, handstitch them to the back, make a label and I'll be done! There's only one problem, tomorrow is day 7 and I have to leave for the fundraiser at 10 AM. In other words I have a long night ahead of me, but I will meet my deadline. I've never missed one.

All of a sudden, writing seems to be much more fun. I have two articles to write next week and maybe I'll even write some flash fiction. Even if I just write emails and grocery lists, now I know why I'm a writer!

Copyright Susan Cross

Collaboration in the Arts: Brevard County Florida

2010-04-21T18:48:00.002-04:00

This is a broadcast of a press release for anyone on the Spacecoast of Florida who might be interested. Contact info is at the bottom of this post.

Collaboration in the Arts: Discussion Forum

Join us May 6 at 6:30 p.m. in the Harris Auditorium of the Brevard Art Museum for a free and open forum on the topic of Collaboration in the Arts. The evening will open with questions directed to two of the artist-poet pairs who participated in the year long creative collabation project known as Transformations. These artists worked with someone they did not previously know and who excelled in a different field. Their work is now hanging in the Museum exhibit as an example of what happens when ideas and nuances are shared.

The audience will be welcome to participate by bringing their questions and own experiences to share and discuss. We will seek to uncover the benefits and the drawbacks to working with another individual and ways that artists can use this experience to enhance not only their future techniques but their ideas and inspirations. Painters, writers, poets, dancers, musicians, sculptors, potters and actors are all invited to attend.

For more information contact Bobbie at 321.254.7782