MINT

Well, the mint’s in. I was at Agway in Orleans the other day, shopping for plants.

                “Mint!” I heard one lady exclaim. “Who needs to buy that??”

                She’s quite right. I always let one or two patches grow in my garden because it discourages marauding furry creatures who love to snack on my seedlings as soon as they poke their leaves above ground. This year the mint is huge and plentiful, more than I can ever remember. My patches threatened to engulf the tomatoes, and completely obscured a beautiful hydrangea until I chopped them down, (they were over three feet tall) leaving me with a mountain of mint to make something out of. But what? I made three big bundles and hung them in the furnace room to dry out so I’ll have mint next winter, and possibly the winter after. That took care of some of it, but I still had, if not a mountain, at least a high dune. Fortunately, it was time to make one of my favorite summer drinks:

Iced Mint/Lime Tea

You’ll need a large bowl to brew this in. I use a big mixing bowl. After you cut the mint, fill the sink with cold water and wash the mint, stems and all. Let it sit for a few minutes to let any sand fall to the bottom. Remove the mint and strip the leaves off the stems into the large bowl. The container I use to store my tea in the fridge holds just about the same amount of water my full teakettle will take, so I fill the kettle and wait for the whistle, then pour the boiling water over the mint leaves. I then grate the zest of a lime into the mix and let it steep for at least 3-4 hours. By then it will be cool enough to remove the mint leaves. I do this with my hands, squeezing each handful before discarding it. (Side note: Having these leaves in your garbage makes it smell good.) I then strain the tea through cheesecloth into the pitcher I will store it in and put it in the refrigerator to chill. When I want to serve it, I squeeze the juice of ½ a lime into each 10 oz. glass, add honey to taste and stir to combine. I then add the tea, filling to about ¾ of the glass. Using a small cocktail shaker, I shake the tea, lime juice and honey vigorously, finishing with the mixture in the shaker. Add ice to the glass and pour the tea over. Serve with mint sprig and lime wedge.

                I know this sounds like a lot of trouble, but believe me, it’s worth it…also it uses up the mint. I still have some, though, if anybody needs any. 

Bad Day In Washington

Well, today was certainly not our finest hour. Once again, gun control has been defeated.  Amazing. One of my favorite slogans is “Evolution is a slow process” but come on!  Isn’t it time we made some sane, adult decisions about this? How many more people have to die? The slaughter in Orlando happened partly because a mentally unbalanced individual was able to buy an assault weapon.  Perhaps he would have found another way if he couldn’t get his hands on a gun. Perhaps he would have chosen another target if he couldn’t carry out his rampage at PULSE. There are many if/thens and none of them matters.  The fact is these weapons are made for one thing only and that is to kill human beings. They are not hunting weapons. You shoot a deer with one and you have deer dust. They are weapons of human destruction. Why are civilians allowed to buy them? You can’t by bazookas or rocket launchers. You can’t go out and purchase hand grenades. It doesn’t make sense, until you consider the strangle-hold the NRA has over seemingly all of Washington. Who are these people? Are they running our country? Why are our senators and congressmen listening to the NRA and ignoring the general public?Some claim their Second Amendment rights. The people who wrote the Second Amendment had no idea there would ever be such a thing as an automatic rifle.  By blindly adhering to something written over 200 years ago we deny ourselves the capacity for growth and change. I believe we are more flexible than that. I believe we have the power to recognize and make the changes necessary to promote our evolution.  Maybe banning the sale of automatic weapons  won’t stop these mass shootings but at least it would remove one element from a complex and terrifying problem and I can't see any reason not to do it  I beg everyone to consider this in November. Please. 

The Power of Hate

                Can someone explain to me the value of being able to buy automatic assault weapons?  I don’t get it. These are guns designed for absolutely nothing except killing human beings.  So why should anyone be able to walk into a gun store and buy one? Whose rights are we violating by not allowing the sale of these weapons?  What exactly is the argument?

                Last weekend someone used one of these weapons to massacre 49 people. Okay, maybe if he hadn’t been able to purchase an assault rifle he would have found another way to act out the rage that had been building in him for so many years. Probably that’s true. And I know that if you can’t get a gun legally, there are plenty of choices on the street, but it seems to me removing one of the choices can’t be a bad thing, even if it’s not the whole solution to that particular situation.  As long as people have access to assault weapons, we are all at risk.

                I am gay, and the events of last weekend tore at my heart.  To be reminded that things haven’t changed as much as we thought they had, to know there are still people out there who hate us and think we are the worst kind of human beings hurts deeply. To listen to the words of a father who would rather have his son labeled an international terrorist than gay, and to see the hideous results of that kind of thinking is so very sad to me. I don’t think of the people who died in that club in Orlando as my gay brothers and sisters. I think of them as my fellow human beings, ruthlessly cut down when all they were seeking was a good time. 

     It wasn’t drugs or booze that caused this. It wasn’t some far away terrorist organization. It was pure, home grown hatred, one of the most powerful of human emotions, one that kills as surely as any assault weapon sold. 

Safety?

Like most people, I was saddened and angry to learn of the events at the Cincinnati Zoo last week. The death of Harambe, a mature silverback gorilla is horrifying, just as seeing a four-year-old child being dragged through the water and slammed against rocks is horrifying. Thanks to the press, social media and the ability to take videos with a cell phone we were privy to all the brutal details, but I must question how those details were presented. I was appalled to find the child’s mother being persecuted on social media as someone who wasn’t taking proper care of her offspring, resulting in the death of an endangered animal.  No. The zoo, when it accepts your entrance fee, promises safety. Did everyone see the fence around the gorilla enclosure? A full-grown adult could probably have gotten through, never mind a four-year-old. Yet, within all the coverage, I only saw one picture of that fence. We were all too busy blaming the mother, so, in addition to watching her son nearly get killed, she has to endure the harsh judgment of people who may not have thought the thing through, to put it kindly. In my opinion the entire unhappy event is wholly the fault of the zoo.  Does anyone take their kid to the zoo without an expectation of safety? Of course not. We are not in the habit of putting our children in the path of danger, as far as I know.  That woman had every right to expect proper confinement of the exhibited animals. It was not there. The zoo failed the gorilla, that child, and his mother . Today I hear she isn’t going to sue, because the zoo has promised to improve the situation, for which I applaud her. She is taking the high road. I hope the Cincinnati Zoo does the same. Rest in peace, Harambe.

Stop & Shop Saga

 The store was crowded that day, every employee busy at a job as customers rolled their shopping carts in the time-honored pattern : fruits and veggies, pre-wrapped deli, fish, meats, etc.  I’d already had a disappointing day which included a broken tooth and the payment of taxes. I prowled the aisles with a frown and sunglasses, eager to be done and out of there. As my mother would say, I was in no mood. I finished up quickly and headed for the check-out lines, already preparing myself to wait at least 10 minutes.  To my amazement, the first register opened up just as I was going by and I dove in like Greg Louganis on speed. The check-out person, though new, seemed familiar with the process and I was soon ready to get on my way. I wheeled my cart out into the narrow aisle that led to the door and stopped. Two registers away, a woman was also just finishing, and had pushed her cart into the aisle, also stopping. I watched patiently while she put her cash away, then put her wallet away, and then, to my amazement, walked away, leaving the basket blocking my exit and the exit of the lady at the next register and anyone else who might want to pass. Both of us watched the woman take out her glasses and walk over to the window to begin perusing her receipt, which, I noted with dismay, was a long one. My fellow captive and I looked at each other in disbelief. All at once, it struck me funny, and I began to laugh. I mean, after the tooth and the taxes, what else could I do? As I began to giggle, one of the people bagging groceries noticed what had happened, glanced at the woman, the cart and me, in that order, and with one strong arm, sent the cart rolling out of the way and back into the store.  If it had been a movie, we would have all cheered. As it was I wiped the tears of mirth from my eyes and made for the door. I have no idea if the woman ever found her cart.  Summer is here. 

Bye, Bye, A.I.

             Well, no more American Idol. I must admit I’ll miss it. It was my guilty pleasure, though we certainly had an on-again off-again relationship, AI and I. There were whole years when I didn’t watch at all. But who can forget Sanjiah, or the first time I ever heard Jennifer Hudson’s magnificent voice? I always came back like some demented homing pigeon, and I must say, for the most part I was never disappointed. It’s thrilling to watch a new talent, someone nobody has seen before, somebody who is obviously going to be a big star.I watched the finale last week and actually teared up a couple of times, and I bet I’m not the only one. They really went all-out, pushing nostalgia while they reminded us again and again that we would meet the last American Idol by the end of the two-hour extravaganza. Former contestants returned to help end it all: Fantasia, Taylor Hicks and the afore mentioned Jennifer Hudson, to name a few. All the old judges were there, including Simon The Terrible and even Paula Abdul. Did anyone else notice the look

J-Lo shot Paul A. when they all came out together? Ellen was conspicuous by her absence, I thought. Wonder where she was? See? I really got involved.

 There have been talent searches before, but something about this one was different. Its contemporary rivals, X Factor, America’s Got Talent and The Voice were all good, but all carbon copies of AI. Years ago we had Ted Mack, where Frank Sinatra got his start, and then there was Star Search, where Sam Harris’ career was launched. None was as good as American Idol. As a rational human being, I realize the world will not come to an end because a television show is over. As an American Idol fan, I’ll probably still spend time in the shower rehearsing whatever I would have sung if I could have tried out. At least for a while. 

#46

Uh-oh. A blog block. How can this happen? There’s so much going on right now, you’d think I could find a hundred things to write about. Okay, let’s see. Donald Trump? Already written about him. What more can I say? Hillary Clinton? No surprises there. She fights on. The whole election thing? I don’t have to tell you how crazy it is. You can see that for yourselves. How about snow in April? Once, when I lived in New York City, it snowed on May 9. I remember this particularly because I was doing a concert at the Village Gate that night and we’d hired horses and carriages to take us to the after-show party. We had to cancel them. So snow in April isn’t so bad, except that I have already planted my peas. I’m hoping the extra moisture will be good for them. I’ll let you know.

I’ve been working on a show, (costumes) for the Provincetown Theater, “The Dresser”. Tony Jackman has put together a wonderful cast and I think it’s going to be great. They open Wednesday night. Oh, and B. and I went to the Central House to sample the work of their chef, who is a “Chopped” winner. (If you don’t know what “Chopped” is, watch the food channel for a fascinating time.) The food was very good, as was the service. Has anyone else noticed that the level of quality and creativity in our restaurants is enjoying an upward swing? Thanks, Foodies! We’re reaping the benefits of the craze. I think we should be doing even more to make Provincetown a food destination. We’ve got some wonderful chefs working here. How about some food events? Yum! Just a thought.

Okay. Blog block dissolved.  

Ode to Trump

Sometimes I wonder where I’m living.

Is this the U.S.A.?

Or maybe I’m dreaming.

It’s crazy.

What’s going on?

Have we all lost our minds?

Then I think,

Well, maybe it’s me.

What am I missing?

I feel like the whole world

Is turned around. What was

Unacceptable

Is now okay.

I even thought

Maybe it’s a plot to get people

To get out and vote.

Get them mad enough,

Outraged enough.

See, I’m trying to find

Some logic here,

Some way this all

Makes sense.

Nope.

1980s

Recently someone asked me what it was like here in the 1980s and I struggled to describe that time. It was the time of AIDS when all my friends were dying, or so we all thought. For me, it was like a dark tunnel and I couldn’t see the end. Behind me, the other end of the tunnel was the tiny yellow sunlight of a lost world. That sounds weird, even to me, so of course I didn’t answer the question that way. In the end I babbled something about the economy being different and rents being lower, yada, yada. I didn’t stop thinking about it, though, remembering the good and the bad times. There were good times, in spite of everything. Bringing the show ELEGIES FOR ANGELS, PUNKS AND RAGIN’ QUEENS to town was certainly one of the good times, and CLOSE TO HOME was a major party every February. Oh, and here’s something from those years:

            Vanilla was one of those Drag Queens I like to call “butterflies”. He was beautiful, and crazy and delicate, and when he died we all lost a good friend. We planned a bonfire at Herring Cove Beach for his memorial service, to take place at dusk on the day when the sun and the moon are both looking down. I caught a ride out to the beach with Betty and our friends Tony and Sandy. We parked in the lot and walked out to the beach to join the small crowd around the fire. A couple of people recited prayers and poems, and then we all sat quietly in the evening breeze, watching the fire.

Suddenly, our friend Sandy said, “I have an idea. Why don’t we go around the circle and each of us tell a story about Vanilla? I’ll start.”

She launched into her tale while I noticed most of the people there were looking at each other with puzzled expressions. Finally, the woman next to me leaned over and whispered, “Who’s Vanilla?”

It was then I noticed we were not the only bonfire on the beach that night. In fact, there were five others, strung along the beach like signal fires, each with its own contingent. We had attended the wrong one. Understandable, I guess. We had our choice of six.

That’s pretty much what it was like in the 1980s here in Provincetown.

Christian?

Lately I’ve become sensitive to the use of the word “Christian”, which, I just now discovered, my word processing app insists upon capitalizing. Okay, I get that. It’s a religion. Just as “Jewish” is a religion. Wow. The word processing app merely underlines the word Jewish if it’s not capped. What about “catholic”? Nothing. I guess that’s because “catholic” can also be an adjective. Ok, “Episcopalian”. Ah ha! Automatic caps. What about “druid”? How about “wiccan”? Nope and uh-uh. (In fact, "wiccan" is underlined capped or not, meaning, I guess, the app just thinks it's wrong.) From all this, I deduce that it’s only appropriate to apply capitals when it’s a religion and nothing else. After all, Christians, by definition, are followers of the teachings of Christ. What bothers me is when people use the word “Christian” to define a person’s character or actions, regardless of their chosen religion:

            “It’s the Christian thing to do.”

            “That’s not a very Christian attitude.”

Call me paranoid, but to me this implies that anything other than Christian is somehow less worthy.  Politicians are bantering this term about, skating rather close to the separation of church and state issue unless they are using the term in another way besides defining a religion, say, defining someone’s character or actions. It seems to be one of those things we all do, but never really think about or discuss. Words can and do hurt. As a writer, and more importantly, as a human being, I am very aware of this. Each time I hear the term “Christian” used this way, I think, what about me? I’m not a Christian. Can’t I do something nice for someone, or wish someone well without being called something I am not? I have many Jewish friends who are charitable, generous people. They are not Christian, and unfortunately when someone says “That’s a Jewish thing to do,” it’s not always meant in a nice way. Maybe we should just say “kind” or “caring”.

How about that?   

A Thank You Note

Thank you to all our friends who showed up last Saturday to hear the members of our group, Thorvald Road Writers, read from our work. We had a great turnout, and I think everybody had a good time. Thanks too,  for listening to the first chapter of  “Charlie’s House”. I really value your input and support. I'm still pretty new at this and it's not like anything I've ever done, and it's nice to know I have friends who are willing to listen.

Which brings me to another idea I've had recently. I'm wondering if anyone is interested in reading to people. I love to do it myself, and if I can get a few others, I'd like to approach the Council on Aging and/or Elder Services to see if there's any interest in reading sessions, either at the Community Center or Seashore Point. I don't know...just a thought. 

Anyway, thanks again for a lovely afternoon. We had fun.

COLD!

The forecast is for record cold. The weather lady telling me this seems pleased and excited by the prospect of besting some decade-old meteorological statistic. I am annoyed by this.  Cold can change your life, or at least your day. For one thing, it can take a good 10 minutes just to get into your outdoor clothes on days when the mercury dips below zero. In my opinion, winter clothes aren’t much fun, especially now that we can’t wear fur anymore. Say what you will about the poor minks, there was nothing warmer. When I was in college, my mother gave me her beaver coat. For 8 years it served as coat, blanket, pillow, catch-all, dog carrier, (It had marvelous pockets. I could put my dog in the inside pocket and take him anywhere.) slipcover and friend. When it finally got too ratty to wear, I cut it up into pillows and got a couple of more years out of it. I don’t wear fur anymore. I’m enlightened. And not as warm.  These days there’s down and fleece and Thinsulate, and its all about layers. I tend to overdo this concept, layering clothing on my body until I am rendered immobile, able to bend neither elbows nor knees. Last winter we had A LOT  of snow, so I invested in some boots which are the equivalent of SUVs for your feet. They each weigh about 15 lbs. and make me feel sort of like a human Jeep Cherokee. I find myself bursting through snow drifts just because I can. I have also discovered the joys of fleece, from hats to socks. What a wonderous material this is, particularly if you’re allergic to wool, as I am. They make it from old plastic water bottles and it’s deliciously warm. Three or four layers of fleece and I’m good to go…once I get going. Stay warm, dear readers.

Providence Train Station 6 AM

I went to Writer's Voice Cafe tonight at the Library. The speaker was James Reed, and his subject was People of Color on Cape Cod. It was fascinating! It was also my first night of being in charge of the open mic portion of the evening, when writers are invited to get up and read their work. Paul E. Halley read and then I read this poem, which I wrote some years ago as I was traveling to Philadelphia. Hope you like it. 

 Providence Train Station 6 AM

I noticed him right away.

He was wearing a football helmet.

His coat was too big, too wrinkled

to be legitimate. Also

he had all his things

in garbage bags. Big, black ones.

Street people’s Samsonite.

Homeless, I thought. Come in here to sleep

on the hard, shiny waiting room bench

until they roust him.

Wrong.

I looked again.

He was old, and I saw white curls clinging

to his dark brown head. When he

took off the helmet, his

eyes, pulled down at the corners,

were too sad to look at.

The people moved away.

He sat alone in the center

of their conclusions, their fear.

“Don’t let that be me!”

“Don’t get too close!”

They turned their heads to look

for someone more acceptable.

Was he so accustomed to their scorn

it didn’t touch him?

Or was he just a good actor?

No.

I looked again.

His eyes were sadder than before.

Who are you, old man?

How do you come to be here?

Should I feel sorry for you?

Should I feel guilty?

“Why don’t you go away?”

Barked the janitor, armed with

brooms and buckets. Finally

he had someone smaller than

his own size to pick on.

“You crazies think

you can sleep in here?

My station ain’t no flophouse!”

The old man said nothing.

Wrong.

I looked again.

His face was a question.

“What have I done to make you so mad?”

it asked. The janitor could not answer

so he just got madder, while

the old man wondered why.

The people kept away

feasting from afar

on the juicy little scene, their smiles

self-rightous, their security assured,

positive

they could never be him.  Well, almost.

“Don’t get too close!”

A cop came over, ready to roust, I thought,

ready to send him packing.

Wrong.

I looked again.

Instead he brought hot chocolate

and honest conversation,

and a smile to those sad eyes.

Policemen are your friends,

I remembered from my youth.

The minutes ticked away

in the train station in providence.

The people moved in to fill the space

around the old man. He is okay.

He has a train ticket and

a cop for a friend.

That makes him valid. He can’t hurt them.

That they have hurt him

never enters their minds.

And what if it did? What could be done?

Nothing.

I looked again.

He was leaving, going to his train.

The policeman carried his bags.

He walked, slow and straight, putting on the helmet.

“It’s because I fall sometimes,”

I heard him tell his friend.

And then he was gone away,

before I could find a way

to thank him for

what he had taught me.

Providence train station 6:15 AM

24 Hour Madness!

24 Hour Madness!

            What an amazing experience we had last Saturday evening at the Provincetown Theater! When I heard about the 24-Hour play project 4 years ago, my first thought was: A person would have to be nuts to try that!  I didn’t actually attend one of these mid-winter insanities until this year and now I’m very sorry I missed all the others. We went expecting little. We got a wonderful evening of true community theatre, (anyone who knows me knows that’s my favorite soapbox), a dazzling display of writing, directing and acting talent and on top of all that, it was really funny!

            We arrived early because I had heard a lot of talk around town and I thought it might be crowded. Never mind that it was January and there aren’t too many people here right now, to put it gently. My wife is not a tall person and it’s always best if she can sit in the front row, which we did, except that suddenly we were in the third row, behind a row of chairs and a couch because there were so many people they had to add seats! A very gallant gentleman in the new front row recognized our problem and he and his wife switched seats with us, but my point is, the theater was full! Not only was every seat taken, but there were still people coming in! I’ve seen shows in the summer that don’t attract that many people. That’s when I knew it would be a very special evening.

            And it was. Each offering was engaging, well-acted and well-written and lots of fun, which blew me away because I knew that none of the actors had laid eyes upon a script before Saturday morning, and in fact, none of the plays had existed before the previous day. What a feat!

            In addition to the plays, the event itself was extremely well-organized and ran very smoothly. I can’t imagine it was easy: 8 playwrights, 8 directors, and all those wonderful actors, plus a theater filled to bursting with an eager audience. There was a

Q & A following the plays, catered by Farland. Pretty great evening for a reasonable price.

            The best part of the evening for me was the opening speech by Stuard Derrick. He dedicated the evening to our friend Mary Kevin Shenk, who passed away last week. Everyone who has worked with the PTC for the past 20 years knows who Kevin was, as do the countless audiences she entertained onstage. She was a huge part of our community theatre company and I’m sure she was there with us Saturday for a wonderful night of theatre.

Thank you to all who participated. You were all fabulous! You are the people who are keeping community theatre alive here. Thank you. 

On The Road in Minnesota- Part III

 ...and finally,           

            Back at the hotel, I wondered if either of them could read music. It turned out they could, and very well at that, which was the first pleasant surprise of the trip. Our rehearsal was great, though I’d never heard my charts played with quite that instrumentation. Both young men were consummate musicians, and when we discovered we could  improvise together, my hopes began to rise for the possibility of a really good show. Awesome.

            Well, it was opening night, there was no blizzard, the musicians were good and it was Saturday, so maybe I’d actually have an audience. My first show was at 9pm, and I went over to the club around 8:30 to see what was what. The stripper was plugging away with her dog, and the bar was full, but so far nobody was in the club except a very bored cocktail waitress. Frankie and Ray showed up just after I did, and while they were tuning up, I noticed a door in the wall between the two venues. It was right in front of the stage where I’d be singing.

            “What’s that for?” I asked the waitress.

            “To get to the bar.”

            I thought about it.

            “You mean, while the show is on?”

            She looked at me like I had two heads.

            “Yeah, if they want drinks,” she explained carefully.

            I wondered how that would work. Every time the door opened, the music from the juke box, and of course the stripper and her dog, would be revealed to the audience in my show. Not good. Not good at all. That was, of course, assuming anybody actually showed up. Frankie came over to me.

            “It’s almost nine,” he said. “We can start.”

            “Frankie, there’s nobody here.”

            He laughed. “Don’t worry. There will be.”

            We started our set and almost immediately a couple entered and the waitress sat them at one of the two front tables. She took their order and proceeded to the door by the stage and opened it. Suddenly I was singing with Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, except that unfortunately we weren’t singing the same song. The waitress took her time closing the door. I went on with my number. I was almost finished when she came through with the drinks. Kenny and Dolly had already finished and Loretta Lynn had taken their place. The door closed, but not before I noticed a few heads at the bar turn toward my sound. Two more couples came in and were seated, so I now had an audience of six. I can work with that. I was indulging in the afore mentioned snappy patter when the waitress again opened the door to go get drinks. Vaughn Monroe singing “Ghost Riders In The Sky” filled the room. The stripper was astride her dog.  The audience giggled nervously. I smiled.

            “It’s okay. I’m used to it. I have a dog of my own.”

            Not, perhaps in the best taste, but it got a laugh. A big one. It happened just as the door was closing, so the patrons at the bar heard it and I guess it caught their attention. Before the next song was over, somebody had propped the door open and turned off the juke box and spotlight, leaving the stripper in the dark with her dog, taking a much-needed break. Frankie and Ray started jamming a rendition of “Ghost Riders”, and I got everybody to sing the only phrase in that song that everybody knows: “Ghost riders in the sky.” They loved it! For the rest of the show those two boys and I improvised, encouraging audience participation whenever we could and keeping the music light and up-tempo, and we were a hit! All the seats in the club were soon taken, and the bar was full, too, and most stayed for the second show. When it was over and I was back at the Hotel Cigarette, I decided it might not be such a bad week after all. Exhausted, I fell into bed, (did I mention the iron bedstead? Very Dickensonian.) and dreamed of Vaughn Monroe.

            The rest of the week was pretty much the same. I became a favorite with the regulars, and the stripper took to bringing a paperback to read while she was on the break I provided, so everyone was happy. On my last night, which was New Year’s Eve, they threw me a going away party.

            “You were really great,” said the sad-eyed bartender. “I hope you come back.”

            “Thanks! I had a very nice time,” I told him. “Your son is very talented. It was a real pleasure working with him and Ray.”

            “Best accordion player between here and Milwaukie,” he reminded me, and this time I agreed.

            New Year’s Day dawned gray and snowy. Having had a minimum of sleep and lots to drink, I climbed on the bus ready to snore through the trip to the airport.

            Not to be. There, in the front seat, was the stripper and her huge dog. I could tell she was waiting for me to sit nearby so we could chat all the way to Minneapolis, and since she was the only other person on the bus besides the driver, I decided it would be rude to do anything else. I sat across the aisle from her and prepared to listen to her life story. It turned out to be pretty interesting, especially the part about the stuffed dog, but that’s for another time. When I finally got home to my apartment, I decided it hadn’t been such a bad gig after all.

On The Road In Minnesota- Part II

Okay, here's what happened next:

             After unpacking, feeding the dog and checking the mattress for bedbugs, (surprisingly there were none.), I set out to visit the nightclub where I would be working for the next six nights. I thought of asking the woman behind the desk if she knew where it was, but I didn’t want to interrupt her nicotine fix, so I stepped out into the snowy street to look for it myself. I didn’t have far to look. Three doors down from the hotel I saw a white plastic sign with the name of the club and beneath that, my own name. In Chicago, I’d seen the same type of sign advertising the weekly specials at my dry cleaner’s. A window with a strand of blinking colored lights around the edges and a single flush door were set into a stucco wall, the whole thing painted, amazingly, dark lime green, causing me to doubt my own eyes and sanity. Music could be heard from within, mainly because the street was silent and deserted without. Opening the door, I found I had a choice: on my left was the entrance to the nightclub, which was closed, and to the right was a bar, open for business, with several seasoned drinkers and an elderly, sad-eyed bartender. At the end of the room was a tiny stage where a woman performed a strip tease to whatever was playing on the juke box. She had an enormous stuffed dog to help her out with this. Since the space had originally been one room, each venue was long and narrow, and both were equally dark, except for the small spotlight on the stripper and some indirect lighting from behind the bar.     

            “Help you?” asked the barman.

            “I’m the singer you hired for the week. Phoebe Otis.”

            He eyed me suspiciously.

            “You’re Phoebe Otis? You’re the singer from Chicago?”

            “That’s me,” I answered, wondering where this line of questioning was going.

            “We thought you were black,” he said.

            Keep in mind this was the early seventies. The term “African American” had not yet reached the Rochester, Minnesota ‘hood.

            “Did you?” I responded, wondering how they got that from my 8x10.

            “Your name. It sounds like you’re black.”

            “Nope,” I said.

            “Oh,” he said. “Well, Frankie and Ray aren’t here yet. Can I get you something to drink?”        

            “Do you have any coffee?”

            I soon had a mug before me. “Who are Frankie and Ray?”

            “They’re the band. Frankie’s my son. Best accordion player between here and Milwaukie.”

            Accordion. Wonderful.

            “What does Ray play?” I asked cautiously.

            “Guitar. They’re really good. You’ll love them.”

            A new song came on the juke box and I turned to watch the stripper.

            Frankie and Ray arrived ten minutes later. From school. Because they were both still in their senior year of high school. Kids.

            “Hi, Guys,” I said, shaking their offered hands. “Great to meet you. We can rehearse whenever you say.”

            “Awesome!” they chorused.

`           “Okay.” I paused, waiting for them to name a time. Finally I said, “How about tomorrow? Maybe around one at the club?”

            “Awesome!”

On The Road In Minnesota-Part I

Hello, Loyal Readers!
I'm going to try something different on you. The next few blogs will be the serialized version of the story I'm currently working on. It's a true story, for the most part, and, I hope, an amusing one. You be the judge and let me know...

On The Road In Minnesota   Part I

   Here’s a story for everyone who thinks show business is glamorous. I used to sing for a living, and often found myself on the road at holiday time. One year, I was booked into Rochester, Minnesota the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Those of you who are not traveling cabaret singers wouldn’t know this, but the week between Christmas and New Year’s is the single worst week of the year for an entertainer. Most just take it off, but I needed the money, so there I was on a journey from Chicago to Rochester, Minnesota, noted for being the location of the Mayo Clinic, and very little else. Great. My audiences would probably consist of worried and grieving relatives of patients with life-threatening medical conditions. Just the group to appreciate my catchy tunes and snappy patter.

   In those days, there were no direct flights from Chicago to Rochester, Minnesota, and I couldn’t afford the short connecting flight from Minneapolis, so I took the bus for the fifty mile or so final leg. Of course it was snowing. My little poodle had accompanied me and we were both eager to get to our hotel and rest after the trip. I don’t know what the dog was dreaming of, but I pictured a comfy, warm room with the customary two double beds, private bath and a working TV. I didn’t ask for much in those days. A Ramada Inn-level of accommodation would suit me fine. After a very slippery ride in a cab, I arrived at my hotel, which was a long way away from any Ramada Inn. The lobby sported naugahide covered chairs with curved metal arms, against dark lime walls. The windows were covered by heavy, dusty drapes which, I reckoned, had not been opened in my lifetime. Lighting came from circular porcelain fixtures hung from the ceiling on dusty chains. They shed a weak yellow wash over the place and in the centers of these fixtures could be seen shadows of bug bodies. A dark, patterned carpet of low pile covered the linoleum floor, which was a black and white checkerboard disguised almost to a uniform gray by the wax buildup on it. The whole place reeked of cigarettes. In one corner, a sad little Christmas tree glowed bravely, the only indication that anyone was aware of the season. There was a front desk with a middle-aged woman sitting behind it watching a small television while she chain-smoked.

            “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m Phoebe Otis. I think my manager made a reservation for me.”

            Without speaking and without looking away from the TV, she shoved a register at me. It had a pen attached to it with a piece of twine.  I signed the book. The pen was sticky. I shoved the register back to her and still not looking away from the screen, she pushed a key across the counter to me.

            “Second floor, turn left off the elevator,” she said.

            She was busy lighting one cigarette from another, so I didn’t bother to say thanks. I picked up my bag and my dog and crossed to the elevator which didn’t smell any better than the lobby. We progressed to the second floor at a rate of speed I was sure I could have beaten on the stairs, and shuddered to a halt. After a nerve-wracking delay of almost 90 seconds, the doors slid open. Whoever had decorated the lobby had continued on the second level. A dimly lit hallway painted the same dark lime shade stretched off to either side of the elevator doors. I had been told to go left, and go left I did, finding room 212 five doors away. The lobby and hallway should have prepared me. The walls of my room were, wait for it, dark lime green. It was shaping up to be a long week.

Stay tuned, Friends....