Bashert in flight.
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I Do Solemnly Swear
YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONED AND COMMANDED TO LAY ALL OTHER BUSINESS ASIDE AND MAKE YOURSELF AVAILABLE TO THE COURTS FOR THE WEEK OF SEPTEMBER 6, 2011 TO SERVE AS A TRIAL JUROR.
These are the words that greeted me in my mail just before we left for vacation.
This is only the second time in 32 registered voter years that I have received a jury summons.
I was always disappointed to hear that someone else had received the call. I began to feel as if there was something objectionable about me. What’s wrong that I can’t sit among a jury of my peers? I can be very judgmental. Ask Briggs Meyers.
Most people can’t wait to get out of this civic duty, me? I am raring to go.
The first time I was called I was absolutely giddy with excitement. Bashert laughed at my eagerness. But I was so proud to finally serve.
When I was actually picked to be reviewed for the first jury, I was beside myself. I so wanted to text Bashert to let her know that I was going to see some action. Here I was serving out my first jury summons and I was about to be selected for the first trial. Ho-ho, hot stuff was I.
Fifteen minutes later I was out the door, excused from the case and fully deflated.
I was picked and then just tossed away like a bruised apple.
It was a drunk driving case. I’m not sure if it was because I had a daughter the same age of the accused or because I don’t drink or because I just happened to know the court reporter.
That night I dutifully phoned in to see if I was to show up again the next day. My hopes were crushed by the recorded voice telling me that all trials had been postponed until the next court session.
My one chance at serving my civic duty and I ended up on the short end of the court calendar.
Maybe I have underlying fantasies of being Judge Roy Bean or maybe I’m just a geek, but my enthusiasm has not been completely quelled.
Come September 6th, I will be bright eyed, bushy tailed and ready. Let’s get this jury started.
Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers
~Voltaire
The Butterfly House
In the Museum of Natural History there is the Butterfly House.
It is a small exhibit. Its on the second floor of the Museum of Natural History just after the insect zoo.
It took a lot for Bashert and Yoda to make it through there.
We saw the Butterflies advertised outside, but didn’t know we would have to pay to get in, after all it is one of the Smithsonian museums. But it has been 12 years since Bashert and I have been to visit so we found some things had definitely changed.
At first we said no, but Yoda asked really nicely and since we were ostensibly in DC to give him the experience, we caved and said yes. Bashert wasn’t happy with the wait time or the somewhat surly distraction of the ticket girl, but we forged ahead.
We busied ourselves in line by looking at the freaky array of caterpillar and butterfly species on display. We had to give that up because even that was a bit much for the other two. Nature can be mightily strange.
Our time finally arrived to enter the realm of the butterflies.
After the obligatory be careful speech, the door was opened and we stepped into a cool spray of mist. Beyond that were about six or seven separate little raised garden areas and a multitude of butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colours.
We couldn’t help but smile.
Everywhere we looked there was a butterfly either flying about or warming themselves on the garden flowers with slow waves.
Wings that seemed to be dull camouflage would open up to be the deepest midnight blue I had ever seen. There were red, orange, yellow, blue and mosaic butterflies. There were wings that swooped in like hourglasses and other that were shaped like sails on tall ships.
We were for a time transported away from everything but the beauty in that small room.
Yoda was thrilled when one landed on him. At first he was a bit nervous, but then settled quickly and said that the butterflies must really like him.
Bashert ended up supporting a few herself. One on her arm, one on her head and another took a liking to her camera.
A lovely blue one took up residence on my back for a little while.
There is nothing quite like being a perch for such a delicate and fragile thing.
It was kind of sad when it was our turn to move on. The smiles that we had stuck on our faces as we stepped out more than paid the price of admission. Funny how small things can make such a difference sometimes.
Maybe the cranky ticket girl should spend a few minutes in the actual exhibit. It would sure do her heart good.
Shark Week
Okay, enough with the mushy stuff for a minute.
Greetings.
A friend of mine is counting the hours until the premiere of Shark Week. So in honor of her obsession, I wanted to write about the week of the year that inspires, informs and scares the hell out of everyone.
According to sharkattacks.com (fun site, by the way), the first representation of a shark attack was found on the island of Ischia, Italy. There is a vase dated back to c.725 BCE, with an image of a man being devoured by fish similar to sharks.
They say it’s difficult to state for sure they are sharks since the word hadn’t yet been invented.
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the origins of the name shark are uncertain, shady if you will. The first recording is from an exhibition from the second expedition of one Capt. John Hawkins in the 1560’s. His seaman referred to the fish as a ‘sharke’. (www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=shark)
The meaning of a “dishonest person who preys on others” came about in 1599. Man, the shark had a rep even back then.
In France, sharks are called ‘requin’, in Spain they are ‘tiburon’ – I guess Hyundai was hoping for a sleek and stealthy image?
Throughout history sharks have been demonized and made deities.
The Solomon Islands natives had good sharks and bad sharks. The good sharks possessed the spirits of their ancestors, while the bad sharks just roamed about gobbling up people (thereby creating new good sharks?).
The Greeks recorded the first telling of a shark attack in 492 BCE. Its about an unfortunate sponge fisherman, who was snacked upon while being pulled into a boat. All of him didn’t make it.
My own relationship with sharks began around 1974, the year we moved from Arizona to West Palm Beach, Florida.
We lived about 7-10 miles from the Lake Worth Pier. My younger brother would fish off that pier and see all the barracuda swimming about. That in itself kept me out of the water near the pier, but then I started finding shark teeth on the beach. And not all of them fossilized.
I had heard about Peter Benchley’s book Jaws and asked for it for Christmas (Judaism came into my life later). If any of the adults in my family had actually read the novel, I seriously doubt I would have received it – if you think you know the story from the movie, think again and read the book. But receive it I did.
Being raised in a family that likes to dig for more information, I began to do more research into the nonfiction arena of sharks. The stuff I found wasn’t too encouraging at the time because many of the stories were about incidents that had occurred where? That’s right – just off the Lake Worth Pier.
My ocean days were through for the next 10 years.
I didn’t get more than ankle deep in any shore waters until I was forced to go out when getting open water certified as a SCUBA diver. Guess where we went for that – yep, West Palm Beach.
You know, I never saw one shark.
Yoda is fascinated by all things science, so naturally he loves to learn about stuff. He’s brought home several kid level books about sharks from the school book fairs. They have given me a new look at the mighty ‘lord of the sea’.
Here are some of the interesting facts I have found out through his books and the websites, http://www.sharks.org.za/interesting-facts.html and http://www.sharkfacts.org:
Sharks can go up to at least 6 weeks without feeding. The record for a shark fasting was observed in an aquarium with the Swell Shark, which did not eat for 15 months.
A shark is the only fish that can blink with both eyes.
A shark can grow a new set of teeth in a week. (Look out Tooth Fairy)
By counting the rings on the shark’s vertebrae, one is able to gauge the age of the animal.
Two-thirds of the brain of a shark is dedicated to its sense of smell.
Sharks can detect the electrical impulse emitted by a standard AA battery one mile away. (Good reason to go lithium.)
Shark pups begin their hunting and killing before they are even born by consuming their weaker siblings inside their mother’s oviduct. (Talk about sibling rivalry!)
The Cookiecutter Shark, considered a parasite, has jaws that allow it to remove circular plugs of flesh from its victims. Its the only shark that actually uses it’s tongue.
A shark’s tongue is called a basihyal. It has no taste buds. Those are in the shark’s throat.
Lantern sharks can glow in the dark.
Shark teeth were used on brass knuckles, with the teeth pointing outwards on the knuckle. (Damn.)
Boat Builders in some parts of Africa rub the wood of a new craft with hammerhead oil in the belief that it will ensure fair winds and successful voyages. (Isn’t this like a lucky rabbit’s foot? Not so much good luck for the rabbit.)
Like many mammals, including humans, sharks have a large heart with four separate chambers. (Wonder if they have heart attacks?)
Experts believe that the whale shark may be capable of living up to 150 years, making it one of the longest-living creatures on Earth. (Something older than me!)
Bull Sharks have been seen swimming up the Mississippi River. (Watch out you Louisiana folk!)
The large amount of oil in the shark’s liver helps it float.
During mating, a male shark bites the female to arouse her interest. (Who knew sharks would be into S&M?)
Does my fledgling knowledge of shark facts mean I will be swimming in open ocean water again soon? Probably not.
Will we be watching Discovery’s Shark Week? Probably not.
Yoda is still prone to over reacting, so we might never get him back in any body of water – pool included and the family has plans for next week – its my birthday week. Hopefully, the t.v. won’t be on much.
Sharks really are fascinating creatures, scary but fascinating and truly beneficial to have around the oceans. Some of them are getting a bad rap just because of a few aggressive misbehavers. We are after all, encroaching on their territory.
Shark people of the world rejoice in your celebration of this top of the food chain fish. Grab your swimmies, fin hats and we’re number one Great White pointed fingers and make those ratings soar.
Enjoy your Shark Week.
Who Is She Today?
One might think that my daughter suffered from dissociative disorder, with all the personalities that spilled forth when she was a child.
One never knew at any given time who might pop out.
The woman who always checked us out at the grocery store was known to ask who she was that day.
Once it happened, there were generally clues, such as dress or demeanor as to who had appeared, but length of time the other personality made reside was always a guess.
In the morning she may have been Dorothy complete with gingham dress and ruby slippers, but by the afternoon she may have transformed into Laura Ingalls, with bonnet and pre-braces (the polite way of saying bucked toothed Melissa Gilbert).
Her personalities ran the gamut from Shira, Princess of Power to Atreyu, the Warrior of The Neverending Story.
Atreyu was actually pretty impressive. AURYN was an old peace sign on a leather string. Her costume was a one piece jumper that she could unbutton to show AURYN. She used an wide suede watchband of mine from the 70’s as Atreyu’s armband. Falkor, the luckdragon was a stuffed dog with floppy ears.
Once when I had to send her to her room she went in as a rather pissed off NeNé, but when I went to check on her a bit later, I found Sleeping Beauty asleep in her reading chair.
I think by far her best personality was Arielle, the mermaid. My mom or sister, not sure which anymore, made her a mermaid outfit that she eventually wore slap out. When she donned the magic costume, she also added her well worn Blankie as her long hair.
I would pin it under her chin and she would toss it back in the manner of Cher. Arielle would then mount the rock jutting from the ocean and sing the most heartfelt rendition of “Part of Your World” one had ever heard. I would wait with bated breath for the moment when she would rise up with the music crescendo. I could see the waves crashing all around her.
She always put on a fabulous show.
NeNé began to integrate around age 6. The other personalities made less and less appearances until I noticed they came no more. Being someone different was now regulated to Halloween, theme days at school and costume parties.
I still have the little mermaid and Atreyu’s outfits. I keep them stored with the last thin remnant of Blankie. Every now and then I run across them when cleaning out closets.
All the organization gurus say that I should get rid of them, but I wouldn’t trade that closet space for anything.
As soon as I see those costumes, I am transported to the days of NeNé’s multiple personalities and the magic they created. Sometimes I can even hear Falkor’s hearty laugh or the ocean crashing around me. Magic indeed. That was one psychiatric diagnosis I could live with.
Happy birthday, Munchkin.
Dancing with my Children
I have two kids, sixteen years apart. Yes, 16 years. Both of their odometers turn over within the next three weeks. Neneé will be 24 on Tuesday and Yoda 8 the second week of August. (We have lots of spring/summer birthdays.)
There are vast differences between the two in addition to their ages, genders and family circumstances, but one thing remains the same – how I feel when we dance together.
Dancing with my children is a delight I will never tire of.
I danced with my children before they could do anything more that eat, sleep and eliminate. With each month they grew, the rhythm and movements took on more shared emotions.
We went from comforting motion that put them to sleep and soothed my frayed nerves, to dips and swings that brought forth joyous giggles and belly laughs.
Mostly we dance in the living room, but we have danced in super markets, elevators and down sidewalks.
My daughter and I danced to everything from Glenn Miller to the Footloose soundtrack. One that stands out for me is Johnny Nash’s classic I Can See Clearly Now. We would twirl and jump around to that beat over and over again. I still have smiling visions of her beboppin’ about the living room, wearing her pink dress with the puffy sleeves.
My son and I get funky with everything in our 78 single collection to the most recent Lady GaGa. Last night we were doing our version of some saucy dance to Bette Midler’s cover of Rosemary Clooney’s Mambo Italiano, complete with dip at the end.
I’ve held both of my kids tightly, crying while dancing to Nilsson’s Can’t Live Without You.
One funny thing about dancing with them – they’ve never been embarrassed by it. I may on occasion be the meanest mom in the world, but each have grabbed me and waltzed me down the grocery aisle on their own volition.
Even when I not allowed to kiss my 8 year old in public anymore, I can count on him to accompany me in an impromptu, made up disco dance in the store. The boy has rhythm for sure.
My daughter and I have a mending relationship right now, so I was caught off guard and thrilled when she pulled me into a dance in the aisle of Trader Joe’s one visit. My heart beats a little faster even now with the joy that she remembers.
Dancing with my children means love to me. Its a shared and cherished experience that touches the deepest part of my heart even when we are just being plain silly.
So be kind and don’t think me crazy when I am out and begin to hum along with the satellite music, doing a little jig with a distant smile on my face. I’m just dancing with my children.
Tattoo You
I took a Psychology class a couple of semesters ago. Cultural Diversity. Thought it would be amusing to see the official take on my life.
For our final project we had to select a cultural phenomenon with which we were unfamiliar to research, have an experience of then write a paper and give a presentation.
I chose tattooing.
Tats, as I’m told the insiders call them, seem to be everywhere these days. I wanted to see if there had been any real change in the acceptance of tattooing in the mainstream.
Growing up in the 60’ and 70’s nice people just didn’t get tattoos, at least nice people who lived in white bread, middle class suburbia and hadn’t served in the military didn’t.
No, tattoos were for the hard core military, convicts, bikers and ladies of the night.
To this day, despite or maybe in addition to the fact that several of her grandchildren now have tattoos (including my own daughter), my Mom refers to them as trashy – the tattoos, not the grandchildren.
Trashy Babs
When the kids in my neighborhood played, the ones with the lick and stick tattoos were the bad guys, the ones who had guns and smoked. Told you, middle class America in the 60’s.
As I grew up and gained a little worldly experience and knowledge, I found cultures outside my own that used skin marking as a means of artistic expression and to scare the wits out of their enemies. (Check out the movie, The Piano there’s some good Maori tattooing going on there.)
But with my upbringing, these really didn’t have any real impact on my life – tattoos still remained other world.
I truly wondered why it was that any modern person in their right mind would submit to a torturous procedure that I viewed as coming from rather seedy depths. Nuts.
For my research, I read various and sundry dry research articles that mostly found that tattooing was gaining some ground of acceptance in society as a whole, but this was still dependent on what types of tattooing was done – cute or not so cute.
One little tidbit from a large, southeastern university survey done in 2007 found that while many women may find visible tattoos on men attractive (as the ‘bad boy’), almost half of the men said that they seldom found a tattoo attractive on a woman.
Hmmmm…
Kinda speaks for itself, doesn't it?
I interviewed a couple of tattoo artists for my paper. They were both very amenable to my clumsy questions. I did find it interesting that the artist that had been in the business for all his life didn’t have any visible tattoos and the younger one said that he though his tattoos would restrict him in some of his career hopes. (Found out later that artist one actually has beaucoup tats, but just not down his arms.)
I also interviewed some folks I know who have tattoos. That was interesting, too. There was a common theme between them as well.
All three people got tattoos for the personal and permanent expression of feelings, relationships or circumstances. None said they regretted it or would change them, but each said that they’ve either received flack or covered up to prevent commotion.
It was all the same familiar stuff I had read in the research papers. It was a ‘yes, but’ kind of thing going on.
I wrangled my way into observing a tattoo being done.
My niece said I could come and watch hers being created if I didn’t ask stupid questions, such as “Does it hurt?” Turns out that’s a stupid question because its obvious that it hurts like hell in certain areas.
Ow.
The conclusion of my paper research was pretty much summed up by a phrase from one of the papers I read:
“people still view tattoos as a badge of dislocated, ostracized & disenfranchised community – a signifying practice that purposely embraced and promulgated images of other-ness” – (Atkinson, Michael. “Tattooing and Civilizing Processes: Body Modification as Self-Control” Canadian Review of Sociology & Anthropology 41.2 (2004):125-146.Print.)
In other words, tattooing was still seen as coming from the wrong side of the tracks and done so on purpose.
There was some shift in the mainstream outlook and there is a new subculture of diverse ages, genders, races and socioeconomic levels that finds it completely acceptable as a means of self expression, but the tolerance shown was more or less dependent upon in what company one keeps, where the tattoo is located and what type it is. (Wow, that’s a pompous quote pretty much straight from my paper.)
My own conclusion was a bit p.c. I said that I had learned that people will tattoo just about anything on themselves (and they do) for a myriad of reasons. I also said that I had developed a broader ability to look beyond my own cultural upbringing and not judge those who have tattoos. But in reality, it is still very difficult even with my own kid. I was raised to be a tattoo snob.
My last question to the class was and now you is – what are our nursing homes going to look like in 50 years with all this tattooing going on? Think about it; it ain’t pretty.
Public Domain, artisit/subject unknown
4am Sight Seeing
I see a lot of things driving home from work late at night/early in the morning.
I see deer along side the road, as well as hookers, drug dealers and homeless people pushing their grocery carts. There’s been the occasional large scale police activity, as when they made a major drug bust at a so-called men’s meeting.
I see the after-the-club crowd hanging about Krystal’s and the convenience store loungers leaning on their cars. I’ve also experienced the scary, weird drivers who think its funny to tailgate you at 4 in the morning.
But this morning on the way home I saw something new and kind of unusual.
I was just moseying along like normal, singing off key to the radio when I came upon a motorcycle rider. He was going a little under the speed limit and I didn’t want to ride up on him, so I changed lanes and passed him. He was polite and turned down his high beam as I pulled along side.
South Carolina does not require that riders wear helmets, so he was like many, riding on the highway bare headed. (Its funny to watch the riders stop at the Georgia state line to slip their helmets on before crossing the river – I think its silly and stupid to ride without one, but that’s just me.)
I out distanced him in short order, but could still see his headlight in my rearview mirror.
As we approached the speed limit drop outside of one of the small towns I pass through on the way home, I noticed that the motorcycle had picked up speed and that there was a pickup truck traveling beside him.
Both vehicles caught up with me just before we entered town and zoomed past. The motorcycle pulled back in front of me. The truck remained in the left lane parallel to the motorcycle. It was then something odd happened.
The motorcyclist reached down and adjusted something under his seat and then drew his legs up. At first, I thought he was just stretching because his legs had been resting extended out on the touring pegs.
But to my surprise, he hopped up on his seat and stood!
He raised his hands above his head, clapped them together and then held his arms out at right angle to his body. His head was thrown back and he faced the sky. It was if he was saying to the night, “Look, Ma – no hands!”.
He then took a little hop and dropped straight down back onto his seat, sped up and made a left hand turn from the far right lane in front of me, crossing behind the pickup truck that was turning right from the left lane.
The whole thing was so bizarre that it took a moment to register. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds.
Had the guy in the truck asked or dared the guy on the motorcycle? Why did he wait to do it in front of me? They had caught up to each other well before. Was the guy a former stuntman? Circus performer? Daredevil? Just a country boy with lots of time on his hands to practice?
Mysteries I will never have answered. I am left with another memory and puzzle to add to my list, although the more I think about it this one is pretty cool.
I guess that’s how it should be for 4am sight seeing.
Bastille Day a.k.a Dad’s Birthday
Daddio
Happy Bastille Day! La Fête Nationale. The day the celebrating the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille and setting in motion the French Revolution. Around my house it was always known as Dad’s birthday.
There are 30 years difference between my Dad and I. As I turn 50 this year he hits 80.
When we were over at the parents house last month Dad asked me to go through a box of items he thought may have belonged to me at some time. What I found was the letter he wrote to each of his children on the eve of his 50th birthday. Talk about karma.
This is the section he wrote to me:
Some of the memories I have kept of you my little big-eyed rugged tom boy who was the youngest auto driver in the family. In 1981 dollars the 50 ft drive would cost about $225,000 per mile ~ the strong silent one on the stage who would not say a word – okay- then there were the first day of school – we became well known as the only father going to in school in the first grade ~ then there was the little one who made sure she was available to ride anywhere, anytime, anyplace on the motorcycle even out running the cop – remember tapping me on the tummy and saying Dad I think he wants you to stop! Things tripped along with a few bumps until an Afro hair style and Joe, the gear jamming and contact lens. College and a grown up job how time flies ~ your Dad loves ya very much.
My Dad is not necessarily a very demonstrative person. He would rather do for you than talk about how he feels, so these letters to us were really amazing.
Dad was born in 1931 to a couple of people, who probably shouldn’t have had children.
His mother, Betty gave him and his younger sister up to an orphanage after she divorced from their father. His father rescued the two from there only to separate them, putting my Dad on his Uncle Stetson’s dirt farm and sending his sister Gloria to be raised by aunts in the town.
Dad doesn’t talk much about those days. He has a few good memories of his grandmother Rebecca (she has a strange resemblance to the Wicked Witch in the one picture we have, but he says she was really a nice woman) and of the animals he took on as pets.
He worked hard to get out of his lot in life. He joined the Army and spent a couple of years in Alaska. We have a great photo of him standing waist level in snow, but in short sleeves!
Just when he finished his tour, his beloved younger sister was killed in a car accident at the age of 19. I don’t think he ever really recovered from that loss. They were each other’s touchstones while growing up. He speaks of her with such love, I wish I could have met her.
He met Mom when they were both working in downtown Savannah. They married in 1953 and have been together ever since. They raised four kids together and they just celebrated 58 years of ups, downs and love.
He worked hard to support us all even when putting himself through school. He was a great example of never stop learning or trying to improve on yourself.
Dad and I have not always seen eye to eye. I think its because we are so much alike. Both stubborn and quietly determined, we tended to butt heads as I grew up. But as much as we would argue, I always kept two incidents in the back of my mind. I was very young, under five, but the impressions are so important they are memories I will hold forever.
Both happened when we lived in Memphis, Tennessee.
The first thing I remember is the night of the day I ended up with a concussion. The four kids had been playing out in the backyard – remember when we used to do that sort of thing? – we were running and jumping off the concrete slab patio and landing in the pile of leaves at the end.
To protect the not-so-innocent, I will decline to give the actual circumstances, but suffice it to say that I don’t think my older brother ended up happy that afternoon as I ended up with a concussion after hitting an object that suddenly appeared in my path as I sailed through the air expecting to land in the leaf pile.
I was upended and my head struck the pavement. Instantaneous concussion.
The doctor said not to let me fall asleep that night. My Dad stayed up with me all night, letting me into the inner sanctum of his home office sipping pear juice and I’m sure talking his ear off.
Forty-five years later and I can still feel the level of importance he elevated me to that night.
The second instance took place at a carnival or fair that was operated by the Shriner’s. Somehow, I ended up alone with Dad and we decided to ride the Ferris wheel.
We climbed into the swaying bucket seat. I have memories of excitement that can only be experienced by a child as the safety bar was locked into place. I sat close to Dad and waited for the ride to begin.
As the bucket began to rise, so did my anxiety level. Excitement turned quickly to panic as I realized how high up and exposed we were. I began to scream for my Dad to make it stop.
Now, my Dad has not always been the most patient with small children and their immature ways and he will cheerfully own up to this. But this time, this time he more than rose to the occasion.
He made the Ferris wheel stop.
My Dad made them stop the Ferris wheel.
Dad doesn’t get around as well as he used to these days. Arms that could one lift two to three kids at a time are suffering from arthritis and his back is showing the results of degenerative bone loss. He prefers the company of his books and my Mom to visiting with others and we still butt heads occasionally.
When I call and ask how he’s doing, he always replies, “fair to middlin’”.
I’m sure each of my siblings have their own special memories of our father, but to me he will always be the man who made a little girl feel important and loved. Loved enough to stop the world from spinning.
I love you, Dad. Happy birthday – Sam
Illegal Leopard
I was in a business meeting last week and was surprised and delighted to find OwL there. OwL was once a producer on the albums of that band of legendary – nay, mythic status – Illegal Leopard, for which, I have the privilege of designing album covers.
OwL was involved with the band through Predator or Prey. (For those few of you who don’t know the sequence of albums, this was the one just before Genius, Money Maker’s Farewell). OwL’s decision to leave had as much to do with MM’s retirement as it did with the opportunity to take the TMS job when Juan’s sentence in China came to an unexpected, early end.
It was tough to see the tight knit group lose such valuable members at the same time, but MM was tired of the touring and the guys at that time weren’t ready to become an exclusive studio band. Of course that changed later when Silk had to do that stint on the road gang in Mozambique. He said he didn’t want to see another road for a long, long time.
Anyway, it was old home time at that meeting. I forgot the original reason we all ended up there. Ese and Homes were beside themselves with joy. I mean its been over a year since we were all together, with the exception of Money Maker, who is still basking on the beaches of the Recherche Archipelago. Dynamite couldn’t blast her off!
Can you imagine the energy with Ese, Homes, Silk, OwL, t’s Girl, Just Yule and Crooks in the same room? Wow.
We were having such a great time that we rolled over to OH’s grill so that we could all have a couple of drinks, (the soft kind for Crooks, please – didn’t want a repeat of the Mosquito Strut fiasco) and relax.
Oh, how I wish I had some recording equipment in there! The impromptu unplugged stuff was magic. Silk brought out his harmonica and they were off.
Home’s a cappella version of “My Cup is Gone” brought back such memories of the Bangladesh Uh-Oh Tour. I caught Crooks wiping a tear from his eye. “Gets me every time.”, he said.
They did a shortened version of “don’t listen, miss diane” with new vigor. It was just plain awesome. It was if the South African ban had never been there.
Memories of Ese’s Cali City, 34 minutes of bone chilling guitar solo on “that stanks nasty” came flooding back. The cops had to stop the stage stampede on that one. Good times.
The guys said they are still involved in the litigation that’s tying up album sales. R Costa is just not letting up, but they’re not too worried – they never are. They are hard at work on the new tribute album. Ese gave a quick few bars of the first cut, “Ted, Where You At?” Poetry.
Ese said they talked Just Yule into sitting in on a couple of sessions. He had a short set recorded on his MP3 and let me listen. You could hear the trombone singing in the background, bringing out such depth to “out on love” and “Cara Muche”. Man, JY can make that thing come to life!
I think the biggest single, however is going to be “¡JAMm”. This cut is the culmination of all the years these guys have been together. You can feel the mixing of their voices and the way the instruments play off each other so easily. It’s a combination only those who know each other so deeply can reach. The live version they performed for us that afternoon was simply amazing.
I think if they can get out from under that ball and chain created by the riots in Botswana after Homes, well, had his little public issue, this album is going to soar past the fabled stratosphere of the tour compilation disc, Change of Spots.
It was really hard to break away that afternoon, which by that time had become early evening. But OwL had an early morning meeting with her new group, Bedroom Slippers. Crooks had to get back to the Centennial operations. They guys and I hung out a little while longer until Silk reminded Homes that he was his ride to his enforced training session that night.
Ese was off to an audition for a new triangle player, although we all knew there would never be another like Money Maker. Those leopard go-go boots would always be too sexy to fill.
It was such a great time. I’m really looking forward to designing the cover for this new album, whether it gets to full distribution or not. It’s going to have to be one sweet design because the magic these guys conjure just cannot be captured by reality.
I’ll make sure that OwL (and MM) get signed copies and hope that soon the rest of the world will once again be able to immerse themselves in the alchemy of Illegal Leopard.
(*Fingers crossed that the extradition committee is through debating by release date and the verdict goes in our favor!)
halfcnote 