Last night just for fun Mary skipped her usual west coast dance and asked if I would like to go to the Tiki Bar. The tile floor is a little hard on my knees, but the chance to dance to live music, even if it is only covers from the 60's to 90's, is hard to pass up.
The desert had warmed up to 101 in mid-afternoon, but by 7:00 it was already cooling pleasantly, especially in the breezy courtyard at Las Casuelas. We ordered Mexican beer and the band played Santana and Stevie Ray, and we danced and sweated.
Natalie is a regular at Las Cas. She's older, taught as a rope, dressed to kill in polka dots way off the shoulders. Every waitress and server drops by to say hello and she clasps each by the arm in turn, calls each by name. The band pays its respects during breaks, and plays one of her requests in each set. One of her favorite dance partners has come tonight, for the honor of taking her out on the floor, and they rumba, and swing, and cha cha, and even waltz.
And she's the queen of Las Casuelas, and life is sweet, if short.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Hallelujah (written on the return trip from PDX 5/11/09)
Half way back to SoCal and Leonard Cohen sings through my ear buds "a cold and a broken" (but nonetheless exultant) "Halleluja." Sometimes on these trips, with so many people expecting something from me and seeing me through the filter of those expectations, I start to lose touch with who I am. Maybe it's because I'm on my way home, maybe it's because I touched base with Lise today, or Aimee and Maegan last night, or my sons yesterday morning, or maybe it's Leonard's voice in my ear, but I feel the light within me rise and shine through my fingertips and I think maybe I can be who I am, at least for a little while, after all. And, maybe that's even enough.
Ironically, at this moment I see an angel. She's across the aisle and two rows in front of me, in pink pajamas with footies. She looks at me, her blue eyes to my green, her soft smooth tiny pink face to my my big old blotchy one, and she gives me a squinty smile -- no guile so she expects no guile, no judgment so she expects no judgment, no hidden recesses so she allows me none. Her mother looks around wondering to whom her infant daughter is suddenly paying such rapt attention, sees the 3-year-old in the seat in front of me and makes the natural assumption. But no, she's communing with the old grandpa another row back.
Years ago, one night in Eugene, Baba Ram Dass said that he can always see God looking out at him from any person -- the checker at the grocery store, the pedestrian he's passing on the street, even the the helmeted policeman. So, maybe it's not an angel I see, but God looking out at me. And she smiles that toothless flush-faced clear-eyed smile, clasps her hands together and pulls them in to her tiny chest in a gesture of utter wholeness and authenticity.
Halleluja.
Ironically, at this moment I see an angel. She's across the aisle and two rows in front of me, in pink pajamas with footies. She looks at me, her blue eyes to my green, her soft smooth tiny pink face to my my big old blotchy one, and she gives me a squinty smile -- no guile so she expects no guile, no judgment so she expects no judgment, no hidden recesses so she allows me none. Her mother looks around wondering to whom her infant daughter is suddenly paying such rapt attention, sees the 3-year-old in the seat in front of me and makes the natural assumption. But no, she's communing with the old grandpa another row back.
Years ago, one night in Eugene, Baba Ram Dass said that he can always see God looking out at him from any person -- the checker at the grocery store, the pedestrian he's passing on the street, even the the helmeted policeman. So, maybe it's not an angel I see, but God looking out at me. And she smiles that toothless flush-faced clear-eyed smile, clasps her hands together and pulls them in to her tiny chest in a gesture of utter wholeness and authenticity.
Halleluja.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A Royal Tanenbaum Moment
In Portland recently, I had a Royal Tanenbaum moment. You know, the Wes Anderson film?
Royal: "These past few weeks have been the best of my life."
Narrator: "Saying this, Royal realized it was the truth."
Or, words to that effect. Anyway, at the "Dinner with Peter" party, sold at the MSB auction, I was repeatedly asked how things were going in Palm Springs, how was Mary, etc., and found myself saying:
Peter: "These past few weeks Mary and I have been happier and more in love than we have since we first married."
And the narrator inside my own head: "Saying this, Peter realized it was the truth."
It's funny, isn't it? Some times you don't know what you are going to say until it comes out, and sometimes you don't realize the truth until you say it.
Royal: "These past few weeks have been the best of my life."
Narrator: "Saying this, Royal realized it was the truth."
Or, words to that effect. Anyway, at the "Dinner with Peter" party, sold at the MSB auction, I was repeatedly asked how things were going in Palm Springs, how was Mary, etc., and found myself saying:
Peter: "These past few weeks Mary and I have been happier and more in love than we have since we first married."
And the narrator inside my own head: "Saying this, Peter realized it was the truth."
It's funny, isn't it? Some times you don't know what you are going to say until it comes out, and sometimes you don't realize the truth until you say it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Good Night, Frankie
It's nine. Orion has already set behind the mountains. Soon the summer constellations will take over the sky. The crescent moon won't set for some time yet. The night is silent. Expectant.
Maura, the head of School is out of town this week, with students visiting D.C. I'm "holding down the fort" while the whole world freaks out about the swine flu, most especially parents of young children. I deal with their concerns, tighten policies and protocols, prepare for things that one really can't prepare for.
And yesterday Frankie Manning, beloved father of lindyhop, died. He was in his 90's, had danced at the Apollo in his youth (can you imagine?) had gone to Hollywood to dance in some forgettable movies (Hellsapoppin), had spent his adult life forgotten, had been rediscovered during the swing revival of the 90's, had been revered around the world by young white dancers. A true gentleman. Generous. Humble. A lady's man. A spark of life so pure. Now the dance community mourns him.
As do I. I lift a glass of sparkling pinot gris. Good night Frankie.
Maura, the head of School is out of town this week, with students visiting D.C. I'm "holding down the fort" while the whole world freaks out about the swine flu, most especially parents of young children. I deal with their concerns, tighten policies and protocols, prepare for things that one really can't prepare for.
And yesterday Frankie Manning, beloved father of lindyhop, died. He was in his 90's, had danced at the Apollo in his youth (can you imagine?) had gone to Hollywood to dance in some forgettable movies (Hellsapoppin), had spent his adult life forgotten, had been rediscovered during the swing revival of the 90's, had been revered around the world by young white dancers. A true gentleman. Generous. Humble. A lady's man. A spark of life so pure. Now the dance community mourns him.
As do I. I lift a glass of sparkling pinot gris. Good night Frankie.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
midnight at the jackalope ranch
Anyone who knows me knows I love to dance, especially to live music, especially to the blues. So, it should come as no surprise that, when I received an email from the great blues guitarist Kal David ( www.kaldavid.com ) that he was playing at the Jackalope Ranch, Mary and I reshaped our Friday night plans.
First, a word about Kal. He lives locally but travels the world with his music, and is a regular contributor to the "Blues Cruise" circuit with the likes of Delbert McClinton. We've seen Kal on a number of occasions playing solo, just Kal and his guitar and his MacBook laying down percussion. In my opinion, he's the king of the gracefully bent note, the seamless riff, the understated wail (I know, that's a contradiction in terms, but it's true!)
But Kal fronting a 3-piece band is a whole new experience: layered, explosive and riveting. He cuts loose a lot more and plays off the base line and Lauri's vocals. While Kal made his guitar sing effortlessly, the base player was all about effort -- eyes closed, sweat streaming, running up and down the neck, plucking and thumbing grooves or channeling Noel Redding arpeggios. The drummer, shoulder-length dreads, a gold cross around his neck, was a perfect compliment to Kal's cool, with minimal flash and splatter, just straight-ahead and solid. Lauri is a natural R&B singer, all warmth and smokiness. But the revelation was Kal, laying down a Stevie ray shuffle one moment or moaning a Muddy Waters standard the next. Hootchie Kootchie Man, indeed.
Now a word about the club. Jackelope Ranch is a new, huge, upscale barbeque restaurant, and the hip place of the moment. It was built by the founder of Babe's Barbeque, and the familiar soulful hog is depicted in bronze throughout the place, gazing philosophically at the ceiling or the sky. Perhaps he's contemplating his fate as a future pulled pork sandwich. For those of you who have never been west of the Mississipi (or the Atlantic Ocean) a jackalope is a fictitious creature created when someone thought to mount a jack rabbit head as a trophy on their wall and adorn it with antelope horns, a humorous exagerrated myth of the west like the fur-bearing trout.
Of course we danced, and of course it was a challenge, avoiding drunken wandering patrons (Where's the john, Man?), the scowling, overworked, busty cocktail waitresses laden with trays of beer, martinis and tequila shots, not to mention the other dancers. But we lindy-hopped without damaging anyone, hit some spot-on breaks, did some steamy blues dancing, zydecoed and cha-cha'd, and even busted out some nightclub two step on an R&B ballad. Listening to great blues is one thing, but feeling it and expressing it with a partner is different level of enjoyment altogether, to me.
The crowd around the tiny stage was mostly middle age and beyond, and really into it, clapping for the best solos, screaming their appreciation, nodding to the beat and writhing in ecstacy. But most of the bars patrons, starting a few tables from the stage and extending out onto the patio, were young, there to see and be seen, only into themselves and their ritualized pairing-off. It's such a privilege to experience world-class blues musicians up close, and they had no f___ing clue. Pearls before swine, and not of the big, brass, soon-to-be-pulled-pork-sandwich variety.
First, a word about Kal. He lives locally but travels the world with his music, and is a regular contributor to the "Blues Cruise" circuit with the likes of Delbert McClinton. We've seen Kal on a number of occasions playing solo, just Kal and his guitar and his MacBook laying down percussion. In my opinion, he's the king of the gracefully bent note, the seamless riff, the understated wail (I know, that's a contradiction in terms, but it's true!)
But Kal fronting a 3-piece band is a whole new experience: layered, explosive and riveting. He cuts loose a lot more and plays off the base line and Lauri's vocals. While Kal made his guitar sing effortlessly, the base player was all about effort -- eyes closed, sweat streaming, running up and down the neck, plucking and thumbing grooves or channeling Noel Redding arpeggios. The drummer, shoulder-length dreads, a gold cross around his neck, was a perfect compliment to Kal's cool, with minimal flash and splatter, just straight-ahead and solid. Lauri is a natural R&B singer, all warmth and smokiness. But the revelation was Kal, laying down a Stevie ray shuffle one moment or moaning a Muddy Waters standard the next. Hootchie Kootchie Man, indeed.
Now a word about the club. Jackelope Ranch is a new, huge, upscale barbeque restaurant, and the hip place of the moment. It was built by the founder of Babe's Barbeque, and the familiar soulful hog is depicted in bronze throughout the place, gazing philosophically at the ceiling or the sky. Perhaps he's contemplating his fate as a future pulled pork sandwich. For those of you who have never been west of the Mississipi (or the Atlantic Ocean) a jackalope is a fictitious creature created when someone thought to mount a jack rabbit head as a trophy on their wall and adorn it with antelope horns, a humorous exagerrated myth of the west like the fur-bearing trout.
Of course we danced, and of course it was a challenge, avoiding drunken wandering patrons (Where's the john, Man?), the scowling, overworked, busty cocktail waitresses laden with trays of beer, martinis and tequila shots, not to mention the other dancers. But we lindy-hopped without damaging anyone, hit some spot-on breaks, did some steamy blues dancing, zydecoed and cha-cha'd, and even busted out some nightclub two step on an R&B ballad. Listening to great blues is one thing, but feeling it and expressing it with a partner is different level of enjoyment altogether, to me.
The crowd around the tiny stage was mostly middle age and beyond, and really into it, clapping for the best solos, screaming their appreciation, nodding to the beat and writhing in ecstacy. But most of the bars patrons, starting a few tables from the stage and extending out onto the patio, were young, there to see and be seen, only into themselves and their ritualized pairing-off. It's such a privilege to experience world-class blues musicians up close, and they had no f___ing clue. Pearls before swine, and not of the big, brass, soon-to-be-pulled-pork-sandwich variety.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
the Jewish Al Pacino
On Friday nights the Van Gogh Museum is open late, 'til 10:00. Gone are the busloads of tourists crowding in front of each painting. Instead, the visitor finds the area in front of the stairwell transformed. Blockish blue chairs are gathered around a drum kit, baby grand, stand-up bass and hollow-body Gibson, and serious jazz afficionados take in the quartet's variations on Shiny Stockings, A Train or Blue Rondo a' la Turk. A video cam captures the audience and projects their images onto the ceiling within the green field of a Van Gogh. I buy a whiskey and ask someone to dance. We cha-cha, west coast, even samba a bit and the Europeans grudgingly make a little room and tolerate us with disdainful looks, "Serious jazz. Not for dancing."
During a latin number I notice we are not alone. A tiny older couple has taken the opportunity to share the dance space we've created. She's hot in a tight black skirt and sweater. He's cool with jacket collar turned up, hair brushed back, Italian shades, polished loafers. Al Pacino on a small scale.
They mambo with minimum effort and the unspoken knowledge of each other's moves -- where her hand will be, when he will hit the break -- the anticipation and flow that comes with decades of partnership.
I slip over between numbers and introduce myself to Ira and Harriett, both in their 70's, he with a recent triple bypass, returned to the Amsterdam of their youth after successful lives in the New Amsterdam, of the New World. Once considered the mambo king of Manhattan, Ira still likes to dress up a couple times a week, and escort his Lady to a club for jazz or latin. The little Jewish Al Pacino slides a handshake and tells me, "It's cool, Man. It's cool."
During a latin number I notice we are not alone. A tiny older couple has taken the opportunity to share the dance space we've created. She's hot in a tight black skirt and sweater. He's cool with jacket collar turned up, hair brushed back, Italian shades, polished loafers. Al Pacino on a small scale.
They mambo with minimum effort and the unspoken knowledge of each other's moves -- where her hand will be, when he will hit the break -- the anticipation and flow that comes with decades of partnership.
I slip over between numbers and introduce myself to Ira and Harriett, both in their 70's, he with a recent triple bypass, returned to the Amsterdam of their youth after successful lives in the New Amsterdam, of the New World. Once considered the mambo king of Manhattan, Ira still likes to dress up a couple times a week, and escort his Lady to a club for jazz or latin. The little Jewish Al Pacino slides a handshake and tells me, "It's cool, Man. It's cool."
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
spring on the keizersgracht
I decided not to bring me laptop with me to Holland, so I'll transcribe my handwritten postings now that I'm back home.
Wednesday April 15
I arrived Schiphol Airport at 10:30 am (having left Palm Springs the day before also in the a.m.), having little sleep on the flight across the pole from San Francisco. I read (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao), watched a movie (Slumdog Millionaire) and drifted between waking and sleeping while listening to dreamy ballads on my ipod (Iron and Wine). Whenever I started to drift off to sleep I could count on one of three things happening: the enormous man in the seat behind me would shift ponderously and push against the back of my seat for leverage, the Dutch folks two rows up would finish a hand of cards with a slap and a chuckle (or a groan), or someone would bump me as they passed down the aisle to the bathroom.
I know the drill by now. Sail through customs, "I have nothing to declare," take the train to Central Station, buy a strippenkaart and board either the 16, 24 or 25 through The Dam, Spui, past the Mint Tower, and get off at the Keizersgracht (king's canal), drag my bags on the cobbled street being careful not to be run over by cars, scooters or bikes, to the little Hotel Keizershof, where cheerful, stooped Mary DeVries awaits her guest. "Goiemorgen (hhhoy-ah MOR-hhhen), Peter. And how vas your flight?" I stayed with Mary last spring and must have made an impression because she seems genuinely happy to see me, and not just because the tourist trade is down due to the economy. I like to stay in the Mae West -- up three steeply convoluted spiral stairs, barely room for a sink, bed, chest of drawers and my suitcase, and sharing a hallway bathroom with Marlene Dietrich and other luminaries -- but with a view of the canal and only 65e per night.
After a nap I pull the lone chair up to the open window, pull the drapes aside and take in canal life on a sunny spring break day. All of Amsterdam is out -- all of Amsterdam, that is, that owns a boat or knows someone with a boat -- and all are parading lazily down the keizersgracht leaning back against the low gunwales, a case of heineken amidships, chatting and waving and relaxing. Oh, yeah.
Wednesday April 15
I arrived Schiphol Airport at 10:30 am (having left Palm Springs the day before also in the a.m.), having little sleep on the flight across the pole from San Francisco. I read (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao), watched a movie (Slumdog Millionaire) and drifted between waking and sleeping while listening to dreamy ballads on my ipod (Iron and Wine). Whenever I started to drift off to sleep I could count on one of three things happening: the enormous man in the seat behind me would shift ponderously and push against the back of my seat for leverage, the Dutch folks two rows up would finish a hand of cards with a slap and a chuckle (or a groan), or someone would bump me as they passed down the aisle to the bathroom.
I know the drill by now. Sail through customs, "I have nothing to declare," take the train to Central Station, buy a strippenkaart and board either the 16, 24 or 25 through The Dam, Spui, past the Mint Tower, and get off at the Keizersgracht (king's canal), drag my bags on the cobbled street being careful not to be run over by cars, scooters or bikes, to the little Hotel Keizershof, where cheerful, stooped Mary DeVries awaits her guest. "Goiemorgen (hhhoy-ah MOR-hhhen), Peter. And how vas your flight?" I stayed with Mary last spring and must have made an impression because she seems genuinely happy to see me, and not just because the tourist trade is down due to the economy. I like to stay in the Mae West -- up three steeply convoluted spiral stairs, barely room for a sink, bed, chest of drawers and my suitcase, and sharing a hallway bathroom with Marlene Dietrich and other luminaries -- but with a view of the canal and only 65e per night.
After a nap I pull the lone chair up to the open window, pull the drapes aside and take in canal life on a sunny spring break day. All of Amsterdam is out -- all of Amsterdam, that is, that owns a boat or knows someone with a boat -- and all are parading lazily down the keizersgracht leaning back against the low gunwales, a case of heineken amidships, chatting and waving and relaxing. Oh, yeah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
