Lodo Grdzak Stays Put And Watches the World Go Round

Epitaph For James--Post 4* (*Scroll down for Posts 1-3):

2009-11-13T04:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter 5:

When I came home from work, EMS was picking the lock to James’ door. There were (2) guys and a girl. A woman, I guess I should say; and in retrospect, she was a cop. Anyway, I passed them en route to my apartment and asked what they were doing.

“Oh, nothing,” they said as they continued to work the lock with a screwdriver, skeleton key, and flashlight.

I found this answer hilarious. Nothing. There’s (2) squad cars and an ambulance outside with the (3) of them at work on the lock but nothing’s going on.

And the stench of the stagnant air--my God! So strong and odious as it hung in the narrow confines of the dead-end corridor I shared with James. Did they think this malefic smell was normal? That I didn’t notice? Nothing going on here. It was hilarious! A farce. I became almost light-hearted. Giddy in fact.

“It kind of looks like you’re breaking into my neighbor’s,” I said with a smile as I opened my door.

“Oh do you live there?” asked the woman as she began to stand. “This is your neighbor who lives in here?” she asked as she pointed toward James’ door.

“Yeah, that’s James’ apartment,” I said as I entered my own.

The smell from the hallway was so bad I just wanted to grab some things and run out. But the woman wanted to take my statement. When was the last time I saw James? Was he alone? Was he a drinker? A drug user? Depressed?

I let her enter my apartment and we talked for several minutes before I considered she was a cop and I had (2) fat joints in my ashtray. I grabbed a toothbrush and some clothes and steered her back toward the doorway where we continued the interview.

I’m telling you reader, I was giddy. I had just got off from (8) hours of yet another split-shift only to stumble upon the surreal scene in my hallway. And in retrospect, James’ death probably weighed on my subconscious. Its imminent resolution would be a release of sorts. As though the events of the last (4) days had been building to this moment. An ending that I already knew but had to wait for the end to see revealed. Like a formulaic TV show.

And there was something about the cop that turned me on. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. She looked like one of those hot TV cops. We stood in the dimly-lit, tight quarters of my doorway shrouded in the stench of James’ decaying corpse and I never felt so alive. So wired.

All I could do was stare at the smooth, black skin of her face juxtaposed against the light blue collar of her uniform. The tight navy pants stretched ‘round her meaty ass. The short legs and powerful thighs. The gun that hung from her belt. She had short, dark hair which was tied back tightly, secured with an ebony hair-clip. I wanted to touch her neck. Push my door closed with my foot and plant a big hungry kiss on her fat wet lips. We’d get it on for real--I was in such a state!

But EMS couldn’t pick James’ lock and soon she became preoccupied. She took over for one of the technicians who took a welcomed break.

“So I guess my neighbor’s dead, eh?” I asked the EMS guy as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He stole a glance at his co-workers then looked back toward me.

“Oh no,” he said with a laugh as he wrung out his handkerchief, “I’m sure its just the dog.”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to have to split it into another part. Next post will be after the weekend.

Epitaph For James--Post 3* (*Scroll down for Posts 1 & 2)

2009-11-10T15:15:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4:

I knew James for about (5) seconds before he told me he was gay. Announced it. He just had to let me know. He loved to shock people. Or at least, try to. That’s what you resort to when you have no charms. He was always loud and drunk and wanted to party at inopportune times. He lived to be heard but had nothing to say. His days consisted of drinking a fifth of
J & B and smoking (3) packs of GPC Menthol 100’s. He made a job out of that.

Just to look at him, you wouldn’t have thought James was gay. The few homosexuals I knew were of the more stereotypical variety: they were good dressers; obsessive groomers; status chasers.

James was none of the above. He wore his greasy blonde hair beneath a Colorado Rockies baseball cap and was fond of plaid Polo dress shirts which he would button all the way to the collar. Even the top one at the neck. Then he’d keep the long tails of the shirt un-tucked from his khakis in a manner that implied a dress. He was a really bad dresser.

And he was really intolerable to have around. He’d always knock something over, or break something; or ask to borrow something--something trivial which he could have easily obtained on his own. He was like a bird or a spoiled nymphet. Something shiny or flashy would would attract his attention and then he’d have to have it. He liked things. Objects. Material stuff. I don’t think he had a true friend, which is probably why he always wanted to borrow something. A token so that a relationship would have to develop. I’d have to see him again, just to get my shit back. He’d be so eager to gain possession of something that he’d bypass any real attempt at communication or bonding. He came on so strong, but really had no confidence. That’s why he depended on contrivances. He’d given up.

Except for one night. A group of us from my building hung-out at my apartment. It turned into a late night and James came by since he could hear us next door. What was I going to do? We were neighbors, so I invited him in.

The conversation continued while James took a seat on the couch and stared at the floor. He said nothing as he milked his pint of J & B, but I could see his brow begin to tighten. The rubber-band twist behind his eyes as he shuffled his feet. Suddenly he jumped up and began to chastise us.

“You know what?” he said in condemnation. “You never listen to me. All of you talk but you never listen to me!”

He wobbled on his feet as his eyes blinked rapidly. We were all very close in proximity, but I couldn’t tell if James meant to address anyone in particular. He was mad at all of us I guess. Or at someone else whom we’d never know.

Regardless, it was obvious he was excited and we yielded the floor to him.

“Gosh James,” we said, “we had no idea. Go ahead, man. What’ve you got to say?”

Our interest was unexpected. It took him a second to get his bearings.

“What have I got to say? You wanna know what I’ve got to say?” he asked as he leaned on the desk for support.

“Well,...yeah James. We didn’t mean to leave you out. What’s on your mind?”

James adjusted his glasses and tried to stand-up straight.

“...Sometimes you guys don’t listen to me. That’s what’s on my mind. You’ve got to listen to me sometimes.”

We all looked at each other nonplussed.

“Uh,...yeah. Okay James. We’re sorry about that,” I said. “Go ahead, man. We’re listening.”

But now it was James who looked baffled. He seemed even more upset, but contemplatively so.

“...I’m just staying is all. You’ve got to listen to me sometimes.”

Then he looked ‘round the room before returning to the couch, more bitter than before.

James kept this mouth shut the rest of the night. Occasionally he’d take a hit from his pint and pretend to laugh at someone else’s joke or story. But I know he wasn’t listening. At least, not to us.

*NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'll have to split it into several parts (I'm still undecided if I'm going to post the whole thing). If you've read this far, thanks! Next post in a few days.

Epitaph For James--Post 2* (*Scroll down for Post 1):

2009-11-08T09:03:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3:

When you work for a hotel, there’s (3) shifts: mornings, days, and graveyards. Usually you’re scheduled to work the same shift--for continuity; but sometimes, if you’re new and you've just started like me, they’ll put you on what’s called split-shifts. That means they throw you in wherever they’re shorthanded.

Mornings at the hotel began at 6:30, which I hated since I like to sleep a good (8) hours and can become belligerent when I have to wake up early. I don’t like my dreams disturbed.

But when you’re a bellman, the mornings are coveted shifts since that’s when everyone checks out. If you don’t get ‘em when they come in, you’d better catch ‘em when they check out. There’s only (2) options really. Graveyard shifts are just marking time.

I’d wake up groggy and drained from my inconsistent schedule. My eyes stung in the shower. My shaven face burned. My legs were unsteady and seemingly filled with Jell-O. Then I’d have to put on my hokey uniform and ride my bike to work. Mornings were not pleasant.

So when I passed James’ apartment--which was right next door to mine, and was seized by the stench of shit and piss and garbage and decay, I didn’t ask myself whether he was okay. I didn’t consider the possibility that he’d checked out. I just got angry. This was the 2nd day in a row of this nonsense. Here I was--literally sacrificing my dreams to take care of business--while James (who hadn’t held down a job in months) was passed out in his apartment. Again. Drunk off his ass to the point it he must have shit his pants. For almost (2) days! Fucking guy.

But in retrospect, maybe I knew. Or sensed. Sensed that he’d worked the graveyard shift and punched his timecard for the last time. Checked out. I just didn’t care. My collar itched and I had to go to work. Make my money.

When I came home that afternoon, I planned to go right to sleep since I was scheduled to work the graveyard that night. This time the smell hit me a good ten feet before I passed the door. A unique smell. God awful! A terrible fecundity that conjured images of moss growing on fresh, wet shit. Of cancer burrowed into soft tissue. Of stale methane released from a rotted dog food can.

A roach as fat as a silver dollar crawled out from beneath James' door jamb. I watched to see which direction it would head. I told myself that if it went in my apartment I'd kick-in his door and pound James' ass on the spot. If not, I’d give him one more day.

The roach crawled toward my apartment, scratched at the jamb like a baby terrier, then turned toward the stairs. I stepped on it, covered my nose, and proceeded on my way.

Fucking guy.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, it will have to be split into several parts. Come back in a few days and I'll have the next installment. Thanks for reading!

Epitaph For James (Post 1):

2009-11-05T05:07:00.000-08:00

I mentioned a few posts earlier that I've been going through some old writing in an attempt to decide if any of it's worth a shit.

Epitaph For James was written almost (10) years ago while I still lived in Denver, and I haven't yet decided if I'm going to post the whole thing. It's far more consistent than Cooking for One, but still has some serious ups and downs (particularly staying in proper tense).

But thematically, it works in relation to some recent posts. And Denver's been on my mind since my sister left town. So here's at least a portion of Epitaph For James.

Ch. 1.

James was dead almost (4) days before anyone called the cops; but I’d sensed he was dead for awhile. I lived right next door to him.

His place smelled.

First it smelled of garbage. Garbage and piss, which wasn’t out of the ordinary since James was always very, very drunk. It was wasn’t uncommon for him to pass-out and puke; or not take out the trash for days. I walked past his door on my way to work and was drenched in a garbage-piss stink. I thought “Fuck James, wake up and take out your garbage.”

I came back from work and still, no change. No worse and no better.

Ch. 2.

James is at my apartment. It’s late and we’re very drunk. I want him to go, but it’s going to be a process to kick him out. I’m not up for that yet. My drunkenness hasn’t become a burden. It’s still nice.

Except for James, who irritates me; but I let him look through my CD’s.

“Oh wow, man--Prince! You like Prince?!

James with his gay, drunken drawl. So eager to get the words out.

“Yeah James, me and a billion other people. What?--do want to listen to that disc?”

At this James’ eyes light up. He’s not used to anyone being able to tolerate him. He’s amazed. Flabbergasted. This would be the most incredible thing!

So I’m about to load the CD player when James discovers a different disc, lower in the rack.

“Oh man! This is the one. Lets put this one in.”

Now I get a tad frustrated, but I haven’t yet loaded the machine. So I grab the new disc out his hand and proceed to remove it from the case when he grabs a third disc and starts to jump up and down and run ‘round the room, yelling in his frowsy way,

“No! No way! This is the one. We have got to listen to this right now!”

Then he thrusts the disc into my hands like I’m his bellman. I had to fight the urge to smack him.

But I have to admit that he’d aroused my curiosity in that he was so uniquely irritating. And he was so anxious to hear this one song. A Prince tune; except that Prince was using the symbol at this time. And I can’t name the record since it’s untitled. But the song’s called The Max.

I loaded the CD as James proceeded to tell me this convoluted story about how he’d been to his brother’s or perhaps his sister’s wedding and that she was a choreographer or the brother’s wife was a choreographer or someone’s wife or sister was a choreographer and they all did this choreographed line dance to The Max. And the bride was holding up the hem of her long dress and was getting down!

Then James showed me how she was getting down just as the song came on and it had to be the funniest thing God-damn thing I’d ever seen.

Because James was so pathetically gay; except that he had no femininity or charm or softness or mystery or anything you’d associate with females. He looked like the kind of guy you’d see at a sports bar. Twenty-something with a button-down plaid Polo shirt and khakis. Except that the shirt’s got ring-around-the collar and the pants haven’t been washed in (3) weeks.

And yet he’d try to be fetching. He’d vie for attention so eagerly. Desperately. In that singular way he was like a woman. Like a loud woman who hasn’t been laid in a decade. I don’t think he ever got sex. As gay as he tried to act, he struck me as mostly asexual. A drunk.

He started to dance to The Max, showing me how the bride had done it. Lifting the imaginary hem to her dress until it turned into a sort of love dance. First he danced like the bride and then for awhile he danced for himself; but then later he was dancing for me. Trying to get me aroused with his dysfunctional bride’s dance for the drunkenly disturbed.

It was sick, but it was funny. Cathartically funny. Peals of pain stung my sides and lungs I laughed so hard. He had no moves. A guy completely out of touch with his body. And his sexuality. White man’s dancing in its most comical, stereotypical form. In a button down Polo short and Khakis.

But he had no shame. He’d denied and abused his body for so long there was a rebound effect. He twirled and whipped himself round the room, completely lost in the music. He pawed at the air. He jerked his hips like a spaz. He danced like a Catholic school girl who’s missed her Ritalin. With abandon.

When the song shifted to the bridge, he stopped and listened. Laughing with eyes closed.

“That’s it--right there. That’s where he gets ya!”

He was very funny.

Except then the song ended and James still wanted to hang out. When I told him he had to go he grabbed the Prince discs that we’d already pulled out and told me--told me that he was going to borrow them.

“I don’t think so James. Let’s just pack it in.”

But he wouldn’t leave it alone. He kept saying, “I’ll bring ‘em back. I’ll bring ‘em back. I just need to hear these for awhile.”

And in a way I was tempted to let him borrow one since everyday he repeatedly blared the only (3) records he owned which were Madonna’s Greatest Hits; the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack; and the single We Are Family.

But I really didn’t want to have to see him again and didn’t want to set a precedent; so I said,

"Listen James, Prince isn’t exactly a rare artist. Go buy the disc.”

But he wouldn’t let go of the CD’s and eventually I had to grab him by the forearm and take them out his hand. Then I opened the door and pushed him out saying, “That was fun James, we’ll do it again sometime.”

Untitled Prince album featuring The Max:
My former apartment in Denver (w/ my old dog Tina on balcony). James lived next door!: * NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to have to split it into more than (1) part. Come back in a few days for Part 2. And as always--thanks for reading!!

Happy Birthday Harmony* (*Click on Images for Full-View):

2009-11-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

My sister missed her flight back out to to Denver today, so I didn’t get the chance to write Part 3 of I See Dead People. (Guess we’ll just have to extend Halloween a few days).

My sister’s birthday is (1) day before mine, near the end of October; so a lot of years we spend our birthdays together. At least, we used to--before she got married.

But now she’s getting divorced, so for the 1st time in (5) or (6) years we celebrated our birthdays and Halloween together. She called me on the phone a month or so back "I wanna come out to New York this year. Lets see how you do Halloween."

On Friday we went to The Garden and saw Jeff Beck. There were other acts too: Aretha Franklin, Buddy Guy, Billy Gibbons, Metallica, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Fergie, Black-Eyed Peas, Ray Davies, Sting. Lou Reed played Sweet Jane. Mick Jagger did Gimme Shelter.

But the only one I cared about was Jeff Beck. And he killed.

Saturday we went to 5 Pointz out in Queens. We woke up at about noon. Had a slow cup of coffee.

"Remember," she said to me as we sipped at our mugs, "We’ve gotta go to a museum."

“Oh yeah,” I told her. “We’re gonna see some art.”

We went to the Halloween Parade Saturday night, but it rained so hard I couldn’t take any pictures. I have a really funny story about that night, but its gonna have to wait. Sorry for no new writing, but back in a few days y’all!

I See Dead People. Part 2 of... (I'm not sure yet)

2009-10-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

Speaking of dead fathers, I can’t help but recall my friend Andy and his dad. Unlike Rodney, Andy and I practically lived next door to each other and went to the same elementary school. So I knew his dad well.

Andy’s dad would take us bowling and work on our give-and-go in the driveway of his house. They had a basketball hoop installed to the top of their garage and Andy’s dad would show us some fundamentals of the game. Whether or not he actually knew anything didn’t really matter since we were so young. Almost any situation was still new.

At some point, Andy’s dad suffered some kind of back injury. At first it wasn’t that big of a deal, but eventually it became difficult for him to walk and he was in constant pain. Desperate for relief, he opted to have a couple discs fused together, which...I don’t even know if they still do that anymore. The limited knowledge I’ve gained since my own back injury makes it seem like a fairly primitive procedure, and in the case of Andy’s dad it resulted in paralysis to both his legs.

It was around this same time period that Andy and I began to drift a bit apart, and I stopped going to their house as often. There was no incident that caused the break, it was just that Andy was a rather corpulent, uncoordinated kid. A bad athlete who was always last to be picked for a team and who’s confidence suffered for it. At that young age (we’re still talking elementary school), the social hierarchy’s built round your athletic skills and just basic strength, so Andy soon developed the kind of low esteem and energy that leads to victimization.

Having a dad in wheelchair certainly didn’t help.

I don’t know how much time had passed after that surgery--it may have even been a couple years; but one Summer day I found myself back at Andy’s house for a visit. I can’t recall why I was there, but we were basically neighbors and there had never been any incident that drove us apart. So I guess it could have been any number of reasons.

I followed Andy thru the front door and said Hi to his sister, when his dad suddenly rolled-in on his chair from around a hallway corner.

“Hey! Look who the cat dragged in,” he said from his wheelchair as he extended his hand for a shake.

We were the about the same height; he in his chair and me upright on my youthful feet. In fact, I think I was a bit taller--I can’t recall exactly ‘cause my focus fell completely on his legs. What was left of them.

I don’t know if the young people remember (if I have any young readers), but back in the day shorts didn’t come down to your knees like they do today. We wore kind-of short-shorts. So on this Summer day back in the late 70’s, Andy’s dad wore a pair these shorts, from which his stick-thin, atrophied legs protruded. I mean, they were just bones that stuck-out from under his heavy torso, that had now grown bloated from desuetude in that wheelchair.

I recall I looked away; then tried not to look away as I shook his hand, not sure what to do with my eyes. When my gaze returned to his face, he wore an odd smile. Tight. A smile that despite my tender years I recognized as disturbed. Too enthusiastic. Like a mask or the countenance of a panting dog.

These were momentary gestures. They lasted a second in time. But it was like that scene in The Last Picture Show when Timothy Bottoms is about take his roadtrip to Mexico. He and Ben Johnson lock eyes and there’s something tacitly communicated. You just know they’re never gonna see each other again.

Only in my case, we all felt it. Andy, his dad, and me. A sense of shame and embarrassment: Andy for being overweight and unpopular, which only added to his dad’s pain. His dad for being in a wheelchair--incomplete for a son who needed strength. And myself who’d didn’t know what to do with my eyes as we spoke.

But I was too young not to wear my mindset on my sleeve. So as I sat on the living room couch and attempted to make small-talk my eyes would consistently drift down toward those peg-like legs.

And Andy’s dad made me look. Perhaps this was some sort of psychological exercise for him. Try to act natural in front of the boy’s friend. He refused to cover his legs as he peppered me with moronic questions. Until finally, as I rocked back and forth on the edge of the couch he let me off the hook. Grabbed the red checkered blanket that was folded over his seatback (which in retrospect was probably there for this exact reason).

“Let me throw this on,” he said as he pulled the blanket from over his shoulder and spread it over his lap to conceal the legs from my fixated eyes. “I forgot Lodo hasn’t seen us in a long time.”

Later that Summer--toward the end of August, my family was up north at our house by Lake Huron. My friend Mike N____y was there as we sat on the deck that looked-out toward the lake. Mike and I ate our eggs and toast as my parents drank their morning coffee. My dad patiently worked at tying fish hooks and my mom lazily perused the newspaper until she suddenly let out a gasp. Her open-palmed hand shot to her mouth and her wide eyes looked in my direction, already beginning to fill with tears.

“Oh my God!” she said with a break in her voice as she looked in my direction. “Andy’s dad died.”

“What?” I asked, caught off-guard by the sudden break of my peaceful morning. I’d never experienced the death of anyone I’d known before--so many things were still new to me! And my mom’s raw emotion un-nerved me.

“Andy’s dad,” she said. “His name’s S___ isn’t it? Listen to this..”

She proceeded to read the obituary, but after a few lines began to break down. Initially she was able to stifle her tears; but I could see in another moment she was gonna lose it entirely, which for some odd reason made me furious. I can't say whether I knew the term suicide, but I knew Mr. _____had killed himself; even if that wasn't confirmed till we got home.

But for now my brows furrowed as I wrung my hands. I sprung from my seat and glared at her.

“Now don’t go starting to cry!” I said almost accusingly as I grabbed Mike’s empty plate and prepared to take it inside to the kitchen. I entered via the deck’s sliding glass door, but before it sealed shut I could hear my mom ask aloud in bafflement,

“Now what kind of reaction is that?”

A poor one I know, and knew even then. But so many things were still new to be learned! It was only later that I cried. That night when I went to sleep. I mashed my face in my pillow so Mike wouldn’t hear from his bunk above and pulled my knees to my chest so my body wouldn’t shake.

And of course I pulled my checkered blanket over my shoulder. Wrapped it ‘round my body tight like a cocoon as I attempted to conceal the tight, anxious smile that stared back at me from its wheelchair. An overeager smile--almost like an insecure dog's, that I’d see for a long, long time to come.

I See Dead People: Part 1 of...(I'm not sure yet)

2009-10-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I learned that an old friend from high-school died. I suppose now that I’m middle-aged I’d better get used to this sort of thing: whether its cultural icons like Michael Jackson or just my old friend Rodney from back in Detroit, mortality is man’s great equalizer.

I first met Rodney back in middle school. I don’t know if they still have “middle-school;” but back in Michigan when you hit the 6th grade that’s where you went.

My middle school (which shall remain nameless) consisted of graduates from (3) elementary schools, all sent to (1) combined middle-school. So that first year you met a lot of new kids.

I first met Rodney in history class, and first spoke to him during a game of Jeopardy. Our teacher (Mr. Talley) would divide our class in half every Friday and create (2) teams that would compete in a game of Jeopardy. Rodney and I were on the same team since our last names both started with “G.”

I was the best at Jeopardy, but the first time I raised my hand to answer I was wrong. My incorrect answer not only cost my team the point-value of the question, but earned me a smack on the back of my head from Rodney.

“Don’t answer if you don’t know idiot. You just cost us points.”

Rodney was very competitive.

But its an odd fact of life that friendships often originate from what seems to be antagonism; and in our case--perhaps due to the proximity of our seats as well as my talent at Jeopardy--Rodney and I became friends.

One weekend day early in our friendship, Rodney and I went ice skating at the Civic Center. We were in 6th grade, so..I have no clue how old that would make us; but I recall Rodney’s mom was going to pick us up from the rink. As we waited, we made small-talk. 6th grade small talk.

“What’s your mom drive?” I asked.

“A Cadillac,” he answered. “Its green. You can’t miss it.”

“Cool. ...What’s your dad drive?”

Rodney’s face whipped ‘round toward me. He had a really big face with thick glasses that rested on a flat nose, and a bit of a double-chin despite our young age. He was easily (20) pounds heavier than me.

“Why would you ask me that?” he said with a push to my chest that sent my back into the wall.

“I don’t know,” I responded as I caught my breath and held up my hands in defense. “I was just curious is all.”

“My dad’s dead. He killed himself. Everyone knows about that. Everybody.”

Everybody but me reader.

It was my mom who told me Rodney died. This was over the phone since she lives in Denver. She said “You remember Rodney ____ don’t you? I just found out he died. I don’t know how, but I remember you were friends.”

We discussed what she knew, which wasn’t much; and it wasn’t long before the conversation drifted into other topics. ‘Course I have no wife, no kids, no house or...anything really, so it doesn’t take long to catch up on my life. Within (5) - (10) minutes, mom was up-to-date on all that is Lodo and I prepared to hang up.

“Wait!” she said before I closed my phone. “Let me get daddy so he can wish you a happy birthday.”

I could hear her put down the receiver as she called upstairs to my dad; and in that solitary moment I suddenly saw Rodney’s fleshy face. The first time I’d thought about it in over (2) decades. The thick glasses that sat on his boxer’s nose; and the freckles that dotted his jowly cheeks as he wiped the spittle from his bitter, chapped lips and looked at me with disdain.

My dad’s dead. Everyone knows that.

I don't have any pictures of Rodney--we knew each other too long ago. But here's a shot in dedication to an old friend. R.I.P!

If Not Me Then Who? (2009 Edition)

2009-10-23T04:15:00.000-07:00

I don’t have a lot of traditions in my ultra-secular life, but one thing I do every year ‘round my birthday is ask myself If you could be anyone in the world, who would it be?

Back in my younger years I wanted to be Jeff Beck; and I still think he’d be a good choice. Without doubt he’s the greatest electric guitar player in the world and he’s my favorite artist of any genre.

But Beck’s (65) years old now, which would mean an additional 20+ years to my already advanced age. 20+ years to my brittle knees and my back's (2) herniated discs. So despite the fact that my man’s still ripped-up, I think I have to explore some younger options.

Last year I picked Lebron James, and I still think he’s a solid choice. I’d have a $15 million dollar salary (not including endorsements) to go with my brief (25) years on this planet. 6’ 8” tall. 250 pounds in perfect condition. And unlike so many athletes who are dead-wood in front of the camera, Lebron actually has some personality. A real renaissance man who you sense can master any world he chooses. So yeah, while I’m happy being me, it’d sure be fun to be King James for a day or two.

But last year’s NBA season did prove (1) thing about Lebron--he’s not the greatest basketball player in the world. Not yet anyway. That title’s still held by Kobe Bryant.

Last year I watched Kobe score (61) points here at The Garden. Sure it was against my lowly Knicks, but no one who isn’t named Jordan looks as good taking a jump-shot. In fact, Kobe’s definitely as good as Jordan and I’ll put that in writing.

But a lot of people don’t like Kobe, much like a lot of people don’t like Kanye West (who I've also been tempted to pick in past years). Whether you find it sweet or pathetic, I have a strong desire to be liked by as many people as possible. And that’s not gonna happen if I’m Kobe or Kanye.

And its sure not gonna happen if I choose Floyd Mayweather, Jr. But God he’s smooth! My man’s got his own impeccable style and he’s smart as a whip. Say what you will ‘bout him, but he’s the champ you love to hate.

Pretty Boy Floyd. Undefeated after (40) fights and still not a mark on him. 32 years old and unlike Lebron or Kobe the guy’s his own boss. Sure he had to give $9 million dollars to the IRS, but when you make $15 million a fight that’s chump change. He’ll make $20 million (easily) when he fights Pacquiao, and he’ll destroy him ‘cause unlike Marquez, Pacquiao will force the knock-out. And in this corner, the undisputed champion of the wooorld!...

Yeah, I like the sound of that.

But I’m not going to pick Mayweather either. For one reason and one reason only. A rather shallow reason perhaps, but one that matters to me. Floyd’s only 5’ 7” tall.

All my life I’ve wanted to be over 6’ tall and if some genie in a lamp’s gonna let me be whoever I want there’s no way I’m gonna be only 5’ 7” and 146 pounds. Hell, I’m taller than that now! In fact, I can assure you reader that if Lodo Grdzak were 6’ 2” tall and 210 pounds you’d know my name by now. The whole world would know the moronic name of Lodo Grdzak. I’m certain of it. So I can’t pick Floyd.

Then who?

Well, let’s see: He’d have to be the best at what he does. People should like him. He should have his own unique style and be over 6’ tall. With amazing physicality and stupid money to blow.

So with all that said. At this point in time. October 23, 2009. If I could be anyone in the world. I'd be... (drum-roll please)

The World’s Fastest Man. Jamaica’s own--Usain Bolt!

Usain Bolt (6' 5" tall; 23 years old; 3 Gold medals last Olympics--all world records!):

After his incredible success at the Olympic Games in Beijing (and in the wake of a major earthquake that killed well over 40,000 people), Usain Bolt donated $50,000.00 to the Chinese Red Cross. My man!

Respect To The Ladies

2009-10-20T18:05:00.001-07:00

I'm suddenly and unexpectedly sick as a dog, so I'm just gonna post a few YouTube clips that caught my eye (and ears) from bed. I'm working on something I want to make a little longer (yes Rules--I'm aware that puns are lazy writing!), but I need a few days to finish it. So hope you bear with me y'all!

Imogen Heap: Daylight Robbery
Excess is the new moderation;
Get dressed up to the power of 10;
Raise glasses on repeat;
Again, and again, and again, again..

Sheila E on The Tonight Show: Love Bizarre
The moon up above, shines down upon our skin;
Whispering words, that scream of outrageous sin;
We all want the stuff, that's found in our wildest dreams;
It gets kind of rough, in back of our limousine

Angie Stone kills on Jools Holland: Happy Being Me
Just like people come and go;
Some will live forever, and some we'll never know;
That's why God gives us memories;
That lead us to our victories.

Beyonce demonstrates what Jay-Z's been doing (* love the part where she screams whew!!! at 2:41): Naughty Girl
Tonight, I'll be your naughty girl
Tonight, I'm callin' all my girls;
Tonight, I can see you look me up and down;
...And you know I came to party

Excerpts from Cooking For One in Miami

2009-10-17T07:46:00.000-07:00

My old Ford Thunderbird that I drove down to Miami:
I’m excited about my upcoming birthday. If my calculations are correct Jeff Beck’s gonna be in town that weekend and may even play at The Garden for (15) minutes. So you know I’m gonna buy the cheapest seat in the house and rock to that.

As a crazy woman at The 55 Bar might tell you, I’m no Jeff Beck. But I’d argue that I’m like Jeff Beck in that my writing has consistently improved. I never lost or really even changed my voice--its always been the same. It’s just become more me. Tighter. More defined. And with a clearer mindset. So in that one way (that admittedly singular way), I’m very much like Jeff Beck.

I’ve been writing off-and-on for (10) years. Since I started the blog I’ve become much more consistent and now I’ve got my style down. I’m good at what I do. Yet its also funny for me to go back and look at old stuff--stuff I’d thought was so good at the time and just laugh. Not be able to finish ‘cause tears are in my eyes its so bad. Laughably bad.

Back when I first began to write, I wrote a thing called Cooking for One in Miami. It was about my 32nd birthday that I spent down in Miami. I’d taken a roadtrip for my friend Laura’s wedding and kept a journal to document the week. Cooking for One takes place October __, 1998. My birthday night over (10) years ago.

I never thought Cooking for One in Miami was my best writing, but I never realized it was bad writing until today. Or most of it’s bad. There are excerpts I’m gonna post here so I can retain the memory, but the rest is trash and I need to clear my apartment.

From Page 1:

It was the perfect excuse to get in my Thunderbird and head out of town for (2) weeks.

From Page 2:

I’ll spare you my complete review of east-coast radio...and simply state The Pinecone Bluegrass Show’s Dedication To The World’s Best Killing Songs on WQDR FM was the best radio I heard.

From pages 3 & 4:

I never really liked Miami. I find it to be a city of users and whores.

Fucking $90.00 for top-end scotch at the Hotel Delano where a friend told me the following story:

"There’s this one nursing home where a lot of the super-rich, old South Beachers go. It’s a really huge, beautiful, white house that overlooks the ocean and has all this stone on its porch and huge windows so you can see the ocean from every room inside. And so I had to go there to get this guy to sign something, and I go there and I’m walking through this one room, and its like, all these really beautiful women in wheelchairs--like eight of ‘em; and I can’t guess their ages because they all look young and beautiful; but sort of strangely young like maybe they’re not really young; and it was weird though because they looked young and it was like they were young with some sort of weird disease which made them age prematurely. It was spooky so I asked one of the nurses what happened and she said that they’d all suffered massive strokes while having their faces lifted; and I was like ‘Oh man!’ you know? because it was so sad. Then the nurse told me how there was this one husband who’d brought his new girlfriend with him to wait on the porch--she was obviously a dancer or just...whatever--the point is that somehow the new girl worked it out so she could pass the wife and get a closer look and when she came back to the husband she looked at him and the nurse and said “but you know, her face does look really good.”

From Page 6:

At BASH my world did a 180. There were more beautiful women outside than I’d ever seen in (1) place. There were statuesque blondes and sensuous Latinas; big-titted vixens and silky-thin seductresses. Each more stunning than the next and as soon as (1) face became familiar another exited a limo or a BMW; long legs in high-heels first that created an anticipation as you waited for the body; then the face. And you were never disappointed.

From Page 10:

...but I’m a fighter and refused to get down and told myself You’re 32 now, I’m not gonna let you get passive; then I gulped down my full cocktail and jumped out on the dance floor where I whirled and spun frantically until I felt a tap on my shoulder and discovered my dred-locked friend in the goofy pimp-stripe suit who told me “We’re going to The Living Room...”

From Pages 14 & 15:

So I pondered the circular logic of that comment when she suddenly added “My friend Candy has to come with me though; I’m not going anywhere alone.” She made the comment as though I’d complain, but I was anxious to see the friend and was starting to get a sense of adventure...

...and she was really pretty with bobbed, platinum blonde hair and almost timid green eyes and a nice bubble-ass and...she was really young and dreamy, reminding me of Patricia Arquette in Lost Highway who has long been one of my fantasy lays,...

From Page 18:

And the comment made me consider money matters; so I reached behind my pillow to check on my jeans and I’ll be God-damned if they were gone. I leaned to the side to see past Samantha’s outstretched legs; and sure enough, there were my pants behind her back. “Oh you little crack-ho.”

From Page 20:

“How long are you gonna be in town?” Samantha asked.

“I don’t know, maybe a week.”

“Well here’s my phone number. And my 800 number. And here’s Candy’s beeper number. Give us a call if yo..”

“If I want more company?”

“Yeah,” they both said at the same time as they left me alone in my hotel room where I could finally lay down, relax,...and dream.

Lodo Grdzak at The Shadow Lounge (Miami, Fl.): October ___, 1998:

Knockout Weekend* (*click images for full-view):

2009-10-13T15:19:00.001-07:00

To any steady readers who’ve stopped by, I apologize that there’s no new writing. But you know, I don’t write fiction. I’ve gotta live to write and visa versa. So until I glean some meaning out these last few days, all I’ve got are some pics from the weekend.

Saturday night I went to The Garden to see the fights. Bob Arum and Top Rank Boxing put together a card entitled Latin Fury in honor of the Hispanic Day Parade. I got to the box office (5) minutes before the fight and bought the cheapest seat in the house. My view was still fairly good, but I noticed an empty seat next to the aisle; (3) rows from ringside. I sat in the chair, assuming someone would eventually claim it, but I got to stay there all night.

Course I drank at least a beer every fight, so by the time Julio Cesar Chavez walked over I must have been pretty far in the tank. And what did brainiac Lodo Grdzak do? Why pop a flashbulb in his face of course! Real smooth. If Roy Haynes had been there perhaps he’d have convinced the ex-champ to knock loose a few teeth (I probably deserved it), but lucky for me Julio’s comfortable in his legendary greatness.

6-time World Champion Julio Cesar Chavez at The Garden this last Saturday. Professional record: 107 wins; 6 losses; 2 draws; 86 knockouts.

Speaking of legends, here’s another. A (3)-time world champion in (3) different weight divisions and the only guy to defeat my man Tommy Hearns (2x). Both by knockout! One of the all-time heaviest punchers--Iran Barkley. (That’s Barkley on the left in case you’re confused).

Cuban great Yuriorkis Gamboa (right) vs. Whybel Garcia (left). Probably the last time I’ll get to see Gamboa ths close. He’s gonna be a star.

And then there was the main event, which the entire crowd agreed was fight of the year. A very game Rogers Mtawaga vs. Juan Manuel Lopez (who was about (1) good punch from going down and out).

Lopez (left) looked good in early rounds, but was lucky the fight wasn't stopped in Round 12. Great fight guys!

Sunday I met Agata (below) in Central Park. Her friend Mike Dominico has been the Dee Jay for the Dance Skaters for over (15) years. If you’ve ever seen movies where the roller-skaters are getting down in Central Park, that’s Mike mixing the tunes. I must have watched the skaters and freaks 1,000x, but never went into the dance circle after all these years. But Agata was insistent. “C’mon Lodo, I know you like to dance.”

So we jumped into the circle and danced our asses off for close to (3) hours. I was nice and high, but hadn’t touched a thing to drink since I was hung-over from the fights the night before. Well, as David Foster Wallace might say, There’s dancing drunk and dancing straight and the (2) are entirely different things.

But Agata wanted to dance so there was no arguing. “What do you think?” she asked the sexy Asian girl I’d been trying to pick-up all afternoon. “He’s good right?”

The girl looked me up and down with an expression of bafflement.

“I wouldn't say good. But he’s certainly...enthusiastic.”

Well, I guess you can’t knock ‘em out everytime.

Sometimes I Feel Like...(a/k/a) A Real Piece of Work--Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

2009-10-10T09:56:00.000-07:00

But of course no one’s watching me, right? That’s what I eventually concluded, though I’ll admit that it took some time to convince myself because:

a) that guy’s comment came the day after I first watched Bored to Death. Which was no big deal except that

b) the pictures of Jonathan Ames I found on Google looked exactly like the guy I’d spoken to; and

c) the guy I spoke to was so insistent that I Google Jonathan Ames when I got home. He dropped that comment with an emphasis I may not have mentioned previously. "Make sure you Google his picture." Like it was a loaded comment. Coupled with

d) my curiosity as to why anyone would know the name of a writer for a cable TV show? Or what that writer looked like? Especially when they said they’d never met him.

So I felt strange as I sat there at my computer. Steady readers may laugh, but I’m actually a very private person. Or at least, I reveal what I want when I want to. I stared at the images on Google with the sense that no answer was going to resolve all my questions and couldn’t shrug the thought that maybe I’d been toyed with.

But Occam’s Razor tells you the simplest explanation is usually correct. So eventually I laughed at my unease and reminded myself how often I’ve been confused with someone or other in the city. Happens to me 2-3x a month. And based on my Google search, this guy Jonathan Ames wasn’t so obscure after all. Not in New York anyway. Besides, what motivation would a successful guy with his own TV show have to follow me?

Because you’re listed as an investigator on Blogspot, was the answer that popped in my head. Maybe during research for his character he stumbled on City’s Investigator. Don’t sell that blog short. It was a good piece of work.

Again I pondered the issue until I reminded myself that only the most arrogant or pathetic of people would think or need to think they’re being watched. Let it go Lodo, I told myself. Its just coincidence.

Just coincidence. Like running into my boss last weekend was coincidence. I suppose it makes sense, we only live (2) train stops from each other.

Still, it seemed odd to see him on the F train after a seriously long night of partying. 6:30 in the morning and suddenly there’s my boss (who supervises my investigations unit), with his tie still perfectly knotted and his shirt perfectly crisp and unwrinkled. What the hell could the guy have been doing til 6:30 in the morning with his tie still on?! Man that disturbed me. Evidence of a sick mind.

And I was sick. I was on my home from a loft party where I’d eaten some really powerful mushrooms. If you know anything about psychedelics you know that when you’re tripping, you’re tripping; by which I mean you can drink two-dozen shots and snort an 8-ball of coke, but its all for nothing ‘cause you’re still just tripping. Good psychedelics trump all buzzes in the same way that multiplication or division take precedence when you solve a math problem.

But by 6:30 in the morning I’d danced-off my mushrooms and all that was left were the sour effects of those two-dozen shots shots that had previously been obscured. Envision those and about (8) hours of dancing coupled with my (43) long years of my existence on this planet as the F train jerked its way down toward Coney Island and you’ll know how I felt.

Then my boss came on board.

And the thing is, you can’t miss him. I’ve mentioned in older posts that my boss is 6’ 6” tall and looks like NBA legend Daryl “Chocolate Thunder” Dawkins, which is both helpful and detrimental for him as an investigator. He stands-out easily, but also has a unique vantage point from which to monitor and reconnoiter a crowd. So the guy got a fix on me in seconds and immediately approached.

“Hey Lodo,” he said as he extended his hand with a wide, satisfied smile that made me wish I were 6’ 6” tall. “What’d you do tonight?”

What’d I do? Things appeared to spin from my side of my eyes. I know I reeked of weed. Smelled of booze. My clothes were sweat-stained from dancing all night. I felt about to pass-out as I clenched the train’s handrail for support. Your boss wants to know what you’ve been up to Lodo. Give him an answer and try to keep it together for (1) more train stop.

So I answered something along the lines of

“Oh,..you know. What does anybody do on a Saturday night? Went to a party. Knocked back a few drinks. Nothing special.”

At least, that’s what I thought I answered as we shook hands and I exited the train at my stop.

But the next Monday I went to my cubicle, sat down at my desk; and no sooner had I dropped my bag when the phone rang. The phone’s display window indicated it was my boss’ extension.

I picked-up the receiver.

“This is Lodo.”

“Come in here a minute.”

I walked to my boss’ office and closed the door behind me, which is the rule when you meet with him. I took a seat in the hard-backed chair directly in front of his desk and sat for several seconds until he broke the silence.

“Looks like you made it home alright,” he said with an expressionless face that had me concerned.

“What d’ya mean?” I asked.

A smirk became evident on his full lips.

“Do you remember seeing me Saturday night?” he asked. “Or let me correct that, Sunday morning.”

“..Oh yeah, sure. On the train, right?”

“Yeah Lodo, on the train. It wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t remember.”

Our eyes locked but I didn’t say anything.

“What’d you do anyways?” he asked.

“I went to a party.”

“In Long Island City, right."

That comment made me nervous. It was obvious my boss could tell 'cause he laughed.

“What Lodo?--you told me that on the train. You don’t remember do you?”

I sat silent in my chair.

“..You remember what else you told me?” he asked.

Again I remained silent.

“..Well that’s okay,” my boss said with a smile, “cause I wrote it down right here.”

My heart began to race as he pulled a small piece of paper out his breast pocket. It was only a scrap of paper, like he’d torn it off a cocktail napkin. He placed it on his desk, then turned his attention toward me.

“I wrote it down ‘cause I thought it was so funny. I’d asked you what you did that night, and you answered..” (here my boss lifted the small piece of paper and read it aloud, imitating my voice) “I’ve just been doing the regular things that normal people do.”

I sat rigid in my hard-backed chair, eyes blinking rapidly as my boss descended into a giggle fit. All 6’ 6” of him. It was a relief to know I wasn’t in trouble and there’s something about watching a big man laugh. Like watching a heavyweight get knocked out. Its just better.

“Geez Lodo--you gotta guilty conscience or something?” he finally said as he wiped a tear from his eye. “I don’t care what you do on a Saturday night. That’s your time.”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“But you know, I did follow you home,” he said.

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, I followed you home to make sure you made it. You were really messed up.”

“..So you followed me home?” I asked in shock.

“Yep.”

My concerned countenance forced another burst of laughter out my boss. Deep laughter from his barrel chest.

“Ha! I didn’t follow you home. I hope you know I’ve got better things to do at 6:30 in the morning. But you sure looked nervous for a second.”

He referred back to the small pice of paper and read it aloud again.

“I’ve just been doing the regular things that normal people do. My God Lodo, you are a piece of work,” he said as he waved me out his office.

Sometimes I Feel Like...(a/k/a/) A Real Piece of Work: Part 1

2009-10-07T15:04:00.000-07:00

Vitali Klitschko beats Cris Arreola in defense of his heavyweight title on HBO (2) Saturdays ago:
The look I was sporting at the outdoor show.
I’m sure we’ve all had the feeling or fear sometime in our lives that we’re being watched. That Truman Show complex Jim Carrey depicted in his movie.

As an investigator I can tell you that sometimes you are being watched. Or at least seen. Whether anyone cares enough to watch is another matter.

Unless you’re some kind of power broker or media personality, it takes a certain amount of arrogance to believe someone would watch you. A big-money insurance claim could trigger some surveillance. Or a big pair of tits from your neighbor across the street. A recent trip to Pakistan might put you on the radar; but other than that...who’s gonna take time out their lives to spy on you? Or me.

That said, I’ve been told I’m pretty arrogant on more than one occasion. Steady readers can decide if there’s any validity to the comment, but I‘ll admit that I’ve had the eery feeling of being watched these last few weeks.

Case in point was (2) Saturdays ago.

I’d stayed home to watch the Heavyweight Boxing Championship between Vitali Klitschko and Cris Arreola on HBO. No--I haven’t become a shill for HBO. I mention the network because after the fight the HBO broadcast sort of segued into one of their original programs called Bored to Death.

Now, Bored to Death features a writer/private detective who works in New York City; which, as any steady readers know is what I do and who I am. So even though I was on my way out the door, the show caught my attention. I said to myself, “You should watch this.”

So I watched Bored to Death, and in fact saw certain parallels with my life. Certainly not dead-on. Lots of major differences as well--I’m not asserting any ideas or lines were lifted from me. In fact, now that I’ve seen a few episodes I don’t really care for Bored to Death all that much.

But we don’t criticize artists here at Stays Put. I bring up Bored to Death only to explain my paranoia.

You see, before Stays Put, I had a different blog called The City’s Investigator. I removed it from Blogspot (2) years ago since I was in active job-search mode and didn’t want potential employers to think I might write about cases. But I was proud of City’s Investigator and still feel it was a good piece of work. In minor ways, it had a similar feel in terms of tone and the voice of the main character as Bored To Death.

Anyway, the day after the fight and that episode--Sunday, I went to a free, outdoor music festival just outside the city. It was a cool, drizzly day; and as such,the crowd was sparse. I’d only come for the headliner and only stayed for about an hour or so before I prepared to leave. For the record, I was sporting a look much like you see in the picture at the top of this post.

As I walked away, someone tapped my shoulder. Actually took time to stop me. I turned ‘round and there was a guy who looked very much like myself. Maybe a little more weathered than me. More rugged. With reddish hues to his hair and watery eyes that seemed bothered by the wind.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” he said to me with a stone-cold, fixed look.

“..Uh, okay.” I responded as I slowly continued to walk.

“Have you ever seen the show Bored to Death?” he asked me.

I stopped.

“Why would you ask me that?”

The guy smiled. He had a space between his front incisors and one of his side teeth had a silver crown. He wore a hat similar to mine, but its brim faced forward.

“I’m just curious if you know that show,” he answered.

“Yeah, I got that. But why?” I asked again somewhat defensively.

“Its just that you look like the guy who writes for that show--Jonathan Ames. You know him? He wears a hat like that (pointing to my Kangol), the same way you do.”

I inspected the guy’s eyes for sincerity and he seemed to be looking for something in me as well.

“I never heard of Jonathan Ames.” I answered truthfully. “But I saw that show Bored to Death last night. I happen to be an investigator who works in New York--and I’m a writer, just like that character. So when you see that guy Ames, tell him I hope he’s not gonna steal the rest of my life.”

Again the guy smiled.

“I’ve never met him myself. I just thought...maybe you’d seen that show. You should Google him when you get home.”

That was it. The guy flashed a tight smile and walked away and I continued my walk home. Of course as soon as I arrived I Googled Jonathan Ames to see what the guy looked like, and when I saw his picture I almost choked on my beer ‘cause it was the guy I’d been talking to. I mean, if not he was a dead-ringer. Far closer than myself in terms of looks.

“What the...?”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into a 2nd part. I should have it done in a couple days (been busy with work). If you got this far--thanks for reading!!

New York City Pics* (*Click Image For Full-View):

2009-10-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

Bronx:

5 Pointz (Queens):

Bronx:
Panel Truck in Midtown:

Bronx River Parkway/Westchester Avenue (Bronx): (3) total

5 Pointz:

*NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. (5) Boroughs. New York City.

Artist credit for the huge mural where an A-bomb blows-up is posted below.

Lodo Grdzak's Sportin' Life: Big Pimping and Pipe Dreams

2009-09-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

Miami Running back Ricky Williams:
NY Giants Quarterback Eli Manning:

New York’s pretty excited ‘bout football these days. Both our teams are 3-0 so who knows, maybe they’ll play each other in the The Superbowl.

If they do, I wont be watching. At least, not at my house. I’ve banned the NFL from my house this year.

When I tell people I’ve banned the NFL, they assume its cause of Michael Vick, and that’s pretty-much true. But its only part of the story. The real NFL story for me is Ricky Williams.

Think about it:

Michael Vick was convicted of organizing a multi-state gambling and dogfighting operation, at which time it was determined that he personally electrocuted dogs with jumper cables, hung them from trees, or just flat-out slammed them to the ground to their deaths. That’s when he didn’t have them fight.

By contrast, Ricky Williams’ “crime” was that he tested positive for smoking weed. He also...tested positive for smoking weed.

Michael Vick was sentenced to (23) months in Federal prison and was supposedly suspended indefinitely by the NFL in August of 2007. But Vick began his jail term in November of 2007 and was signed by the Philadelphia Eagles in August of 2009; so I have to ask you reader, how long was Vick actually suspended from the NFL?

Now compare that “punishment” to running back Ricky Williams who was suspended twice by the NFL for its substance abuse policy. Williams lost close to (3) years of his NFL career, which may as well have been dog years when you consider the average NFL running back’s career lasts only (2) seasons. Does that sound fair to you? For smoking weed?!

But lets delve a little deeper into the NFL and its amazing contribution to society and the lives of its players.

Most NFL players are multi-millionaires, no? You would hope so based on the billions (that's not a typo--billions) of dollars the league makes off them every year.

Yet if you do a little research, you know that close to 75% of NFL players are bankrupt within (2) years of retirement* (*source: Yahoo Sports). That’s pretty damn pathetic when you consider that most of these guys only play in the league (2)-(3) years. Then they’re 28-29 years old. Bankrupt. Bodies beat-up and worn out. Education highly suspect. Sounds like some big pimping going on to me.

In fact, that reminds me of another big news story out here. The story of $4,000.00/night hooker Ashley Dupre. If you’re not from New York, I’ll remind you that she’s the girl our former governor Elliot Spitzer was banging.

Can someone explain to me why Ashley Dupre shouldn’t be allowed to use her physical attributes to make $4,000.00 a night, but Eli Manning can proudly and publicly gloat over his $107 million dollar contract with The Giants? $107 million dollars to throw a fucking football. What a contribution to society! Hickey-doo can throw a pigskin. And he’s really not even that good.

What makes me the most upset is that I’ll bet half the people at the ball games complain about the potential costs of Universal Health Care. Probably 90% of the fans in Dallas. Yet they’ll think nothing of spending $250.00 per ticket (and more) for a single game. Self-absorbed a-holes.

So this winter, do me a favor Jerry Jones and the rest of the National Fascists League--go fuck yourselves. As for me, I’m gonna see what Ashley Dupre’s up to. That sounds like a lot more genuine fun.

"$60 million dollars for (5) years? Well, I've never actually played an NFL game, but I guess that's fair."

Another great New York Jet--Wayne Chrebet:

The NFL's Great Contribution To Its Players* (*click image to read article):

"Hey Tim--don't smoke weed. I hear it could cause brain damage. ...Tim?"

The Dark Prince

2009-09-28T17:47:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along the way, Stays Put seems to have morphed into a music blog; which was never my intention. That said, I’m gonna conclude my series on live clubs despite the fact that I never finished--or even got to my favorite one (Jazz Standard). Such are the oddities of life.

But before going in a different direction, I wanna post a dedication to my favorite artist of all time. The great dark prince--Miles Davis, who died (18) years ago today.

Be back in a few days y'all!

Miles Davis w/ Chick Corea (keys); Keith Jarret (keys); Gary Bartz (sax); Airto (percussion); Dave Holland (bass); and Jack DeJohnette (drums): Live at Isle Of Wight (1970)

Miles Davis at Isle of Wight w/ Gary Bartz Solo (Final part):

Village Vanguard And The "Wow" Factor

2009-09-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

My Sister at The Vanguard:
Legendary Kenny Barron at The Vanguard:

Gary Bartz at The Vanguard:
The Incredible Chucho Valdes Kills at The Vanguard* (*look at the crowd reaction):
Lodo Grdzak At The Vanguard:
I mentioned in a previous post how the present Blue Note club has no actual relationship to the legendary Blue Note of the 1940’s or 50’s--or even with the classic Blue Note record label. Someone just bought the rights to the name. That’s also true for Birdland. But Village Vanguard is the real deal.

When I moved to New York I went to The Vanguard almost right away. After that show I got up on stage, looked out at the fairly small group of tables, and my mind was like...wow! To stand where John Coltrane stood when he recorded Live at The Village Vanguard. That was hot.

That said, I’m not sure The Vanguard’s actually the best club. There’s some bad seats; the tables are kind-of close when the room’s sold-out; and the 1 train rattles the floor when it passes (which is often). But Vanguard’s definitely the most prestigious and historic jazz club; and the place where I’ve had the most wow moments.

I saw Gary Bartz at The Vanguard. He used to play for Miles back in the 70’s and had his own classic electric band called Ntu Troop.

Gary can play any style, but one thing I didn’t know until I saw him is that he plays his set straight-through. No breaks between the songs. Its a signature trait of his live show that he does one tune after the other medley-style, until the performance becomes a test of stamina and mental toughness as well as musicianship.

But I didn’t know that when I first saw him. I’d just finished a late night of work, dropped into the Vanguard on a whim. They sat me at the front-most table so I could rest my tired feet on the stage. Nice.

And like I said, Gary came out and did one tune, then another; then another and another. If you follow football you know that a running back likes to get a lot of carries. As the game wears on they just get warmer and warmer as the opposition starts to soften up; and that’s just what happened with Bartz. The more comfortable we got the harder he played until he nailed the last tune of the set to the wall which just capped the drive.

Only after that last tune did he take the horn out his mouth, and as the crowd gave him a standing ovation Bartz looked right at me and said “I wanna thank you for being an almost perfect audience.”

I responded, “Wow man--you never even took a break!” and he just nodded and flashed a satisfied smiled like Earl Campbell after he’s walked into the end zone and handed the referee the ball. Classy guy.

Chucho Valdes was a great show at the Vanguard. Chucho’s not my favorite piano player, but he’s definitely the most exciting. If aliens landed in Central Park and said “you’ve got (10) minutes to wow us on piano or we nuke your planet” I’d pick Chucho to save the day.

If Chucho played guitar he’d be known as a shredder, like Steve Vai or Al DiMeola. He’s a technical genius with incredible virtuosity. And in fairness, Chucho’s got a lot more soul than those guys previously mentioned.

The night I saw him at The Vanguard I kind of recognized why the old-timers used to call piano a "hammerbox." Chucho’s big pair of mitts struck the piano keys so hard he rocked the floor like the 1 train. Vanguard’s a fairly small room and he built-up this little symphony that climaxed after about 10 minutes (by comparison, the clip below is only about 3 minutes). I thought ...Wow, he’s gonna bust-out the sides of that Steinway if he goes another minute.

I took a date to The Vanguard a few years back. I don’t date anymore and wouldn’t take a girl to The Vanguard if I did. But back then I took this girl to The Vanguard and she ate it up.

It was my friend Todd who’d introduced us.

“Lodo, you’re gonna like this girl,” he said when he first brought up the topic. “She’s arty and really hot. A little spinner--know what I mean? Just a little thing. But she’s really pretty."

“...Does she have big tits?” I asked.

Todd thought about it.

“...She’s a spinner,” he answered; which seemed to answer all further questions as far as he was concerned. Put it on her tombstone decades from now. She was a spinner.

When I brought this girl to The Vanguard, we were the last ones to show up. They sat us in the back, right next to the drummer. The first time he hit his cymbal it was so loud; we both laughed as we fell into each others arms. Wow! Serious damage to my ears that night.

At the end of the show, the drummer got his big solo. He got down on that drum-kit with a little more hop to his step and hit the cymbal so hard the stand fell over.

More out of reaction than design I reached out, grabbed the stand and set it back in place before it hit the ground. It wasn’t difficult, I was sitting right there.

At the end of the show the lead performer introduced the band members. Then he gestured my way and said “And how ‘bout a hand for the man who saved our drummer’s cymbal” to which the crowd gave me a moment of tepid applause.

Wow. A round of applause at The Vanguard.

I was hot that night. I walked that spinner girl ‘round the West Village. She couldn’t have been taller than 5’, but she was beautiful: dark hair; wide eyes. She had a look of constant wonderment on her face. A pedophile’s wet dream. I had to coax her to drink, but we talked for a long time at a couple different spots. About things we’d done and places we’d been. This was a long time ago.

Then we got to her car. It was some kind of small Miata or Toyota. Seriously small. Parked in a private lot closer to Tribeca.

She unlocked my passenger side door and yes ladies, I reached over and unlocked her door. She closed her door behind her and seamlessly crawled over the center console to my side of the car. Then she crouched down to the floor, got between my legs, pulled my junk out my pants, and proceeded to blow me. I couldn’t believe she could fit down there cause the space was so cramped. And I was surprised by her aggressive sexuality.

But this girl was a little minx. She gave me some serious head and after not too long I was like,” Hey I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.”

She took her mouth off me but never looked in my direction. She just stared down at my junk and wiped her lips saying “I don’t want you to ruin your suit.” Then went back to going down on me.

And reader, Kanye West talks about getting head on a Sunday afternoon--but you know what’s better than that? Getting head on a Friday night. Particularly if its Friday night. So this girl had me feeling good.

But I’m not someone who has to take advantage of a girl. I’m able to get laid, and in my own way I really like women. We’d both had a bit to drink and truth was I liked her. So I told her, “You heard me, right? That feels really good--I’m definitely ‘bout to come.”

And again she took her mouth off me for just a moment and said as though frustrated with me, “I cant let you ruin your suit. I wont let you do that. This is a good suit," she said with a bizarre conviction as she took a moment to stroke my jacket then took me down again.

She really worked herself up and got me horny as all hell--to this day if I hear someone say they stained their suit or they ruined a pair of pants I get an instant hard-on, which is probably more than you ever wanted or expected to know about old Lodo Grdzak.

But I feel it necessary--or at least related to my theme, which was that this was just a wow! kind of night. This girl went down on me something fierce and I’d warned her twice, which was about 2x more than the average guy would have done.

So my conscious was clear when my mind went blank and I felt something like an air bubble burst in my nuts, shoot into my brain, and go back to my junk where it busted again. I popped both my bags as my buddy Jake might have phrased it as my body expressed its life force about 3’ down that girl’s throat. She gagged hard and I could have herniated a disc the way my hips jerked. It took us both awhile to catch our breaths.

As I slowly came back to my senses my gaze fell on my girl’s face. Gorgeous. Exotic. She was still crouched on the passenger side floor of that miniature Miata, as though she were perfectly comfortable. Could have sat there all night.

“What are you thinking?” she asked me with a sardonic smile as she inspected my suit. “I’d have got it all if you didn’t make me gag. But I could tell you liked that,” she said with an exaggerated swallow. “Right?”

She reached up to rub my face. I swear I could still hear the faint ring of that drummer’s cymbal in the back of my mind and hear the mild applause I’d received as I stared into her wild, wide eyes.

And of course what could I possibly say but “Wow!”

Odd Times At The Iridium (Part 1 of...I'm not sure yet)

2009-09-21T20:02:00.000-07:00

I probably like Iridium more than I should. Located right on Times Square its a total tourist trap distinguished by Les Paul’s steady Monday night gig more than any charm or history to the room. In fact, now that Les has passed it’ll be interesting to see if Iridium makes it.

Much like an unplanned July 4th or Labor Day weekend, so many Iridium shows I’ve seen have been under last-minute circumstances or with odd groups of people for which there was no precedent or sequel. There’s just something a little...off about Iridium and the times I’ve had there.

The weekend after 9/11 I went to Iridium. A famous musician was supposed to have his album release party that week (acts usually have a (5) day run at Iridium, from Tuesday thru Sunday) so I figured I’d go. I’d been inside almost the entire week as I wrote my epic 9/11 tome A Week In New York At The End of Our Reprieve and felt it was time to get out.

But the streets were nearly empty and those that were out crowded round the firehouses and police stations where they left memorials of flowers and took pictures with the cops or with FDNY helmets on their heads. Nobody really knew whether they should be mournful in loss or hopeful or defiant in the wake of tragedy. Overall it was really a kind of embarrassment that permeated the air, by which I mean people weren’t sure what the proper emotion should be. So smiles were tight, laughter exaggerated and everywhere there was this kind of...restraint in gestures and mannerisms; as though people had to keep their emotions in check lest the the flood gates opened and engulfed us all.

Anyway, as I mentioned that week of 9/11 was supposed to be the album release party for this famous musician. 9/11 had been on a Tuesday and now it was Saturday. There couldn’t have been more than (6)-(10) people in the whole club--and that was probably the busiest it had been all week. After all, it was Saturday night in New York.

Well reader, the scariest thing for an artist (next to the belief that their talent has waned) is that there’s no longer an audience out there. For all the fear that existed in New York that week--of Wall Street traders afraid the markets would tank to the housewives and women who feared another attack--the people that had the most to fear were the artists. All the money seemingly dried up in one day. And even if it hadn’t who wanted to go out anyway? The city literally stunk like a graveyard and there was just so much sadness out on the streets it seemed obscene to go to a play or a club.

But there’s no use living in New York if you don’t go out. The weather sucks, rent’s ridiculous, and for most of us our apartments are the size of a large walk-in closet. So yeah, you’re gonna go out.

And there I was at the Iridium. With the small contingent of New Yorkers I could easily count on my hands and that famous musician who’d put his heart and soul into that new album that no one was ever going to give a shit about.

He sat in the booth and stared at the front door while one of his band-mates sat silent on the opposite side. The band-mate stirred a spoon in his coffee mug and gazed as though in a stupor at the table-top. Suddenly the famous musician’s head perked up like my dog Spiffy when she hears Rules’ scooter. Did that door just open? (5) more people and you could almost justify a performance. Naw, just the hostess come back from a smoke.

The musician surveyed the room. Looked at his watch. His gaze returned to the door one last time before he finally came to terms that this was going to be it. He had an audience of (8). On a Saturday night.

The musician began his approach to the stage but there was no energy in the room. No excitement. We were all just there to get out the house, and in fairness to the artist what kind of circumstances are those for a performance?

So the musician stopped in his tracks. He looked about the room at the sad faces and tight lips and said seemingly out of nowhere,

“C’mon people, we have got to get over this. Am I right?”

None of us said a thing and most seemed baffled that the guy we’d spent money to see had even bothered to speak. As though we’d have been more than satisfied to just get drunk someplace other than home. But this guy wasn’t done.

“No I’m serious people, we’ve gotta get over this. I mean, look at me--I’m already over it! Really!”

Which sounds pretty bad in retrospect; and in fact even then, but it was such a strange time. People were saying all kinds of moronic things and everyone was out of sorts; so I suppose mad times make eccentricity the norm. In fact we were neither outraged nor moved by the musicians comments. We all just nodded in assent like a bunch of drunks at Moe’s Bar as he took the stage and played his upbeat set that had no emotional attachment whatsoever to the mood of the moment. Until he finally played his last note, put his instrument back in its case, and marched back to his booth where he proceeded to glare at the previously mentioned table-top. His stack of unsold CD’s at his side.

My friend Rules at Iridium:

Nicholas Payton at Iridium (last weekend):

One That Got Away

2009-09-18T04:11:00.000-07:00

When it comes to music, I don’t miss a show. Not if I can help it. 90% of why I go to work is so I can see live music, have a nice meal, bang a hot chick here and there, and smoke my kind-bud.

When people tell me they’ve spent over a $100 dollars to see a baseball or a football game (that's $100 dollars per ticket), I think they’re a bunch of dumbasses. In fact, I know they are. At the end of the day, what have you really walked away with? Oh my God--A-Rod hit another dinger! Wow--haven’t seen that before. Or since. Who gives a fuck.

But the right music will change your perspective on everything. Give your soul a whole new outlook that can last a lifetime.

I’ve seen almost everyone, but there are (3) omissions that always linger in the back of my mind. I never saw D’Angelo with the Soultronics; I never saw John Coltrane; and I never saw Jimi Hendrix. And of those (3), missing Hendrix kills me the most. (39) years to the day after his death, he's still the most inspiring.

Jeff Beck Talks About Meeting Jimi Hendrix:

Mick Jagger and Jeff Beck cover Jimi Hendrix: Foxy Lady

Jaco Pastorious covers Jimi Hendrix: Them Changes/Third Stone From The Sun Medley

World Sax Quartet covers Jimi Hendrix: If 6 Was 9 (audio may not sync)

Stevie Ray Vaughn covers Jimi Hendrix: Little Wing

Adrian Belew's Message to My Friend Kitty

2009-09-15T19:39:00.000-07:00

The last time I was at BB Kings was probably about (3) weeks ago. Actually, I know the exact date, which was August 28th when I saw guitar legend Adrian Belew.

Adrian’s playing is always superb, but while his performance at BB Kings provides an easy tie-in to this month’s theme of New York clubs, the real reason I brought him up is to relay a story he likes to tell about his audition for the Frank Zappa band * (*Kitty, I hope you’re reading this ‘cause this post is for you).

Okay, so if you don’t know anything about Adrian Belew, he’s a legendary guitar player and electronics innovator who’s toured with David Bowie and King Crimson. Adrian played on just about everybody’s record back in the 1980’s from Adam Ant to Talking Heads. Back then he was the shit.

But before all that he was just another struggling guitar player with a steady gig at The Ramada Inn* (*I think it was The Ramada Inn. I’m working off memory here and it’s been over 10 years since I heard this story).

Anyway, Adrian’s got his weekly gig at The Ramada trying to support his young wife with no money and few prospects when somehow Frank Zappa hears ‘bout him and catches him at the hotel. Zappa’s forming a new band and needs another guitar player. But a lot of guys want to play for Zappa. He’s not just giving that gig anyway--you’ve got to audition.

So Zappa has Adrian over to the house and he hands him about (300) tunes worth of sheet music.

“Work on these,” he says, “and come back next Saturday.”

Well, this is Adrian’s big chance. He’s not going to blow it. He takes home his sheet music and proceeds to practice ‘cause he really needs this Zappa gig.

Only I don’t know what you know about Frank Zappa reader, but this guy was a musical genius. You may not like him--I can’t say I like everything he did; but the guy’s an internationally recognized composer of highest accomplishment. Many of Zappa’s tunes are really hard for even the most gifted players, so Adrian’s got his work cut out for him to learn (300) tunes in a week.

But Adrian gives it his best shot, by which he says he was able to work on about (50) tunes before the audition.

Then the big day. Saturday. Audition day for poor Adrian who’s got that young wife to support and only that soul-crushing gig at The Ramada to fall back on. He gets to Frank’s house, takes a seat in front of the music stand.

“Okay,” Zappa says, “hand me that music.”

Adrian hands the pile of sheet music to Frank who proceeds to skim through the stack. He pulls out a tune, seemingly at random. Its an easy one. Adrian didn’t even look at it at home, but manages to sight-read his way though it without much problem.

Zappa’s face reveals nothing as he pulls the music off the stand and replaces it with another. This one’s not so easy and it’s one Adrian never practiced. He has to sight-read his way through it and fumbles in fits and starts. Still, Zappa doesn’t let him off the hook. He stands patiently and stares at the written music he’s created as Adrian butchers his way through it until finally Frank removes the music and replaces it with another.

Same story. Its one Adrian’s never seen and its even harder than the last. And again this happens, and again and again; yet each time Frank’s countenance remains unchanged. Until finally he yanks the last one from the stand and lets out a heavy sigh that doesn’t bode well for the now sweat-drenched Adrian who doesn’t even have the nerve to look Frank in the eye as they shake hands and say goodbye.

“Be home around 6:00 tonight,” Frank says. ‘I’ll call you then and let you know.”

And what’s the point, right? When you felt good about maybe (3) of the (15) tunes you played? Maybe (3). That’s what Adrian thinks as he bumbles around town, embarrassed to go home and face the wife and that dogshit gig at the Ramada Inn.

But go home he must (this was long before cell phones). He gets home at about (10) minutes to 6:00 so as not to prolong his misery as he waits on Frank’s call. He walks in the door and no sooner does he take a dejected seat when the phone rings. Its Frank.

“Congratulations man. First rehearsal’s on Monday. Be on time.”

Adrian’s jaw almost drops to the floor. You can only imagine the emotion he feels. He kisses the wife. Gives a hug to the dog (if he had one--I don’t know). He dances a little jig right there in the small living room.

“But wait,” he says into the phone with wonderment as he slowly returns to his senses. “I couldn’t have nailed more than (2) or (3) of those tunes.”

“Yeah,” Frank says with a laugh. “You got (3). That was the best. See you on Monday.”

So to my friend Kitty’s who’s pulling the hair out her head and losing sleep at night ‘cause she hasn’t got the call back from her interview last week, all I can say is try and cool out. Think of Adrian. There’s no sense in replaying your answers (20) times in your head. Who nows what the right answers are to their questions? Who knows why they’re going to hire who they ultimately hire? And remember this, the fact that you got (2) interviews in this job market is a small victory in itself.

But I’ll bet you got that job.

Steve Vai Talks About His Audition for Frank Zappa:

Frank Zappa Band w/Adrian Belew (guitar/vocals) and Terry Bozzio (drums): City of Tiny Lites (1977)

It Was The Worst of Times, It Was The Best of Times

2009-09-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

When I see old friends from other parts of the country--or make new ones, they usually ask me the same question. Were you in New York on September 11th? In fact, I must have been asked that question (20) times last week by almost every tourist I met on the train or at the club.

“Were you here on September 11th?” they’d ask tentatively, perhaps afraid of how I might respond.

“Yep, it was incredible.”

“Oh my God,” they’d respond wide-eyed as they looked at each other, “tell us about it.”

Well,..you just got the feeling that New York was the most important place on the planet at that moment, you know? That you were standing inside history. That you’d experienced something that really mattered despite this being the dumbest time in the human race.

“...Go on,” they’d say, looking at each other in dramatic expectation of the gruesome details.

“Well, more than anything, I remember the sounds. I mean, sonic barriers were being broken. I think it was Beck himself who described Hendrix as being like a bomb going-off in the exact, right spot; and that’s just what Beck was like for me. A perfect explosion at the right moment. I’d dropped my last tab of acid that I had from my Denver days and got there so early I was practically on the stage. Man, that September 11th show at BB Kings was the best thing I’ve ever seen--and I’ve seen a million shows. He did a version of Goodbye Pork Pie Hat and Brush with The Blues. Man! Then I think he went into Ang..”

“Whoa--Lodo.”

“Angel. Or maybe it was A Day in the Life. I can’t remember for sure. Was it A Day in the Life? I thi...”

“Whoa, Lodo.”

“It must have been A Day in The Life ‘cause that was like a standard at that time before...”

“Whoa, Lodo--Lodo! Wait! Hold up. ...What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Jeff Beck at BB Kings. September 11th, 2003. The greatest show of all time. What’re you talking about?”

“We were asking about September 11th. You know, the Trade Center attacks?!”

“Oh--you mean 9/11? Fuck 9/11. I never think about that anymore. The day a bunch of monkeys found some matches and managed to scare the zookeepers. But Jeff Beck at BB Kings? I carry that show with me deep down in my heart everyday.”

Jeff Beck Live at Foxwoods (April 11, 2009): Scottish One

Jeff Beck Live in New York (April 10, 2009): A Day In The Life

Jeff Beck (w/ Terry Bozzio on drums) tears it up at BB Kings Club: September 11, 2003.

We'll Be Back To Our Normal Programming Shortly

2009-09-10T20:51:00.000-07:00

Last year ‘round this time, I mentioned how I was at The Trade Center on 9/11 when the 1st plane hit. In the days that followed the attack I wrote a stream-of-consciousness style journal that to this day remains the best account of that day and week I’ve read on the subject. Course if my name were Chelsea Clinton (who had to be at least 20 blocks uptown the morning of the attack) my piece would’ve been featured in New Yorker magazine; but since I’m just dumbfuck Lodo Grdzak it sits in my closet and collects dust.

Whatever. If there’s one thing 9/11 taught me its that even man’s most ostentatious accomplishments can be reduced to powder in less than half-an-hour. And by some fairly simple means. Everything we do is a Tower of Babel in one form or another, so I think the world will survive without my (8) year old essay.

That said, I’m gonna disrupt my series on New York clubs and post a couple short excerpts from that before-mentioned journal entitled A WEEK IN NEW YORK AT THE END OF OUR REPRIEVE (a/k/a And then..And then..And then..). ‘Cause as one of my favorite TV characters might say, “This writing a’int gonna appreciate itself people.”

So, let's start near the beginning.

...At work Kahteeja’s on the phones. Beautiful Kahteeja who I have such a crush on in an irresponsible, fun-loving way which seems anachronistic and out of place at this point. But I was so charged from what I’d observed and already knew there was no sense in working; yet there she was answering phones just like she was trained to do just a week before saying “Good morning G_____ & I_____,” in that incorrect way of hers which...who gives a shit anyway. And there’s so many calls coming in and I’m just sitting there waiting for her to get a break so I can flirt with her just like its any old day except that a missile hit the Trade Center. And did I mention that to anybody yet? No, I hadn’t so when Kahteeja gets a second’s break I slap at her arm sort-of in jest and say “Guess what?” and she looks at me very seriously because she always has a very serious countenance and she asks “What?;” and I respond as though answering a knock-knock joke and say, “A missile hit the Trade Center.” To which she responds, “No, it was a plane. They had it on the radio.” And then the switchboard lights up again with another dozen calls which she has to answer; so I bumble over to my boss's office where Dale and Margie and Blanca and Marvin are watching the Trade Center burn through our 20th story window and I tell them that I saw the whole thing and that it looked like a missile. And Dale rips right around in that hyperactive way of hers and says, “No, it was a plane. Another one just hit the other tower. You think this was planned?” And at first I had to do a double-take cause I thought it had been a missile but now I’ve learned it was a plane so I have to process this new information to develop context; but then she tugs at my arm and looks up into my eyes urgently ‘cause she’s only 5’ tall and could probably count my nose hairs if she wanted and asks me again, “Lodo, do you think this was planned?” And I answer dumbly as I stare out the window with a blank expression “Oh yeah, definitely.” And this is all Dale needs to hear. She slaps her hands loudly and proclaims to the room with raised finger “Yes!--that’s what I said. One--maybe! But two planes in the same morning?--this is a deliberate attack!”

Approximately 30 minutes later.
...so I meander over to the switchboard to flirt with Kahteeja, which always gives my life force a boost, but she’s trying to make outgoing calls and the circuits are all tied-up and she’s getting frazzled; so Marvin suggests that I try to get some information on-line. So that’s what we do when suddenly I hear what sounds like someone banging desperately on the window, only we’re (20) stories high so that makes no sense. Then Dale runs in and says the top of the first tower just came down so I spin round in my chair to look out the window and its just like one of those movies that I wont even condescend to mention where you see the big fireball behind the crowd of fleeing humanity that’s scurrying down Wall Street. And now I’m suddenly faced with something thats going to become a theme for the day which is that I have to make a decision, possibly an important decision about what I’m going to do because when that tower fell our building shuddered on its foundation and I got visions of falling dominoes as I watched the ball of fire approach and smoke strain its way between the skyscrapers of Wall Street. So my first reaction is to get out, but then an announcement comes over the buildings PA which says we should “stay inside” because, “there’s a lot less smoke.” And so, okay now what do I do?--because they’re telling me not to follow my gut instincts. What to do. What to do.

Despite warnings from our building, Kahteeja and I left work and proceeded uptown in hopes of getting out of Manhattan.
...the thick dust that permeated the air and images of the shocked, grey-powdered humanity filing past police barricades and FBI checkpoints en route to the Brooklyn Bridge with the long lines qued-up in front of the pay-phones with the big black man at the front yelling into the receiver “Pull my kids out of school! I want them out!” And the busses rolling by while people desperately bang on the doors, pleading for them to stop and the Wall Street traders on their cell phones (the few that still worked) telling their wives not to try to come downtown and the crowd gathered by the street people with their ancient portable radios turned up loud, suddenly important people in this inverted world; and everybody's listening to the radio trying to find out what trains are running or whether the bridges are open and a cop suddenly stops a black woman next to us who’s completely covered in grey dust and just sort of stumbling around and he asks if she’s alright and she says, “Yeah sure, I just need to catch my breath,” at which point she proceeds to cough-up a cloud of asbestos dust and drywall remains as though her lungs are used vacuum cleaner bags; but we keep walking, past the church with the black minster yelling ‘Prayer inside!” Prayer inside!” and the Chinese shopkeepers standing on the sidewalk with expressionless, inscrutable faces; and there are some people who still aren’t getting it, by which I mean the gravity of what’s happening, like the older woman who’s trying to catch a bus and when she hears the bridge is closed to traffic begins to complain, “Well how far are they gonna make us walk?!”

Discriminating Tastes at The 55 (2nd part of 2):

2009-09-07T17:31:00.001-07:00

If I owned a restaurant and refused to serve Mexicans or Asians I’d be accused of discrimination; and in fact, I’d be guilty as charged. But when Blue Note charges $40 cover or Ticketmaster sets event prices over $100, that’s just considered standard business practice and you’d be considered a socialist if you raised a fuss. Such is the way of the world.

At the 55 Bar the cover’s usually about $15 dollars and for that you oftentimes get a free drink ticket; so what’ve you really paid? Course you’re not gonna see Roy Haynes or Ahmad Jamal for 15 bucks, but you might actually sit next to a person who can talk about something besides their dental practice or the cost of their kids college tuition. All you have to do is scroll down to the Roy Haynes picture (see Blue Note below) or the picture of Oliver Lake at Birdland to see the demographic that can afford those clubs.

Conversely, if you’re a master like Roy Haynes you certainly deserve to get paid. So while I don’t support discrimination, I’d like to be able to listen to the music without some homeless guy whipping out his dick or being subjected to some drunkard attempt to hum the melody in unison with the performer. Whether rich or poor, I expect you to know how to act.

Because of the 55’s cheap cover, it draws more freaks than other clubs. The average person can scrape together $15 bucks--even if they’re on a fixed income; and while $4 dollar beers aren’t cheap, that’s pretty damn good for New York. So the demographic at 55’s more..real than Blue Note or Birdland, which has positive and negative ramifications.

Take the last time I saw Mike Stern. I was seated next to this red-haired woman who was probably in her mid-50’s. She sat hunched over the bar in classic rummy posture and was initially very quiet as she stared into her drink. But then she got to talking.

“Have you seen this guy before?” she asked me from behind heavy-lidded eyes.

“Who--Mike?” I asked, caught off-guard by her sudden attempt at conversation. “Sure, I’ve seen him a million times.”

“So you think he’s the best, eh?”

“Wellll, I don’t know if I’d go that far. It’s pretty hard to say who’s the best in music.”

“Well that’s what I was told is that this guy’s the best.”

“Okay. I suppose its not for me to decide. I guess you’ll see for yourself in a few minutes.”

But my answer didn’t seem to satisfy this woman. As though her $15 cover with free drink entitled her to nothing short of the greatest. She continued to stare and seemed to wait for an elaboration on my opinion; but I’m a veteran of a lot of shows and already sensed something about this woman. I kept my mouth shut.

Yet she wasn’t going to leave things at that.

“So if this guy’s not the best, who is?” she asked as she took a sip from her whiskey sour.

“..Well its all subjective isn’t it?” I said as I studied her dull eyes. “Though I think its pretty obvious that Jeff Beck’s the man.”

“I knew you were gonna say that,” she answered with a look that suggested her drink hadn’t settled well in her stomach.

“You did? How’s that?”

“’Cause I could tell, that’s all. You know, I had a bad experience with Jeff Beck. Back in the ‘70’s I was as a promoter here in New York and was supposed to promote Beck’s tour. Then he backed out at the last minute and made me look foolish. You cant say you’re going to deliver somebody and then not deliver. Not in the promotions business. He really screwed me over.”

I nodded my head but made no response, which was something I think bothered this woman.

“Let me ask you something else,” she said with her eyes still fixed on mine, “what’s your star sign?”

“My star sign? You mean like the zodiac?”

“Yeah,” she answered as though I was trying her patience. “You’re zodiac sign. What is it?”

“They say I’m Scorpio. Why do you ask that?”

Again that same sour face as she nodded her head.

“I thought you were gonna say that. I’ve never had good experiences with Scorpios. My first husband was a Scorpio and I find them to be very self-absorbed people. They’re moody and they’ll stab you in the back in a second; so when you say you’re Scorpio I can tell I’m probably not going to like you.”

“..Uhhh, okay,” I responded somewhat nonplussed as the barmaid shot me a smile as though she’d heard our conversation. “I hope you can figure out a way to stand me for the next hour or so.”

But the way the woman shook her head implied that was going to be difficult to do.

Luckily, Mike came on shortly thereafter and saved me from further abuse. If you’re unfamiliar with Mike I’ve posted a clip below, which is a pretty accurate representation of what he does well. He plays other feels too, but this kind of thing is really his forte. When he strays from it, he exposes himself to criticism. (Criticism you wont read here).

But as you can see from above, this woman was more than anxious to point out your faults. In fact, she took an ugly sort of relish in it.

So when Mike finished and approached us for his after-set ritual with the ladies, he was in for a rude awakening.

“Hey there,” he said to us from behind that big Cheshire-cat smile he always wears. “Did you like the show” he asked the woman as he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re no Jeff Beck,” she responded in a way that sounded exactly like Principal Skinner’s mother from The Simpsons. “And I hate to have to say it.”

And to his credit, Mike didn’t skip a beat. Even I was kind of shocked and offended, but Mike just looked at me with a laugh and then back at this Agnes Skinner bitch and told her,

“Oh Beck’s the man on guitar! I’d give anything to be compared to him.”

“Well you never will be,” she responded as she proceeded to brush his hand off her shoulder.

And again Mike and I just shared a baffled, outraged guffaw as I twirled my fingers round near my temple in the universal gesture of crazy.

“You’re not Jeff Beck and you never will be,” she continued as Mike walked away still genuinely bemused, “but that’s okay ‘cause that guy screwed me over just like my first husband did and just like Mr. Scorpio over here will probably do first chance he gets. Fucking back stabbers they all are. Let me tell you that Jeff Beck has a real drug problem. He...”

Here the woman must have noticed the look in my face cause she finally took a moment to shut the fuck up.

“...Why don’t you give that Jeff Beck stuff a rest now,” I suggested as calmly as I could. "You’re getting yourself worked up. I don’t think you acted very well there.”

But if I’d hoped to settle her down my words had the exact opposite effect. She practically hissed at me from behind her stained teeth as she stood up in her chair and rattled the glass in her highball in front of my face in a manner I sensed held great meaning to her.

“Oh sure, you’re all heart--Mr. Scorpion!”

Mike Stern: Introduction to After You

Neither Here Nor There at The 55 (1 of 2)

2009-09-03T15:49:00.001-07:00

I mentioned last post that Blue Note’s my least favorite club in New York, but 55 Bar’s one of my favorites. It’s cheap, intimate--unpretentious almost to a fault. It thrives mainly on NYU students and its acts for the most part are younger artists or artists with new bands under development. Still, there are times when an established artist of stature will play there, and the semi-famous Mike Stern (former guitarist for Blood, Sweat & Tears and Miles Davis) has a steady gig there on Mondays and Wednesdays.

A few years back my friend Rules and I had planned to see Mike at the 55. To say she had a crush on him would be going too far, but they definitely had a thing going when she saw him at The Iridium years earlier. Mike’s gotta be close to 50 if not older, but he still has the look and smile of a 15 year old kid. He knows how to flirt with the ladies and he’d worked Rules over pretty good.

Well the day of the 55 show, New York experienced the biggest snowfall in its history. I still find it hard to believe--it was only like 20-something inches; but that’s what the papers said. Biggest blizzard in history.

Now you might expect the biggest blizzard in history to shut a city down, but here in NY most of us just walk to get around or take a train. Closed roads don’t mean as much here as they would in my old town of Detroit.

So when Rules and I walked to the club we had every expectation that the show would go on and were genuinely surprised to learn that Mike couldn’t make it. But a bigger surprise was the band that replaced him--Chris Potter on saxophone, Brian Blades on drums; and...I forget the bass player (sorry guy!).

Well reader, either you recognize how bad-ass that combo is or you don’t. Chris Potter and Brian Blade. And you have to keep in mind the size of the 55. If you own a house in a middle-class neighborhood of say...Ohio, the 55’s probably about the size of your basement--with (2) tiny bathrooms attached.

And despite all my tough talk about New Yorkers, there were maybe a half-dozen people in the whole place. So this basically turned into a private show for Rules and me. We sat on a pair of barstools no more than a (5) feet from the band. And these guys were taking it out since only the most hardcore jazz fans had shown up. I’ll never forget that show.

That was an era in which my company and the world in general began to switch our cameras from film to digital. I was issued my first digital camera, which had all of about (2) mega-pixels. Brian Blade was nice enough to pose for me (see below), but when I saw the low quality of the pic it was hard for me to hide my disappointment.

But when I look at the photo now, it seems an accurate representation of that night. Rules and I were completely boozed up to fend-off the cold walk to the club, and I’d smoked so much kind-bud that there was a fuzzy, almost timeless quality to the whole night. Nothing quite in focus as neon reflected off the soft snow and moments unfolded in odd time. Rules and me; Chris Potter, Brian Blades; all ensconced in our dreamy, anonymous sanctuary under the snow-blanketed skyscrapers of a sleepless city driven by a higher power into a blunted stupor.

Chris Potter (sax) w/ Underground (not at The 55):

Brian Blade (drums) w/ John Patitucci (bass):

Blue Note

2009-08-31T15:59:00.000-07:00

Blue Note’s probably my least favorite jazz club in New York. The cover’s always expensive, the seats are too close together, the sight-lines are bad, and its always loaded with tourists. Music fans (particularly Europeans) recognize the name Blue Note and think its associated with the classic Blue Note record label--which its not. And it has no relation to the old Blue Note club from back in the 50’s. Someone just bought the rights to the Blue Note name.

But for the very reason mentioned above--the fact that people recognize the name--Blue Note consistently draws the biggest crowds; which in turn lures the biggest acts. Artists know asses will be in seats and that they're going to get paid, so certain acts play almost exclusively at Blue Note.

At Blue Note you’re not supposed to take pictures. At least, not during the performance. In this present day of digital cameras they may have modified their policy to be no flash photography, but if you go there you might want to fact check that. Either way, when I saw Roy Haynes at Blue Note I made the mistake of taking his picture. This was with my old, company-issued film camera that used a flash. He’d finished his set (or so I thought) and was simply talking to the audience. So I figured, okay, it’s not like I’ll distract from his playing.

Well, I took his picture and Roy stopped on a dime.

“Who did that?” he asked as he put his hand to his eyes like a visor and looked out into the lights. Everyone looked at me. Again, I hadn’t tried to hide anything, I thought his performance was done.

“That was me.” I said with embarrassment from my seat.

“Stand up,” he said.

“What?” I asked, still in my seat.

“Didn’t you hear them at beginning of the show son? They said no cameras. What didn’t you understand about that? No cameras.”

He looked at me expectantly as he waited for an answer.

“..Well I thought they meant while you were playing since you might get distracted. I wouldn’t do that. But you were just talking so I thought it wouldn’t matter. ..That no one would get mad.”

Roy shook his head.

“No. That’s not right. No pictures means no pictures. People are mad. Come on, stand up.”

So now I’m like really embarrassed ‘cause all proceedings have stopped until I stand up. People have paid their bullshit Blue Note cover charge and now they’re waiting on me. And I have no desire to stand up in front of a crowd of 300 people--I hate public speaking!, so this was a real drag.

But I stood up.

Roy looked at me, then pointed toward the table.

“Now grab your camera.”

I reluctantly did as instructed.

“Okay," he said as he struck a pose "now take your picture," he said.

And I was like, “No, man, not like that.”

But he insisted and continued to pose with his drink high in his hand, “No, take it. Take it right now. This is a toast to you, so go ‘head, take your picture.”

So I snapped the picture (the one with Roy holding the glass of cognac at the top of this post); yet after the show Roy was still really indignant and he came to my table and insisted that I take another--just like he’d done before from the stage. Only this time he was right in my face. "Go ‘head man, take your picture. Take it! he said as he took a hit from his drink.

So I took this shitty photo (below) motivated by mild panic more than anything else.

Blue Note gets all the tourists and they cram ‘em in like sardines. There’s maybe a dozen seats that are worthwhile in the whole place and the rest are shit. You have to make a commitment to get there early or there’s a good chance you’ll have your back to the stage for your $40 cover.
Fucking Blue Note.

But as Republican operative Karl Rove might tell you, sometimes you can make a strength a weakness--or visa versa.

Case in point was when I saw trumpeter Arturo Sandoval at his recording party. Course the place was packed, but this time it worked for me since I was seated at a table-full of women--all of whom looked like they’d just stepped out of a Univision telenovella. A group of hoochies flown in that afternoon from Puerto Rico, looking for a good time over their weekend in New York.

Together we sat, without an inch to move in either direction--just the way they do it at Blue Note. So the first time I felt a hand brush the inside of my leg I just chalked it up to the close quarters. Happens to us subway riders all the time. But the second time I felt that soft caress I was like, You’ve got to be kidding me, and when I looked over at the gorgeous girl seated to my right she simply giggled at me wide-eyed until her whole group fell into riotous laughter.

“You know, me and my chicas have a bet,” she said to me though her bubble-gum lip gloss and perfectly white teeth.

“Oh yeah?” I replied, “What’s that?”

“We have a bet as to who’s going to be first to kiss a guy here in New York.”

“Really,..that’s kind of a fun bet.”

“Who do you think is going to win?” she asked me with a smile and a squeeze of my leg.

“Oh, wel..”

And before I could even answer she planted an excited kiss on my lips, punctuated by a barrage of camera flashes and a cheer from her friends while Arturo’s band sang Eso Es Lo Que Hay.

That show may not have been the best I'd ever seen, but it may have been the best show I've been to.

And that was at the dreaded Blue Note.

Arturo Sandoval at Blue Note: Eso Es Lo Que Hay

Old-School Roy Haynes (drums) w/ a Bunch of Jazz Legends: