Goodbye Senor Blues – Hello to The Faces of Cape Verde

19 06 2014

The last 3 posts to this blog have had to do with death and depression. Don’t get the wrong idea. I may be an old geez (to use one of my kids favorite expressions when they were growing up) but I do not intend this to become an obituary blog. However, I will honor my heroes when they pass on. We lost Horace Silver this week – a great musician, composer and recognizer of talent.

Horace’s dad came from Capo Verde. So does Cesaria Evora – the internationally known singer of Morna (Capo Verde’s national music). This video captures the spirit and people of an island that has given me much joy without ever going there.

The closest I’ve come to Capo Verde was in Sao Cristovao restaurant in the Alfama Barrio in Lisbon. If you go here…

http://www.thelisbonconnection.com/restaurant-sao-cristovao-alfama-lisbon-cheap-cape-verdean-african-dishes-favorite-local-place-owner-maria-levy/

you’ll get a sense of the place and the people of Capo Verde. The night we went Maria took our order. The order was to “bring us what you recommend.” The working class guys at the only other occupied table (it was a late night) chuckled as they ate huge quantities of chicken stew. Maria’s grandson and daughter entertained us and themselves while we waited with a patois of Span-Portu-glish. By the time the food arrived (including a huge serving dish of the chicken stew) we felt we were part of the family. About halfway through the meal Maria’s daughter led a 50-or-60 something man whose face might be on the “Elle Chante” video to our table. He spoke English and we chatted a while.

When I mentioned that I liked Cesaria Evora he said, “Just a minute.” and walked to the music player. I can’t remember if it was a CD player or tape. Regardless Cesaria’s “Sodade” came on.

He returned to the table and I asked him if liked jazz. He broke into a wide grin of affirmation. “How about Horace Silver?” The grin widened and he walked away. In a few minutes he came back with complimentary beers, a beaming smile and a shuffle done to “Song for my Father” which was booming from the music system’s speakers. Music is the universal language and Horace spoke it well. He was articulate, multi-lingual, and the swinging father of HARD-BOP. I’ll miss you, man. Here’s the original and a vocal from Dee Dee Bridgewater. Thanks for leaving behind such happy beautiful music, Horace. RIP. A 20 min ute version of “Song for My Father” follows the NYT obituary.

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/19/arts/music/horace-silver-85-master-of-earthy-jazz-is-dead.html?_r=0





WTF is a Tropical Depression?

4 06 2014

That terrible mood of depression of whether it’s any good or not is what is known as The Artist’s Reward.
Ernest Hemingway

weather

depression_s1_mayo

For years I’ve watched weather people of all genders, sizes ‘n’ shapes tell me there was a “tropical depression” heading my way.  It reached the point that when I knew one was coming I stayed my usual sunny Leo self to defy the forecasts. No longer.  This is about the 4th day of low pressure with no end in sight and to top it off my son is coming for his first visit to the Yucatan this weekend.

http://www.accuweather.com/en/weather-news/tropics-southwestern-gulf/28093613

The weather gods have forsaken me and him and I suppose we will spend 5 days in La Playa bemoaning the weather over tequila and mojitos. A fate that Poppa Hemingway became all too familiar with at the Floridita and Finco Vigia. I guess he knew all about “tropical depressions” too.

I have the cure. Maybe we should go to Cuba and have a drink with El Commandante, Chuchu Valdes and The Buena Vista Social Club…no mas depresion de tropical





Goodbye, Doctor Jack

1 05 2014

We lost one of the good guys this week – Jack Ramsay.  I graduated Saint Joe’s in 1965. That year in pre-season basketball we were rated # 1 by SI. Not bad for a school with a student body of 1500. The year before I sat in Doctor Jack’s History of Education class. We talked a little basketball before and after class but once class started it was all about the subject matter. When Bob Cousy and Boston College came to the fieldhouse CBS wanted to have some say in the scheduling of Doctor Jack’s timeouts during the game. No way. The game was too important and he called the timeouts as he saw fit. Not that it mattered, Saint Joe kicked their ass.

Ramsay coaches St. Joseph's in 1959. (AP)

 

ESPN created a list of the 100 Things to do Before You Graduate. 

  • # 12 Hear the “Hawk Will Never DIe” chant by the Saint Joe fans at the Palestra – college sports most defiant cheer..

College sports most defiant cheer came about mostly because of Philadelphia’s Big 5 basketball rivalries and Doctor jack’s influence on his team and his followers. Read these…

http://www.sportsillustrated.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1076812/3/index.htm    

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1078087/3/index.htm

Songs of Icarus, my novel in serach of a publisher, contains a section that honors Jack Ramsay and the spirit he helped to create. Here it is…

 

Jim rang the doorbell. Without a word Kyle opened the door then went back to watching TV.

“How’s it goin’?” Jim sat on the sofa in the living room.

“Everything’s cool.” Kyle didn’t turn from the TV screen.

“Who’s winning?” Diane’s father sat next to Jim.

“Penn 6 – 0. Dad, Brown stinks.” Mr. Hynes’ 11 year-old son didn’t mince words.

“Give me a break, Kyle. Brown’s my alma mater, Jim. Matter of fact I’ve got tickets for the game tonight. You interested?” Diane’s father took four tickets from his shirt pocket.

 “Villanova and St. Joe play in the second game. I’d love to see that game.”

“Second row behind the team bench and the others are a little further back. Brown’s coach and I were fraternity brothers. We had lunch today. Mrs. Hynes and I have the office Christmas party to go to. I thought you might be interested.”

“Kind of late to use all four, but if Diane wants to go we can use two of ‘em ‘n’ give the others away. We’re goin’ to a party but we could go to the game before.”

Diane bounded down the stairs in a Scotch-plaid pleated skirt, white blouse, dark green sweater, and penny loafers.

“Hey yer Dad’s got some tickets for the Palestra tonight. Saint Joe Villanova, ya wanna go?”

 “What about the party?”

“We can go after.” Jim nonchalantly waited to hear Diane say the right thing. The right thing being she wanted to go to the game.

“OK, let’s go. Never been to the Palestra.” Jim had told her about the Palestra because Annunciation would play there if they reached the City High School championship game. The name fascinated her.  Palestra was the gymnasium in ancient Greece where the wrestlers trained for the Olympics.

“We have to hurry. Free parking down there’s hard to find. I usually take the EL with my friends.”

“I need gloves.” Diane bounded back up the stairs.

“Thanks for the tickets, sir. I’ll find somebody for the other two.” Jim put the tickets in his jacket.

“You’re welcome. You kids be back by one.”

“Thanks a lot, Dad.” Diane returned wrinkling her nose at her father gloves-in-hand. She knew he didn’t like the idea of her going to the party at Peanuts’ house.

Jim parked in a vacant lot under the 30th Street Station that his father used when they went to the Palestra or Convention Hall for basketball. Groups of down-and-out winos stood around trash cans of burning rubbish on the banks of the Schuylkill – ‘hidden river’ in Dutch, unpronounceable in English – River that separated West Philadelphia from downtown.

“Up those steps and we’re on Walnut Street.” Assuming the role of protector for his green-eyed girl Jim took Diane’s hand. They were a long way from Villa St. Mary. He led her to a black forged-steel stairway ascending to a well-lit sidewalk. A damp wind blew across Walnut St. from the north with the hint of snow. With their heads tucked into turned-up collars they turned south on 33rd Street to join clusters of people walking hurriedly to the East Coast Mecca of college basketball. Ben Franklin never foresaw vendors hawking warm roasted peanuts and soft pretzels in front of his Federalist buildings. The pace slowed as they reached an oblong edifice with illuminated brick facing and large panels of plate glass configured into a colonial arch.

Two young men stood by the doors. “Anybody got tickets?” Jim wiggled his index finger. They came and he showed the 2 tickets.

“How much?”

“They’re yours.”

“Thanks, man. Cool seats,” The one with the tickets showed them to his buddy hurrying to the back of the line.

Jim pulled Diane by the hand. The queue moved along handing their tickets to a pot-bellied man chewing an unlit cigar butt wearing a blazer that matched the red of Penn’s Red-and-Blue crest. He was a leftover from the pre-war era when Penn recruited athletes who weren’t the “student-athletes” they boasted of in 1959.

Inside, a tiled hallway wound beneath a grandstand surrounding the hidden basketball court. Thirty years of dried sweat and rubbing liniment from past competitions scented the air. Within Penn’s wooden trophy cases turn-of-the-century lantern-jawed athletes peered stone-faced through the glass. The daguerreotypes and photographs depicted the university’s legendary football teams that were made up of the sons of Pennsylvania coal miners and Philadelphia insurance executives.

“He looks like Victor Mature in the Coliseum.” Diane pointed to the picture of a bloodied football player and followed Jim through an upward-sloping walkway that ended 10 feet or so above center court.

She was stunned by the sound and fury. “THE HAWK IS DEAD…THE HAWK IS DEAD.” The Villanova student body chanted from across the court.

“THE HAWK WILL NEVER DIE…THE HAWK WILL NEVER DIE.” St. Joe students responded behind them.

They sat down as Brown inbounded the ball Diane huddling on the wooden grandstand next to Jim. “Why are all these other fans yelling so much while the Penn game is still going on?”

“That’s the way it is. City Series’ games, especially Saint Joe-Villanova are like wars. The two schools waitin’ to play start cuttin’ on each other. It’s all part of the Big 5.”

The excitement of the crowd was more than audible to Diane it was as palpable as the bicep she squeezed sitting next to Jim. Red light bulbs showed that a little more than 3 minutes were left in the game. Penn was comfortably ahead. As the game ended a wing-flapping hawk led five male cheerleaders in crimson sweaters and gray slacks onto the court to a rousing cheer. The mascot’s outfit was a bunch of bedraggled feathers with a set of wings that seemed ready to disengage. The Saint Joe Hawk stood at the side of the court flapping his wings incessantly. Villanova regarded Saint Joseph College as a Jesuit lunatic asylum while the Saint Joe student body viewed Villanova as a playground for the wealthy followers of St. Augustine.

Another roar went up when Villanova’s wildcat mascot led ten blue-and-white clad players onto the court. The crowd noise rose again when St. Joe’s crimson and silver cheerleaders led their players from the opposite end. Diane tightened her grip. The gymnasium named after a training site in Greece took on the look of the Plains of Troy as the hawk and the wildcat engaged in a mock fist fight. Both teams finished warming up. The P.A. announcer tried to trumpet the starters’ 10 names but was drowned out in the pandemonium. The names didn’t matter, the crowd knew almost all of them from having played high school ball in Philadelphia.

The game began with Jim hunched over watching everything as if he were an artist memorizing a landscape  - the coaches, players, referees, even the scoring table just to his right where white placards with red numbers were used for personal fouls. The game’s pace and quality from the beginning were inversely related – the faster the pace, the worse the quality. The opening minutes were a mêlée of mistakes and turnovers. It took almost two minutes before either team made a shot. Villanova was first with a short jumper that was celebrated by rolls of blue and white toilet paper being thrown from the stands. The game had to be stopped for several minutes until the court was cleared. Eventually the game’s rhythm was established after five minutes of misplayed fast breaks, poor passes, and traveling violations. Neither team was superior with one then the other taking the lead. As the game’s quality rose the crowd’s frenzy threatened to shatter the sweating panes of glass in the roof. The first half ended with both teams scoring 30 points and a clamor of adulation that urged them to forget the exhaustion etched in their faces.

“Ya want somethin’?” Jim got up stretching his back.

“I could use something to drink.”

Taking her hand, he led Diane back through the walkway to the outer hallway. The earlier aroma of liniment and sweat had not quite been overwhelmed by the smell of burning tobacco. Jim went to a service counter window. Diane took a spot in the hallway surrounded by young men ambling back and forth in search of the girl of their dreams meeting other young men in serch of theirs.

Jim rejoined her, reaching inside his sweater for a cigarette, but he didn’t put it in his mouth, instead he crumpled it as Coach Chandler and Mick McCloy stopped the passing parade of unintelligible conversations in front of them.

“Hey Jim. Thought you couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Hey, coach, Mick. This is Diane. She’s why I couldn’t come to the game with ya. Her Dad had a couple of tickets to the game so we decided to come here before going out with my friends.”

“Nice to meet you, Diane. I talked to your Dad this morning. You know we both went to Brown, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well I didn’t, coach.”

“He was two years ahead of me. Looks like this game will go down to the wire. Have fun.” They moved on.

“That was close.”

“What do you mean?”

“Almost got caught.” Jim showed her the shreds of tobacco he stuck in his empty orange-drink container before throwing it in the trash. “Why didn’t you tell me about your father and coach at Brown?”

“Didn’t think you cared.”

“You were right, I don’t. Especially Brown. Let’s go back.”

Both teams played to their potential at the start of the second half. The lead was never more than five points with the crowd noise getting louder as the fans exhorted one team then the other. With seven minutes left in the game St. Joe’s coach called for a time out. He sat his team on the bench, their backs directly in front of Jim and Diane. Jim leaned over as close as he could to hear the coach lay out his strategy. He told them to play a full-court press. Four in the backcourt in a two-by-two zone defense with the fifth, the center, defending the basket against breakaways. Taking his quickest guard aside he told him to remember the Villanova playmaker always went to his right with his dribble and his guard should go for the steal or the charging foul if it was there. Pressure basketball was a risky tactic, but it was the coach’s trademark; St. Joe teams were often out-manned, but rarely out-hustled or out-thought. They had won many games against more talented teams playing pressure basketball. The coach sent the team back onto the court taking a position on one knee at the bench hollering instructions as his players played out the tactic. In the final seven minutes St Joe’s forced five turnovers converting them into easy baskets. They won by five points.

In the game’s last minute the St. Joe student body began to sing…“OH when the HAWKS! OH when the HAWKS! OH when the HAWKS go flyin’ in!”

Leaving the court, Bobby Galli, one of the St. Joe guards waved. Galli had played for Annunciation 2 years before and had been Jim’s teammate in Ocean City’s Summer League the previous summer. He came over to the stands and motioned Jim down onto the court. After Jim’s congratulations Bobby said he had seen the picture in the morning paper. He called to a couple of St. Joe’s players and introduced them to Jim and Diane saying that Jim might be a teammate. Diane was impressed by her informal welcome to the in-crowd. After chatting a few minutes she and Jim meandered through the silent Palestra hallway that had become a trash man’s nightmare of discarded hot dog wrappers, empty drink cartons and discarded cigarette butts. On 34th Street the early evening’s promise of snow had been kept and Jim bought a bag of soft pretzels from a vendor on the corner.

“So I’m your girl? The reason you weren’t going to the game? Your picture in the paper’s a big deal.” Diane squeezed Jim’s hand, he squeezed back.

“I have it at home. I remember somethin’ flashin’ in my eyes when I took the shot. Blinded me for a second.” Jim chomped into his pretzel mumbling through dough that had dried out and hardened sitting in the cold.

“Your coach probably told my Dad about the party. Everybody knows what hell raisers you guys are. My Dad doesn’t want us at those parties. I’ll cut your picture out of the paper. You’re my hero.” Diane snuggled closer, vamping into the beach party girl she and Jim hated.

“Maybe my coach gave your Dad the tickets.  Maybe it was a plot.” Jim offered her a bite of the pretzel.

 

The cold permeated their bodies. Shivering until the heater kicked in, they tore through the West Philadelphia streets and sidewalks W.C. Fields claimed were rolled-up at 9PM in. There was an empty parking space in front of Peanuts’ house with Little Richard screeching Long Tall Sally as they got out of the car. The front door was open even though the temperature was heading for the teens. There were maybe ten couples drinking, dancing, talking or necking in the downstairs rec room. Peanuts, glass in hand, staggered toward them the sweet smell of bourbon hanging over him like the cloud that accompanied “Pig-Pen” wherever he went.

“Hey, man, where ya been? Never mind, don’ answer. Ya been nice to my friend?” He wrapped his arm around Diane.

“We went to the Palestra.”  Jim answered his friend’s question that was more rhetorical than inquisitive.





Flat-lined and on Life Support

5 04 2014

We are into the last week of crowdfunding the Songs of Icarus and it’s not looking good. The patient has flat-lined for over a week and now is on life support. I will not pull the plug because the book deserves to live. Besides friends providing the obligatory encouragement, I’ve had professionals tell me the book is good and deserves a chance.

Assuming my Kickstarter project doesn’t succeed what happens next?
One thing I’ve learned about myself with crowdfunding is something I chose to forget in order to bring my novel into the light of day. I am not a social networking person. That was true before there was a social network and Mark Zuckerberg whom I hope to never meet. I am a writer of an older generation than the writers of today. I prefer to work on my art and let others work on getting it seen. In spite of all that I’ve read from people who know more about success in self-publishing than I do, self-marketing sucks. It always has and always will. As I’ve gone down this road I almost started to believe my own bullshit but my daily meditation practice stopped that each and every day. My book is good and I will find a way to get it published with or without a social network. That means exploring the field of literary agents and talking to published writers and musicians of works I admire.

Here’s one of them whom I admire who speaks from the heart. Pay particular attention to what he has to say at the end of the interview. It’s meant for young artists but I find it particularly appropriate for me right now.

Besides speak the man can play.





Do you have an Opinion on… Crowdfunding?

28 03 2014

The reaction I’ve received on my Kickstarter project has been interesting if not crowd-pleasing. Words like, “tacky,” and “lacking in confidence” have been used to describe how some friends and donors feel about it. Hundreds of years ago the aristocracy subsidized the artists of their choice to help them get their work before the public’s eyes and into their ears. Now with social media it’s the hoi polloi who can fund the starving or not-so-starving artists of this generation.
The question that comes to mind after the negative reactions I’ve gotten is this. If a person donates and receives an award like a copy of my book how is that “tacky”? That is a quid pro quo transaction, you give you get – like bartering. Right now the question and answer are probably moot since my project isn’t doing very well – that’s the not-so-crowd-pleasing part.
When it comes to a lack of confidence self-confidence is not a problem for me. Besides my own opinion, I’ve been told by people who know books that it’s a damn good book. So whether Kickstarter works or it doesn’t I will keep plugging away as a writer. I’m not sure I’ll keep plugging away trying to self-publish my stuff. That’s why there were agents and publishing houses in the first place.
My frustration is that I spend a good part of my waking day and sleeping night trying to dream up ways to gain exposure for my project.
sleepydog
Most of my donors are people I know so maybe I would have been better off sending out an email to my contacts instead of making a video and all the other stuff I’ve done.

What do YOU think?





And the Word Became Flesh?

20 03 2014

Happy World Poetry Day!

A few of you might be upset with my use of this quote from John 1. Bible study teaches that it refers to Jesus the Son of God becoming man. I use it here to refer to the act of creation of a novel or a poem. Songs of Icarus is a “deferred dream” in the tradition of Langston Hughes’ “Montage of a Dream Deferred.” The words have been written and re-written…what we writers call “drafts.”

Songs of Icarus will appeal to readers with an interest in “back in the day,’ a passion for the arts (music,painting, literature), the universal mind and music of Bill Evans, the coming-of-age challenge, overcoming racism, the racial aspect of the Cuban Revolution, and father-son conflicts. When Jim Collins, the Icarus of my novel, runs away from home in 1959 he thinks he’s killed his father. By the time his journey is over his life is more than the basketball games he played in Philly’s city streets and the University of Pennsylvania Palestra.

You can support this work of art here…

  • https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/449226382/songs-of-icarus-hemingway-meets-monk-the-heartbrea
  • Here is how the book begins…

    Part 1

    i

    Half-court…00:05 no time…drive…PLONK…can’t… stayin’ zone…00:03…pretty far…PLONK…gotta take it…slow down…everybody yellin’…don’t listen…shut everything out…rim…PLONK…rim…square…plant…rim…forehead…rim

    …flick

    blinded me can’t see…wanted more time…felt right…nice spin

    …Johnny B. Goode!

    The shooter’s yellow-flecked feline blue eyes widened as the ball slithered through the net and the scoreboard read:

    VISITOR 55 HOME 56
    TIME 0:00

    The referee stood at center-court waving his hands over his head to signal the game was over. The subs sprang from the bench joining the players on the court.

    “Great shot.”
    “Way to go.”
    “I dig it, I dig it.”

    The royal blue-and-white clad basketball team ran from the court champions of the Philadelphia High School Holiday Basketball Festival. ‘Cool’ was the emotion they showed running off the court patting their hero on the back. ‘Cool’ was king in 1959. In the locker room the team gathered in a tribal circle as Coach Chandler beckoned him to the center-circle spot next to him. Rubbing his player’s close-cropped black hair, the coach shouted, “One helluva clutch shot, Jim. Big time play!”
    The team clapped their way into an open shower room where the hero suffered through the soapy blur of a hot shower as they doused him with cold water. Afterwards supine on the locker room bench, he remembered practicing game-winning shots in darkening playgrounds, unlit gyms, or under the streetlight outside his house. Nights and days putting it up and in for the feeling of making the numbers change with no time left. Minus her peignoir, complacency wrapped him in her Sunday morning reverie. Luxuriated with peacefulness he went to his locker and changed into khakis, a navy blue turtleneck, and a red Rebel Without a Cause jacket. He exited the locker room into the evening’s coldness with Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode drifting from a car radio.
    A cream-and-sky-blue bullet-nosed Ford waited at the curb. The air in the car was warm and heavy, laden with the smell of burnt tobacco. His father, a big broad-shouldered man, hunched over the wheel and flicked a cigarette butt out the window.
    “I’m glad ya made that last one. When ya missed those fouls earlier I was sure ya were goin’ to be the goat. Ya had that number 7 in your hip pocket. Ya coulda done all night what ya did at the end.”
    Gerry Collins didn’t look at his son adopting a matter-of-fact tone that brooked no disagreement. He had played semi-pro basketball in church halls in the 30’s where the game was played in a cage to stop fans from fighting with players. At five years old Jim was dribbling and shooting at a peach basket his father had hung on the side of the cellar stairs. Gerry had no doubts his son would be the player he never was.
    “Yeah, I know. I should’na had to make that shot. We shoulda been way ahead by then.” Jim wanted a cigarette badly to soothe the nervousness that came on him whenever he talked to his father about what happened in the games he played.
    “Well, I’m glad you did make it. Won’t hurt for the Big 5 coaches to see it in the paper tomorrow.”
    “Hadn’t thought about that.” The son didn’t hear the pride that resonated in the father’s voice. He slid further down in his seat pleased that Diane could read about the game tomorrow.
    “Yer gonna save me a lotta money when ya get that scholarship. I never had the chance yer gonna have. They’ll be offerin’ more than tuition too. Maybe somethin’ like Chamberlain got for goin’ to Kansas. Everybody figured he was goin’ to Temple. But ya can never tell what a nigger’s gonna do. He just took the money and ran like all the other bellhops workin’ at Kutsher’s.”
    “Nobody’s in his class. Never seen anybody like him. He just goes over everybody.” ‘Nigger’ felt like sandpaper rubbing an open wound. Jim turned to the empty street and wished his father hadn’t come.





    Icarus and Saint Patrick

    17 03 2014

    Today we are all Irish and it’s a great day to be Irish. Congrats to Ireland Rugby for winning the 6 Nations in Paris…and so long it’s been good to know ya to the greatest rugby player ever to come out of Ireland – Brian O’Driscoll. What a perfect way to retire.

    bodwtrophy

    I’ve just recently started a project to help fund the publication of Songs of Icarus. My first novel about an Irish American kid who becomes a modern day Icarus.

    The project for my novel is on Kickstarter.com. This link tells you what Kickstarter is and how it works…

  • https://www.kickstarter.com/hello?ref=footer
  • Most importantly here is the link to my project and the video that goes with it…

  • https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/449226382/songs-of-icarus-hemingway-meets-monk-the-heartbrea
  • May the road rise up to meet you and me, the wind be at our backs and may we be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows we’ve died.








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