Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the past. I don’t know why, but my mind has been recalling things that have happened or that I have seen. So I decided to add a category called Reminiscing to my blog just to log some of my recollections. That way, if they fall away from my memory bank, they will not disappear completely.
Around 1995, my two best friends Jimi and Jonathon and I decided to get dressed up for Halloween and attend a costume contest at a restaurant/night club called Mere Bulles. Mere Bulles used to reside on 2nd Avenue here in Nashville but has since moved to a more “upscale” location you could say. That night we all donned afros and other 70’s style accoutrement and headed down to the club. We dubbed ourselves the Jackson 3. Jimi’s dad has his own band and he happened to be the entertainment for the evening, so we were prepared to have one hell of a night.
All of the people who were participating in the contest were packed into a back room and one at a time we were called out to be viewed and judged by the crowd. I remember Jimi and I leaning against the wall in the back room waiting our turn when a short, chubby man dressed as an alien approached us. His makeup job was horrible. Through his splotchy green makeup we could see the patches of white, and on his head were two sad antennae made out of aluminum foil. I can’t remember the rest of him. I just remember his face and the fact that he was drunk off his ass. There were other black people in the room but he approached us. Must have been the afros. Always a dead give away. Just ask Angela Davis or Don Cornelius.
The little green man approached Jimi and I and started talking, real friendly-like. Again, I can’t remember everything he said, but I do remember him saying, “I ain’t never had a problem with niggers. Some people, they don’t like ‘em. But not me. That ain’t how I am. Niggers ain’t never bothered me.” He said nigger so much I was beginning to think I was at a Richard Pryor concert — or in a Scorcese film.
Behind the man was his wife. I can’t remember her costume. I only remember the look of fear and humiliation on her face. I guess she thought that at any moment Jimi and I were going to turn her husband into a fine green paste. But we didn’t. As the man slurred out his words, both racist and amiable, Jimi and I just stared at him. We looked at him, then looked at each other, then looked at his poor, trembling wife. There was no hatred or anger in our eyes that night. Only pity. Had the man been sober and all white, the story may have had a different ending. I don’t know. I am not a violent person by nature and neither is Jimi. But anger has a funny way of creeping up on people. For some reason, however, my ire could not be aroused by a short, drunken alien. If we ever went to war with aliens like Will Smith in “Independence Day”, I would have to toss my draft card and move to Canada. Like Ali with the Vietnamese, I have nothing against aliens because no alien has ever called me nigger. In fact, I’m pretty sure an alien wouldn’t know what a nigger was. Plus, you have to consider what a surreal experience that was. This wasn’t George Wallace or Bull Connor saying these words. It was freakin’ Gazoo from the Flintstones.
Eventually, the man’s wife was able to pull her husband away and mutter to Jimi and I a few words of apology. But we only shrugged and shook our heads. Minutes later, all three of us were called onto stage and received a loud round of applause. Ultimately, we were voted the winners, although, I don’t remember us winning anything. Soon after, Jimi’s dad and his band came out and we danced the night away.
I’ve had my run-ins with racists before but never with a man shabbily painted green with tinfoil clumsily looming above his head. Maybe it was the fact that his words were spoken matter-of-factly and not with malice or vitriol. Or maybe it was the fact that I felt so sorry for his wife. Not only did she have to endure the embarrassment of being with such a buffoon, but I’m pretty certain his flabby green stomach was writhing atop her later that evening, completed, of course, by the heady mix of alcohol and stale vomit on his breath. What we had to endure for a few minutes, she was stuck with for the rest of her life. If she had to do it all over again, I’m pretty sure she would have married Shrek instead.
I posted this on the EM MySpace blog and thought I should post it here as well
This past weekend I did something I have wanted to do for years but for one reason or another have never gotten the opportunity to do. I have always wanted to go to Kansas City, Missouri. I have always wanted to visit the American Jazz Museum, the Negro Baseball League Museum, see a Royals game, the famous 18th and Vine district best known for all the great jazz that has been played there. But most of all, I wanted to go to Kansas City because it is the final resting place of Charlie Parker.
Years ago, there was a debate in Kansas City over whether the grave of Charlie Parker should be moved from the obscure location of Lincoln Cemetary to a more accesible locale around the 18th and Vine district. Many musicians and fans feel that Lincoln is not a proper burial site for Bird and that he should be somewhere where people who come from all over the world can easily find him and pay their respects.
This past Saturday morning, I left my hotel room with several objectives, the first and most important one being to visit Bird. My mapquest directions told me that the cemetary was only ten minutes away from my hotel. Great, I thought. I’ll visit Bird, hit the museums then go to the game. I followed the directions on the map, but the cemetary was not as easy to find as I thought it would be. Back and forth I drove down the same street in search of Lincoln Cemetary. I even stopped three different people and asked them where the cemetary was. None of them knew. In fact, two of the people I asked were actually half a mile from the cemetary and they didn’t have a clue. For two hours I drove around the same five mile radius searching for Bird. I didn’t care. It could have been four hours. I wouldn’t have stopped searching. But I was getting frustrated. The morning turned into afternoon and I wondered if all my other plans would fall by the wayside as I knew that if I didn’t find Bird’s grave site, the whole trip would be a failure for me.
I drove and drove. In fact, I came across two other cemetaries during my search. Finally, I became so frustrated, I just decided to take this little side street and see where it lead me. I turned and within seconds I saw a sign. The closer I got to it, the more elated I became until finally I could make out the words on the sign. “Lincoln Cemetary - Resting Place of Charlie “Bird” Parker”
Sitting quietly amongst a grove of tall trees and shade was the grave of Charlie Parker. Right next to him was the grave of his dear mother Addie. I had found it. Within this tiny cemetary a legend was laid to rest. The place was so peaceful, so quiet that there were even a few deer grazing nearby. To me, it was the perfect place for Bird to be. Even more perfect was the fact that I was there all alone. For a few precious minutes I had time alone with the man who changed the way I looked at the world and at music.
I knelt down to the ground and brushed away the few twigs and pebbles from the tombstone and I placed my hand on the cool marble. Silently, I began thanking Bird for what he had given me, for introducing himself to a fifteen year old kid and completely rearranging his view of the world around him. And just then (and I swear this is true), a black bird flew by my head so close I could hear the beat of its wings against its breasts, and it settled into a tree nearby and watched me. Now, I’m not saying Bird heard me or that that was some kind of sign. But I will say that I will never forget that moment. And if you love Bird as much as I do, I think you understand why I feel that way.
Should Bird’s grave be moved? I can understand why some would want it moved. But for several reasons, I feel he should remain where he is. For one thing, if you move Bird you must move his mother as well. They should always remain together. Secondly, 18th and Vine is a nice area, but busy, especially with tourist traffic. Lincoln Cemetary, while not large or overly impressive is quiet, serene. There are no honking horns or constant foot traffic. Only the chirp of birds, deer grazing nearby and the cool shade of those big, beautiful trees. Yes, Bird was hard to find, but for those who want to see him and thank him badly enough, his grave will be found.
I took pictures while I was there. You can view them here:
So, I spent about three and a half hours today in my dentist’s chair. Why, you ask. Well, to answer that, I have to give you a little background info on my medical history. I have a tendency to develop blood clots. Not really sure why, but it’s probably a hereditary thing. I’ve had a blood clot in my right arm, my left arm, my left leg and my right leg. You do the hokey-pokey and you shake it all about… Because of this penchant for the deadly clot, I am on blood thinners. And because I am on blood thinners, I had to spend the better part of my morning in the dentist chair. See, the problem is, when you get major work done at the dentist and you are on blood thinners, you have to get off the blood thinners before work commences or otherwise you will bleed to death. And because it is not good to be off the thinners for too long, it is best to get all of the major work done at once. So! Today I had a deep cleaning, a permanent crown put on AND a root canal.
If you’re like me, you are probably not fond of the dentist. Another penchant I have which I also blame on heredity is my incredible knack to develop cavities. I brush religiously. I floss (although not so religiously. I’m an orthodox brusher and floss only on Easter and Christmas. Know what I mean?) I try to take care of my teeth, yet I am unable to avoid cavities. My girlfriend, on the other hand, can soak her teeth in Coca-Cola and battery acid overnight and nothing. So, yes, I hate her for it.
Whenever I am in the dentist’s chair for a cleaning, I always tense up. Like butt cheeks clenched, perspiration on the brow kind of tense. I’m just waiting for him to tell me that I have yet another cavity. And when he or she pulls off the gloves and says nothing but, “Okay, see you in six months”, I’m freakin’ elated. But when they say, “I saw a little something there. We’re gonna have to set up another appointment for you”, I want to cry.
The dentist I am seeing now is a new dentist for me. Before him, I went to the same dentist for nearly thirty years. He retired and a woman that actually went to dental school with my ex-girlfriend took over. It is when she took over that I began to question whether or not I should continue going to the same place. For one thing, she was recently divorced. Nothing wrong with that except she seemed bitter about it, and the last thing you want is a bitter dentist coming at you with a drill. Especially a bitter, man-hating dentist. The second thing was that every time she cleaned my teeth, I bled so much I needed a maxi-pad shoved in my mouth to keep me from spewing blood. According to her, her husband turned out to be a no-good bum and apparently my gums were going to pay for his indiscretions. Third, she constantly asked me what church I attended. “Did you go to church this Sunday?” If I lie and say yes, I’m going to hell, but if I tell the truth and say no, I’m afraid she’ll drill me another nostril. Fourth, the last time I saw her she said, “I’m afraid you need a crown. No, maybe you need a root canal. No, I will just fill it again.” What the H? How do you go from a root canal to just another filling. And LASTLY, the last time I was there, I went to pay with my credit card and she said, “Now, you know we don’t have no credit card machine.” Um, actually I didn’t know that because I’m living in the freakin’ 21st century! So, after that, I was outta there.
My new dentist is cool. He tells lame jokes which I don’t mind so much because he’s good at what he does. He asked me today if there was anything worse than a dentist with a bad sense of humor. “Yes,” I said. “A dentist with shaky hands.” For some reason, he didn’t find that response all that funny and I told myself to stop trying to be funny to a man who is holding a drill and your life in the palm of his hand.
Everything was going along fine UNTIL the song on a radio playing in the corner changed. When it began, I knew right away that it was Kenny G’s soprano that was playing. There isn’t enough anesthetic in the world to ease that kind of pain. But what really scared the hell out of me was what my dentist said next. “You know, I wish I could live to be a hundred just so I could listen to this song over and over. I love it so much.” What?? Did he just say… I can’t let this man work on my teeth. Obviously, he’s got a mental problem. What made it even worse was the fact that the song was actually Kenny G playing to Louis Armstrong singing “What A Wonderful World”. Now, this wasn’t Louis and the Hot Seven or whatever, but it was still Louis. And it was still Kenny G playing with Louis. To me, that’s like Hitler performing a duet with Ghandi. And he wants to live to be a hundred just to hear this song over and over?
Well, needless to say, hearing those words from my dentist was more painful than any root canal could be. And to tell you the truth, root canals, while frightening, are not that painful. Trust me. If you have never had one, don’t sweat it. It hurts. Don’t get me wrong. But in my imagination, I always saw root canals as the royal flush of dentistry. There are fillings, crowns, root canals then death. But it wasn’t that bad. It’s sore but I’ll be alright. However, the pain of knowing that my dentist sees nothing wrong with Kenny G being on the same record as Louis Armstrong will linger with me for a thousand lifetimes.
1) Yell into the microphone like some crazed maniac
2) Belong to anything called a “Zoo Crew”
3) Refer to the Rutgers Women’s basketball team as a bunch of “ho’s”
4) Play anything Miles recorded after 1969 (personal opinion)
5) Spend their weekends at some festivity, standing alongside a van with flashing lights and megaphones on the roof, screaming into a microphone like some crazed maniac
6) Play Kenny G or anything from the bastard sons/daughters of Kenny G
7) Refer to their nightly ballad format as “The Quiet Storm”
Refer to anything they play as an “Oldie but Goodie”
9) Diss Sinatra or Louis
10) Say That Jazz Is Dead
First season of Grey’s Anatomy? Good. Very Good.
Second season of Grey’s Anatomy? Very Good with frequent flashes of greatness.
Third season of Grey’s Anatomy? Great quickly declining into good with brief forays into the ridiculous.
Unfortunately for Grey’s Anatomy, its actors and creators, greatness has fallen victim to its own hubris. I mean, what happened to the meaty storylines. Meredith falls into a lake and I got watch her walk around in some stupid dream sequence for an hour with Denny of all people. Denny’s dead! Remember? He was a cool, sympathetic character, but let it go. Sorry, but I hated that whole bit. And Kate Walsh? What were you thinking? More money, your own show and you jump ship. But what good is it when your show only lasts one season (maybe two)? And now they’ve fired Isaiah Washington. Now, I don’t agree with things that he’s done, just like I didn’t agree with what Don Imus did. But I didn’t think Imus should have been fired, and I definitely don’t think Washington should have been fired. I mean, how contrite does a man have to be? So maybe he was hard to get along with on the set. So what? He brought edge to the show. He brought depth to the show, and dammit, he was good as Dr. Burke!
First they move Grey’s to Thursday, which in hindsight, was a gutsy, winning move. But the writing ain’t so good anymore. Now they’ve lost two of the show’s better actors and one has to wonder if Seabiscuit is about ready to be put down. Truth is, as long as the writing is above par, it really doesn’t matter who you shove in front of the camera. The story is the foundation to a great show, movie, whatever. Hopefully, the people at Grey’s will stop loving themselves so much and get back down to business. Enough with the dopey storylines and enough with mediocrity.