When I was eleven years old we left Cleveland and my father. My mother and brother are the other two thirds of we. Last week my mother said, "you know Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday."
My father had asked my mother to wire some money to him so he could see the scandalous Oh Calcutta! in New York. I think everyone was naked in Oh Calcutta!. We knew he wasn't attending alone. We were aware that he had other women. My father had relocated us to Cleveland from Detroit, after losing his corporate job in Detroit. He was arrested for writing some ungodly amount of bad checks. I think he did about eight months in the state prison. He says the state prisons are much worse than the federal prison's.
My mother worked about three low paying jobs while my parents pretended that my father was in the Army. He was allegedly in a supply unit in Thailand, that was a support unit for another unit in Vietnam, during the Vietnam war. My brother and I remember letters from my father, read to us by my mother, about life in Thailand, the beautiful jungles, the breathtaking Watts, beatific people and other stuff that could be picked out of a Fodor's travel guide.
My mother says my father never wrote us. My father says he doesn't remember any details. He normally has a good memory.
Tension was building in our unhappy household. I learned later that I get along with my father when I don't expect anything out of him. Maybe I learned this from the Thai people.
After his release my father was reading Playboy religiously, watching Hee Haw and going to the Catholic church almost every day. I wasn't even sure if he believed in God. I think he was baptised. He also became our scout master. My brother was in the Cub Scouts. I was a Webelo, go ahead make the jokes. My father would speak to several troops in the gym of our school. He could probably speak about anything. He would talk a little about scouting. He was so charismatic and funny that people started to show up to hear him speak, people that had nothing to do with scouting.
A few years later my father explained to me that he was doing all of this for the benefit of his probation officer. He quit the scout master gig after about three speaking engagements, he was getting too much attention. He also said he hated being a scout leader.
In Cleveland my father had quit his job as the shop foreman for the rust proofing shop. He was now working at home. One day a kid at school asked me what my dad does for a living. I said. "I don't know." When I got home, I told him that a kid at school asked me what he does for a living. He said. "Tell that kid to mind his own fucking business."
We fled to Ft. Lauderdale, all we had was what we could carry. I had my entire baseball card collection, over 4,000 cards. My mother made sure I had clothes. We stayed at my paternal grandmother's house for six months. The last day of school in Cleveland my brother and I beat up a couple of school bullies during lunch. I guess we were angry. I wouldn't apologize, so I stayed after school for a couple of hours. My brother had given them an obviously insincere, "I'm sorry." He was sent home right after school. He waited for me. He told me that I was stupid for not giving in.
After the divorce was finalized, we were living in Winter Park, FL. My father was doing 15 months for mortgage fraud, in a federal prison.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Oswald The Rabbit
One of my first memories is of my mother watching tv while ironing my father's shirts, listening to the updates regarding the JFK assassination. I was five years old. I remember thinking everyone wants to be president someday. I asked my mother why anyone would shoot the president, she said something like, I don't know, it doesn't make any sense.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The 53rd Hostage
We sat in the back of a deuce and a half (two and a half ton truck), dressed for battle, M-16's, M-60's, hand grenades and other weapons were loaded up. It was full alert. In a few weeks I was scheduled to get my discharge from active duty. My Army contract stipulated that I had three more years of inactive duty. I didn't take that very seriously until we went on full alert.
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Heir
My friend Ken lived in the student ghetto in Gainesville. We would lift weights on his porch. Our workout was a fifteen minute workout dragged out to about two hours. We smoked pot, nursed beers, listened to records, talked about books, movies, women etc.. I was a recent arrival in town. I had noticed this guy walking around. He looked to be in his 40's, disheveled, wearing a dusty denim shirt. It looked like he might be living on the streets, except he was built like a body builder. Maybe he had just become homeless, I thought. I saw him near Ken's apartment, then I realized he was Ken's neighbor. Behind Ken's place was a two story tenement. I saw the mystery man coming in and out of there. Homemade weights were on the cement slab near the outside staircase, metal poles with industrial sized cement filled tomato cans attached to both ends. There were plastic gallon milk jugs filled with cement too.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
Drinking Buddies
Chris Garlington of Death By Children fame mentioned Harry Crews' latest book, An American Family: The Baby With The Curious Markings. It was published by the small press Blood And Guts in LA. Chris spoke of the myth of Harry Crews. Crews hangs out with Sean Penn. Thurston Moore wrote the blurb on the cover of his latest book, and there was the short lived band by the name of Harry Crews with Thurston's wife Kim Gordon, Lydia Lunch and Sadie Mae. I told Chris my story about Harry Crews.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Senior Circuit
In 1977 I went to see Led Zeppelin play Tampa Stadium. I was little put off by the $10 ticket price. Ten dollars for one band, that's a lot of money, are they fucking kidding? Now I hear about a reunion. I have no problem with idea of watching senior citizens play music. I think they should stick to chamber music or polka. I can't imagine watching the Who, The Stones or Zeppelin at this point. I think most reunions would be anticlimactic, assuming there was something in the first place.
In 77' about eight of us piled into my friends faded green Chevy van. He had swapped it for four pounds of pot. Extending from the dashboard to anywhere else in the van was an ingenious piece of mind altering gear. My friend called it the dash pipe. As far as I know he invented it. It was a pipe (for smoking pot) attached by a suction to the dashboard, about ten feet of surgical tubing served as the stem. The person riding shotgun normally lit the pipe, while the tubing was passed around the van. My friends brother asked me if I wanted to try angel dust. I did. I remember being pretty disoriented, but cogent, at least I think I was.
Led Zeppelin played three songs. I was stunned by Jimmy Page's guitar playing while he played Nobody's Fault But Mine. It was starting to drizzle a little. After the third song, the rain came down a little more. Robert Plant came out and said something like we'll be back in thirty minutes, our equipment is wet. I went to the bathroom during the break, the rest is a little confusing to me. A little while after I came out a small riot was developing into a bigger one. Bottles were being thrown. Cops were upset. I was nervous, perhaps paranoid, and I couldn't find any of the people I came with. Someone came out and announced that the concert was now officially cancelled. It looked like the end times. The crowd was out of control. I was alone, or at least I couldn't find my friends, I had smoked PCP. I walked to the parking lot and decided to just wait. I thought maybe I would eventually see the van or my friends. It seemed like almost everyone had left, when I spotted my crew.
I never did PCP again. It's funny. I haven't done anything more than pot since the 80's. I haven't smoked pot in awhile. Now when I hear someone has done a line of coke I worry about them. Then I remember things like smoking angel dust.
In 77' about eight of us piled into my friends faded green Chevy van. He had swapped it for four pounds of pot. Extending from the dashboard to anywhere else in the van was an ingenious piece of mind altering gear. My friend called it the dash pipe. As far as I know he invented it. It was a pipe (for smoking pot) attached by a suction to the dashboard, about ten feet of surgical tubing served as the stem. The person riding shotgun normally lit the pipe, while the tubing was passed around the van. My friends brother asked me if I wanted to try angel dust. I did. I remember being pretty disoriented, but cogent, at least I think I was.
Led Zeppelin played three songs. I was stunned by Jimmy Page's guitar playing while he played Nobody's Fault But Mine. It was starting to drizzle a little. After the third song, the rain came down a little more. Robert Plant came out and said something like we'll be back in thirty minutes, our equipment is wet. I went to the bathroom during the break, the rest is a little confusing to me. A little while after I came out a small riot was developing into a bigger one. Bottles were being thrown. Cops were upset. I was nervous, perhaps paranoid, and I couldn't find any of the people I came with. Someone came out and announced that the concert was now officially cancelled. It looked like the end times. The crowd was out of control. I was alone, or at least I couldn't find my friends, I had smoked PCP. I walked to the parking lot and decided to just wait. I thought maybe I would eventually see the van or my friends. It seemed like almost everyone had left, when I spotted my crew.
I never did PCP again. It's funny. I haven't done anything more than pot since the 80's. I haven't smoked pot in awhile. Now when I hear someone has done a line of coke I worry about them. Then I remember things like smoking angel dust.
Modern Florida
Yesterday I went to Sarasota with Summer, Emily and the recently resurfaced Francis. We did a driving tour of Sarasota Modernist architecture. We downloaded the tour from a realtor that specializes in selling Sarasota Modernist School houses. Today I found another website that lists many more structures with addresses and short bios on the architects.
I've been a long time fan of the Sarasota Modern work, but I had only seen pictures prior to yesterday. My friends Matt and Jessica did the tour a couple of months back. Jessica wrote a great article for The Orlando Weekly about the tour.
Sarasota seems like a curious town of money and some progressive highlights like the architecture, but like a lot of places in Florida and the rest of America, you can see an architectural marvel across from a McMansion. We saw a few of these examples. One of my favorite houses was the Hiss Studio by Philip Hiss. It's next to another great one The Umbrella House by Paul Rudolph. Then there are some horrible attempts to better something great. The tour mentions horrible additions. Read Umberto Eco's Travels In Hyperreality, he talks about this. California and Florida are the worst offenders, according Eco. He's probably right.
Sarasota is also the home of The New College. Hiss helped start the school, a quirky but highly respected place of higher learning. I.M Pei designed one of the dormitories. I'm not sure it's one of his better works.
I hope to go back to Sarasota soon. It was getting dark, so we headed home.
If I do have a regret about the trip, it would be not purchasing a Fudge-A-Gator or the smaller Junior Fudge-A-Gator. Francis was inspecting all the merchandise in the store where tourists buy bags of oranges, Emily bought a bag. I guess she's a tourist. She lives in Brooklyn. I told Francis that the Fudge-A-Gator might melt in the car. I could tell my pragmatism made him sad. At least we know there is a Fudge-A-Gator within 45 minutes of our home. What is a Fudge-A-Gator? It's a gator made of fudge. Summer bought a plastic gator that has a mouth that can be controlled. She played with it while she was driving. I had an orange and vanilla swirl ice cream cone.
Today I went to the library. I live a mile from the library. It's a very nice walk, around the lake. It was around 70 degrees and sunny. I stopped off to see Jane's new office. It was built in 1960. It's one of my favorite modern designs in Orlando. Jane's busy painting and making the building a place where someone might be excited about coming to work. While we were talking I noticed that she was wearing a St. Petersburg shirt, very strange, I had a St. Petersburg shirt on too. The shirts look very different. Hers was the Russian city, mine the Florida one. I've always wanted to go to St. Petersburg Russia. I read an article a few years ago about Brian Eno living there.
I've been a long time fan of the Sarasota Modern work, but I had only seen pictures prior to yesterday. My friends Matt and Jessica did the tour a couple of months back. Jessica wrote a great article for The Orlando Weekly about the tour.
Sarasota seems like a curious town of money and some progressive highlights like the architecture, but like a lot of places in Florida and the rest of America, you can see an architectural marvel across from a McMansion. We saw a few of these examples. One of my favorite houses was the Hiss Studio by Philip Hiss. It's next to another great one The Umbrella House by Paul Rudolph. Then there are some horrible attempts to better something great. The tour mentions horrible additions. Read Umberto Eco's Travels In Hyperreality, he talks about this. California and Florida are the worst offenders, according Eco. He's probably right.
Sarasota is also the home of The New College. Hiss helped start the school, a quirky but highly respected place of higher learning. I.M Pei designed one of the dormitories. I'm not sure it's one of his better works.
I hope to go back to Sarasota soon. It was getting dark, so we headed home.
If I do have a regret about the trip, it would be not purchasing a Fudge-A-Gator or the smaller Junior Fudge-A-Gator. Francis was inspecting all the merchandise in the store where tourists buy bags of oranges, Emily bought a bag. I guess she's a tourist. She lives in Brooklyn. I told Francis that the Fudge-A-Gator might melt in the car. I could tell my pragmatism made him sad. At least we know there is a Fudge-A-Gator within 45 minutes of our home. What is a Fudge-A-Gator? It's a gator made of fudge. Summer bought a plastic gator that has a mouth that can be controlled. She played with it while she was driving. I had an orange and vanilla swirl ice cream cone.
Today I went to the library. I live a mile from the library. It's a very nice walk, around the lake. It was around 70 degrees and sunny. I stopped off to see Jane's new office. It was built in 1960. It's one of my favorite modern designs in Orlando. Jane's busy painting and making the building a place where someone might be excited about coming to work. While we were talking I noticed that she was wearing a St. Petersburg shirt, very strange, I had a St. Petersburg shirt on too. The shirts look very different. Hers was the Russian city, mine the Florida one. I've always wanted to go to St. Petersburg Russia. I read an article a few years ago about Brian Eno living there.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Kings Of The Road
No Country For Old Men opened today. It's the Coen brothers film adapted from Cormac McCarthy's novel by the same name. The only McCarthy book I've read was Blood Meridian, a brutal brilliant work set in the mid 19th century. Word is, that No Country isn't any tamer.
It was filmed in and around Marfa, Texas. Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood comes out next month, an adaptation of Upton Sinclair's Oil, was also filmed in and around Marfa, in and around the same time the Coen brothers were filming.
Marfa resembles a Mexican town more than an American one. In 1999 when I visited Marfa, the only chain restaurant in town was a Dairy Queen. The large collection of permanent outdoor contemporary sculpture is the first indicator that this an atypical place. Art Forum and many other art publications continually write about it. The first weekend of October is when the annual open house happens. This has become a major pilgrimage for anyone interested in contemporary art. Eight years ago when I was there, it seemed a lot more mom and pop. I stayed with some artists that I just met.
After I left Marfa I took a bus into Mexico. I used the 100 pesos that the woman from Molly's in New Orleans gave me. She said, "Good luck." I converted a little money at the border, but not too much. Border crossing's are a good place to get ripped off. My bus ticket to Chihuahua was exactly 100 pesos. I spent the night there. I bought a black and white postcard of members of the Tarahumura tribe participating in peyote rituals. I still have the postcard, somewhere. The Tarahumara are known for running long distances, sometimes more than 100 miles in a day. I've heard a couple of stories about the tribe members. I can't substanstiate the stories, but I like them anyway. One was the 1968 Olympic story. The Mexican government finally took an interest in the tribe when the Olympic Games were held in Mexico City in '68, so they went down and recruited three Taruhumara's to run the marathon. They asked the tribe elders for their three best distance runners. The three ended up finishing way behind any of the medalists. When the government questioned the poor results, the elders asked why they asked for distance runners when the race was only 26 miles. Another story I heard was that some big running shoe company went to Mexico after hearing about the Taruhumara's legendary distance running. They also asked for three runners to run in a 100 mile ultra-marathon in Colorado. When the three got to the race they didn't want to wear the shoes that the company gave them. They said they preferred to run in sandals. Finally they agreed to wear the shoes, within a couple of miles their friends passed their sandals onto them, their running shoes were discarded. The three also stopped to smoke cigarettes and drink beer while the other runners were taking water breaks. At the 50 mile mark runners were given light snacks to replenish. The Tarahumara's had steak, fries, beer and more cigarettes. At the end of the race they came in 2nd, 3rd and 4th. They weren't all that interested in winning. They were more interested in sticking together. I can't supply footnotes for these stories.
My friend Dave left Orlando a little over a year ago on his bicycle. He was headed to Los Angeles. He's in Tucson. I think he may have met a woman or joined a band or got a job in a coffee shop or all three. He bicycled through Marfa after hearing me talk about it. He said he'd live there if he could figure out how to pay the bills.
It was filmed in and around Marfa, Texas. Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood comes out next month, an adaptation of Upton Sinclair's Oil, was also filmed in and around Marfa, in and around the same time the Coen brothers were filming.
Marfa resembles a Mexican town more than an American one. In 1999 when I visited Marfa, the only chain restaurant in town was a Dairy Queen. The large collection of permanent outdoor contemporary sculpture is the first indicator that this an atypical place. Art Forum and many other art publications continually write about it. The first weekend of October is when the annual open house happens. This has become a major pilgrimage for anyone interested in contemporary art. Eight years ago when I was there, it seemed a lot more mom and pop. I stayed with some artists that I just met.
After I left Marfa I took a bus into Mexico. I used the 100 pesos that the woman from Molly's in New Orleans gave me. She said, "Good luck." I converted a little money at the border, but not too much. Border crossing's are a good place to get ripped off. My bus ticket to Chihuahua was exactly 100 pesos. I spent the night there. I bought a black and white postcard of members of the Tarahumura tribe participating in peyote rituals. I still have the postcard, somewhere. The Tarahumara are known for running long distances, sometimes more than 100 miles in a day. I've heard a couple of stories about the tribe members. I can't substanstiate the stories, but I like them anyway. One was the 1968 Olympic story. The Mexican government finally took an interest in the tribe when the Olympic Games were held in Mexico City in '68, so they went down and recruited three Taruhumara's to run the marathon. They asked the tribe elders for their three best distance runners. The three ended up finishing way behind any of the medalists. When the government questioned the poor results, the elders asked why they asked for distance runners when the race was only 26 miles. Another story I heard was that some big running shoe company went to Mexico after hearing about the Taruhumara's legendary distance running. They also asked for three runners to run in a 100 mile ultra-marathon in Colorado. When the three got to the race they didn't want to wear the shoes that the company gave them. They said they preferred to run in sandals. Finally they agreed to wear the shoes, within a couple of miles their friends passed their sandals onto them, their running shoes were discarded. The three also stopped to smoke cigarettes and drink beer while the other runners were taking water breaks. At the 50 mile mark runners were given light snacks to replenish. The Tarahumara's had steak, fries, beer and more cigarettes. At the end of the race they came in 2nd, 3rd and 4th. They weren't all that interested in winning. They were more interested in sticking together. I can't supply footnotes for these stories.
My friend Dave left Orlando a little over a year ago on his bicycle. He was headed to Los Angeles. He's in Tucson. I think he may have met a woman or joined a band or got a job in a coffee shop or all three. He bicycled through Marfa after hearing me talk about it. He said he'd live there if he could figure out how to pay the bills.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Potchie Neighbors
When I was about six or seven my brother, had a powder blue stuffed kangaroo, that came with permanent boxing gloves. My brother is two years younger than I am. He named the kangaroo Potchie Neighbors (I think that's how it's spelled). When my brother got angry with anyone, he threatened them with Potchie. I was attacked by Potchie many times. My brother would swing the soft pugilist at my head and chest while I pushed them back. I didn't take Potchie seriously, this made my brother even more angry. The attacks became more aggressive. I made the mistake of laughing at Potchie. I think my brother took this personally, he may have viewed Potchie or Potch as he became known as a kindred spirit. Pretty soon my brother gave up on trying to scare me with Potch. I tried to be more empathetic towards their relationship, referring to Potchie as if he were one of us.
A few months later my mother told my brother that Potchie needed to be thrown away. He had become a regular companion of my brother. Potchie had become passive for the most part, he was more like another kid in the neighborhood. He had accumulated a lot more dirt than most kids. He was filthy, and some of his stuffing was starting to fall out. My brother decided that a bath would take care of everything. Mud and stuffing filled the tub. Potchie was a mess. My mother was not pleased, she took Potchie out of the tub, to an undisclosed location. We never saw Potch again. My brother called her a murderer. My brother learned to live without Potchie, eventually he forgave my mother, but Potchie has never really left my families life.
When I was 18 I was staying with my father in Ft. Lauderdale. My father signed up for one of those record clubs that used to be advertised in magazines. There were always ads like get 11 records for $1.99. The catch was that the company would keep sending you records after the 11, they were usually more expensive than any stores prices, plus shipping. So my father joined the record club. He decided to resurface the name of Potchie Neighbors. He put Potchie's name on the application, listing his employment as a traveling salesman. My father got his records and was inspired to sign up for other record clubs using Potchie's name.
When my father is waiting for a table at a restaurant he gives the hostess the name Potchie Neighbors. I remember one maitre' de asking, "Is that Italian?"
A few months later my mother told my brother that Potchie needed to be thrown away. He had become a regular companion of my brother. Potchie had become passive for the most part, he was more like another kid in the neighborhood. He had accumulated a lot more dirt than most kids. He was filthy, and some of his stuffing was starting to fall out. My brother decided that a bath would take care of everything. Mud and stuffing filled the tub. Potchie was a mess. My mother was not pleased, she took Potchie out of the tub, to an undisclosed location. We never saw Potch again. My brother called her a murderer. My brother learned to live without Potchie, eventually he forgave my mother, but Potchie has never really left my families life.
When I was 18 I was staying with my father in Ft. Lauderdale. My father signed up for one of those record clubs that used to be advertised in magazines. There were always ads like get 11 records for $1.99. The catch was that the company would keep sending you records after the 11, they were usually more expensive than any stores prices, plus shipping. So my father joined the record club. He decided to resurface the name of Potchie Neighbors. He put Potchie's name on the application, listing his employment as a traveling salesman. My father got his records and was inspired to sign up for other record clubs using Potchie's name.
When my father is waiting for a table at a restaurant he gives the hostess the name Potchie Neighbors. I remember one maitre' de asking, "Is that Italian?"
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