They're not John and Abigail!

Trotsky . . . in a letter dated July 19 [1937] defiance veers towards bravado: "Since I arrived here, not once has my poor cock stood up straight. It's as though it doesn't exist. It is also resting from the stresses of these days. But in spite of it, I myself am thinking tenderly of your old dear cunt. I want to suck on it, shove my tongue all the way inside it. Natalochka, my dear, I will ever more strongly fuck you with my tongue and with my cock. Forgive me, Natalochka, these lines, it seems it's the first time in my life that I write to you like this."

TROTSKY
Downfall of a Revolutionary
Bertrand M. Patenaude 2009

Shifting Gears

I recently watched a video on the Car & Driver youTube channel. The video was in response to a reader’s question: “Is it important to learn how to drive a manual transmission?” The answer was yes, though for silly and inconsequential reasons but it got me thinking. There have been four times in my life when I was asked if I knew how to drive a manual transmission/stick shift.

As soon as I turned 10 years old, I began counting down the years, months, weeks and days until my 16th birthday when I’d be able to get my driver’s license. At the same time, I began a love affair with all things automotive. I began reading car magazines like Car & Driver, Road & Track, etc. I began photographing cars and keeping an eye out for unusual/exotic cars. Growing up in Rhode Island Mercedes and BMW were rare enough so spotting a Porsche was cause for celebration. You can imagine how I felt when I spotted a Ferrari! In the course of my “automotive research” I taught myself (virtually) to drive, how to handle inclement weather conditions, how to dive into the apex of a curve and yes, how to drive a stick shift.

Shortly after I got my license and clearly demonstrated my prowess handling the rolling liquor store that was my 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass, my friend’s father purchased a new orange Volkswagen Rabbit with a 5 speed manual transmission. My friendship with Charley Ansty was forged on the baseball diamond where we served as the nucleus of the powerhouse Newco Little League team. We were also Air Marshalls in the French Air Force at Western Hills Junior High School. And together, we ruled the snow covered gridiron of Woodridge School. We were tight.

So naturally, I just had to drive his dad’s car. After all, it was the most exotic car I had access to (it was German!), it had front wheel drive (an oddity in those days and a distinct contrast to my rear wheel drive Cutlass) and it had that 5 speed stick shift. I turned 16 in February 1978 but Charley’s birthday wasn’t until October. So he didn’t have a license but I did.

I’m not sure how I convinced Charley to let me drive the Rabbit or why he agreed. Probably just a sense of daring and adventure. I don’t even remember if he actually asked if I knew how to drive a manual transmission (I only volunteered that tidbit on our way home!) but we hopped (pardon the pun) in and away we went. Remarkably enough, I pulled it off nearly flawlessly. Getting started, backing out no problem. That first hill . . . a slight problem. But all in all I/we had a blast and my confidence (something no 16 year male will admit to lacking) got a huge boost.

The next time I was questioned about my prowess with a manual transmission was during my freshman year at George Washington University. Through my fraternity I (and a bunch of my fellow pledges) landed a gig parking cars at a party hosted by Ted Kennedy at his Virginia home. All was going well until Senator Clairborne Pell arrived.

Senator Pell was the definition of a patrician. Wealthy, cultured, lived in Newport . . . you get the picture. As a fellow Rhode Islander I was proud that he was our senator. And for Rhode Island college students in Washington DC Senator Pell was a favorite because every September he’d host a party at his Georgetown residence feeding us hot dogs and providing plenty of Budweiser. I also had another connection with the Senator. Several months earlier, my senior year in high school, I was awarded the Pell Gold Medal for excellence in American history.

So naturally, when the Senator arrived I wanted to shake his hand and park his car. Sadly, it wasn’t an auspicious occasion for me. First, he was patrician and I wasn’t treated as a constituent but as a servant . . . as in “go park the car.” There would be no hand shaking.

Second, there was his car. I wasn’t expecting a Ferrari but I thought he’d have something better then a beat up and faded blue second generation (early 70s, not the Charlie’s Angel era) Mustang. The car was filthy, inside and out. And while it did feature a manual transmission, it wasn’t a stick shift, certainly not 4 on the floor. Instead, it was a three speed transmission with a column mounted shifter. Something I had only seen once before and hope to never see again. I got in, started the car and promptly stalled it. And again. And again. Finally, one of my fraternity brothers rescued me and moved the Senator’s POS into a most unfavorably parking spot.

For the next few years my opportunities to drive a stick shift were few and far between until I purchased a Dodge Omni GLH (goes like hell – really, that’s what the GLH meant) with a five speed manual transmission. I also got to drive quite a few Camaros and Corvettes with stick shifts while working as a salesman at Scuncio Chevrolet. The next time my shifting skills were “tested” came when I began selling Peterbilt, Scania, and Hino trucks for Bay Peterbilt.

Before I was allowed out on the road with the “big rigs” I had to convince the sales manager I knew how to drive a stick shift (and then I’d be hired and sent to get my commercial driving license). No problem, I figured . . . I’ve driven a Rabbit, I’ve driven a Corvette . . . how difficult would it be to shift a truck transmission? Silly question!

The process is the same and upshifting through the gears on the Ford C model truck was a breeze (Mike, the sales manager, wouldn’t trust me with anything new (or good)). Then I had to downshift and that’s where the problems began. In a car downshifting is a breeze . . . depress clutch, move shifter into gear, release clutch. Not so on this truck. Why? Truck transmissions (at least at that time) weren’t synchronized. If you wanted to downshift, you had to match vehicle speed [mph] with engine speed [rpm]. If you didn’t, there was no way to downshift into gear. Embarrassed? Yes. Lesson learned? You only need to be barreling down the road in an out of control 9 ton truck once before you learn your lesson! By the way, I learned that by manually synchronizing engine and vehicle speed you could shift (up or down) without using a clutch. Neat trick!

It would be another 20 years or more before my stick shift skills were called into question. I wanted to borrow the car of my friend and neighbor Eric. He’s a great guy and he had a sweet, and rare, Honda Accord V6 with a six speed manual transmission. Naturally enough, the car was his prized possession and before he let me get behind the wheel, he wanted some assurance that I indeed knew how to handle a stick. He wanted to give me a road test. Reasonable enough request but I couldn’t resist being a bit of a smart ass. As we got in the car, I asked . . . “do you want me to shift with or without the clutch?”

I had an Animal Planet moment a few days ago.

Here in FLA, we have lots of geckos running around all over the place. And everyone, aside from the bugs and pests they eat, love them. Even folks who are usually scared witless by spiders and all manner of creepy crawlies don't mind them. After all, they eat pests, have no interest in any and all human food, and they're kind of cute looking. Plus, in a pinch they'll sell you auto insurance! :-)

Geckos rarely are seen indoors . . . certainly not in our condo (on the fifth floor) unless it is extremely cold. OK, that's a relative term . . . for Floridians and geckos that means anything below 40 degrees.

So imagine my surprise the other night when I saw a baby gecko in the kitchen. He couldn't have been more than an inch in length. Remarkable, even though he was tiny, his eyes were adult size so they looked very out of proportion. My guess is the huge eyes are part of the baby gecko's defense mechanism.

Naturally, my first instinct was to capture him and release him outdoors. But these critters are remarkable quick and after two half assed attempts to capture him I gave up. After all, if he found his way in, he could find his way out.

About an hour later, I spotted him again in the kitchen . . . maybe he couldn't find his way out. And since our place is bug free (knock on wood) he might not have been able to find any food, perhaps he wouldn't survive.

So I grabbed two glasses (imagine a bartender trying to make a martini) and was able to trap him. He looked at me, I looked at him. He was either very calm (that's what I'd like to think) or was so scared he couldn't move. Either way, I whispered some words of encouragement and tried to relax him.

When I got him outside and tried to release him, he wouldn't leave his glass prison. But when I stuck my hand inside to grab him, he happily crawled on my finger. His suction cup fingers and toes felt pretty cool (in a weird way) as he traversed his way up my finger. We played for a few minutes, had a meaningful conversation about the fragility of life and then I released him.

Not exactly on the same level as the Crocodile Hunter but who knows, maybe there's an Animal Planet show in the works for me!

iPad & the toilet reader

In the 1990s I worked in IT/Tech support at Brown University. It was an interesting time and place for an Apple user. IBM and the Thomas J. Watson family provided a lot of money and equipment as well as research grants to the University. Indeed, initially I worked at the Watson Institute for International Studies.

When I arrived, most of the staff were using IBM microchanel PCs and Wordstar 2000 or WordPerfect. Within a few years, the Institute was almost exclusively using Macs. (Sadly this was reversed sometime later as Apple's fortunes declined and the Institute sought more funding for their new and improved facilities.) I even got to demonstrate Apple's QuickTake digital camera [http://tinyurl.com/3k4c33c] to Mr. Watson's widow, Olive, who seemed suitably impressed.

So how does this relate to the iPad? Well the man in charge of all things computer at Brown was Don Wolfe, himself a former IBMer. Once a year he'd hold court with all the departmental computer coordinators and deliver his "State of the Computer" speech. For IT folk, it was a must see event.

Mr. Wolfe's speech in 1995 (or 1996) was prophetic (and off base). When talking about future computing trends at the university, he declared that as Apple was in decline, support for Macintosh would be limited and perhaps eliminated. In fairness, this was before the return of Steve Jobs. Had Steve not reclaimed his role at Apple, Brown wouldn't have been the only university to abandon the Mac. So Don came to the wrong conclusion but given the facts as they existed at the time, who could blame him?

But on another point he was quite farsighted. One of the major concerns at Brown (or any university) was the impact of technology (and the then new internet phenomenon) would have on books, newspapers, journals and the world of publishing. Mr. Wolfe's thoughts? "You can't take your computer into the bathroom! Until then, books are safe."

And he was right. Even if you did take your laptop to read on the toilet, were you going to bring along a power cord and a phone cable? Who had phone access in the bathroom? And if you could connect a laptop, how long would you want a hot computer resting on your bare flesh? Laptops would be just a tad unwieldy.  And how much stuff was there to read? No, he argued, the future was still bright for book publishing.

Of course I doubt that Steve Jobs had the iPad toilet tested but it certainly would meet Don's criteria: as easy to hold (maybe easier) as a book or magazine, plenty of material to choose from and . . . video as well. All brought to you by Apple.

iPhone noPhone

I love my iPhone but sometimes I'm just not so crazy about the phone. 

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the phone itself. But sometimes you'd like to not be so connected. It really is quite liberating to free oneself of constant connection to the rest of the world via phone and voice mail. 

Simple solution? Turn the iPhone off. Or better yet, leave it behind.

Except . . . while I might not want to talk with anyone, I don't want to deprive myself the pleasure of surfing the web or using some of my netcentric apps. What to do?

Technically, the phone is one feature/app that you can't just turn off. If you could, you'd have an iPod touch. However, there are ways to disable the phone.

The first option is to set your iPhone to Airplane mode. This will immediately terminate all cellular [3G] transmission and reception. It also will shut down any WiFi connection. So now you've eliminated phone calls but while you'll be able to use some apps (Camera, iPod, Calculator, etc.) you won't be able to use any netcentric apps. Solution?

Once you've engaged the Airplane mode, you can now go back and reconnect to your WiFi connection. Now you can sit back and enjoy your iPhone without having to deal with any pesky phone calls.

Enjoy!

Just can't be left alone . . .

Do you remember Paul Buchman? He was the lesser half of the NBC sitcom Mad About You. The character was portrayed by Paul Reiser (the evil company man from Aliens).

In one episode Paul Buchman joined a gym. For Paul, his time at the gym wasn't just an opportunity to buff up but an escape from his otherwise busy schedule. In fact, he wore dark sunglasses in order to preserve his anonymity and add an air of mystery.

Much like Paul I like to go to the gym to exercise and yes, to escape. But for me, wearing sunglasses indoors is a tad impractical and there's little I could do to add an air of mystery. But I do wear headphones and listen to music on my iPhone to aid in motivation and isolation. Sadly, some folks just can't take a hint.

There's Ned, the 62 year old former/current stoner. He still  wears his graying hear in a ponytail (actually I wish I still had enough hair to do that) and walks around with a toothpick dangling from the right corner of his mouth. He's 6' 4" but probably only weighs 135 pounds. He's constantly updating me on his prowess and progress. As if i care that he can now curl 10 pounds instead of the 5 pounds he did just last week  He always wants to talk to me. As if that weren't bad enough, he's deaf in one ear and can't hear himself talk. Sadly, neither can anyone else as he's a "low talker". A boring two minute conversion turns into a 15 minute snoozathon.

Wait, there's more. They say there's nothing worse than an ex smoker. Yes there is: an ex fatty. And because I'm a pound or two over my ideal weight (ha ha) they love to share their tofu and sprout recipes and regale me with tales of their weight loss. I'll admit, when a really hot looking woman wishes to share her weight loss success story I'm happy to listen. The first time that happens I'll let you know. Sadly, it is the porkers who are down to a svelte 325 pounds who feel the need to share.

But the absolute worst ones are the Amway types. They've lost their once great careers but things are looking up because they're selling vitamins or urinal cakes via the Amway model. And now that they've been suckered (I mean successful) they want to suck me in as well to share in the misery (and presumably the "profits").

Just when I was sure it couldn't get any worse, it did. This morning I was chugging along on the elliptical when I spied an old man with a cane and a yamika huffing and puffing it up the stairs. This guy was old enough to be Moses' grandson.

Anyway . . . I'm doing my thing while wearing a towel draped over my head and listening to the Allman Brothers' Les Brers In A Minor. I'm sure it was pretty obvious to anyone, except Moses' grandson, that I was deep into song and exercise. It should have been equally obvious that I wasn't in a talkative mood. This didn't stop our friend.

He began waving his bony hand in my face to get my attention. I tried to ignore him but he wouldn't stop waving and I thought that maybe, just maybe, he had some trenchant observation to make. Boy was I disappointed.

"You look like a monk." 

I was about to remind him that monks often took vows of silence so that they could contemplate great theological questions. Instead, I realized he was still trying to say something.

Smiling a smile that did little ameliorate the disparaging remark that he was about to deliver, he said:

"No, I mean you look like a Muslim!"

Only the fact that he probably would have died of a heart attack prevented me from responding by saying:

"Allahu Akbar!"

Obviously the headphones haven't detered these busy bodies. Neither has profuse sweating and the lack of deoderant. Maybe I do need the sunglasses. And a big sign that says FUCK OFF!!!!

I smell like garlic and I don't care!

This weekend Delray Beach was host to the garlic festival which sparked several thoughts.

The obvious reference is of course the use of garlic when cooking, in almost every type of cuisine, except in certain quarters of the old West Berlin. When I was there 21 years ago for a college semester abroad, I remember one of my fellow students was warned against using garlic in the meal he was preparing for his host family.

Thankfully garlic was not universally shunned in Berlin - especially in Kreutzberg. I made a special appearance on the rehearsal stage of what was once an up and coming band: the Klingons. Making my vocal/rap/hip hop debut, I joined bassist Nancy in a spirited rendition of my once classic hit: "I smell like garlic and I don't care!"

It has been years since I thought of this riveting vocal tour de force. I was, of course, magnificent but sadly all I have are my memories. In spite of my intensive 15 second google search, I was unable to find this song anywhere on the net.

If there are any collectors who have a copy of this performance, please contact me asap. Ideally I'd like to find a super clean soundboard version but at this point I'd even settle for a less than perfect audience copy.

Thanks in advance.

Spending some time in the chair with Cat Woman!

Last week I got to spend some quality time with cat woman. Sadly, it wasn't the Cat Woman, although given that Eartha Kitt is no longer amongst the living, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

No, I didn't get to spend time with Eartha, Lee Meriwether, Julie Newmar or Michelle Pfeiffer. Truth be told, I was rather scared and nervous especially since she was armed with numerous pairs of scissors . . . and a comb . . . and extremely long nails.

You see, I was attending my bi-monthly hair salon appointment. When you're as follicly challenged as I am, appointments with the barber are short, sweet, and quite infrequent. When I was in Rhode Island, I never had to worry about getting an appointment at the barber shop -- he could always find a spare 7 minutes to take care of me.

It's really weird, but for most of my life, I've only gone to two barbers. Until age 13, my hair was cut by Lou (once or twice by Don) at the Garden City Barber Shop. When that shop closed down, I switched to Dick of Van Dyke Hair Salon. No, he wasn't Dick Van Dyke but he did cut my hair up until August 2009.

Which brings me back to Cat Woman. The person who usually cuts my hair wasn't in so Cat Woman took over. She's a latina of a somewhat indeterminate age. Upon first glance, she appears entirely sane. And in the end, she did a fine job (although with so little hair to deal with, there was only so much damage she could do).

But what scared me, and why I call her Cat Woman, was the conversation she began as she stood behind me with a comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. She began to regale me with tales of stray cats. She told me of the stray who hung outside her condo waiting for breakfast just a few hours earlier. Sounds innocent enough. Heck, as a cat lover myself, I might had done something similar.

When she told me her condo board told her she had to stop feeding the strays, I became a bit nervous. Especially when she told me she didn't see anything wrong with feeding 10 cats! She didn't care if the cats had fleas! She said it was better that these cats came to her rather than live on the streets. As she's telling me this (and cutting my hair, now with electric clippers in hand) all I can think about is those shows on Animal Planet with deranged people who have had their homes taken over by dozens of cats. Let me tell you, sanitary is never a word used to describe their homes.

For a moment, part of my brain felt sorry for her condo neighbors. And then I felt just a wee bit concerned for my own safety. Fortunately, she finished up (did a fine job) before she related any more tales of her feline induced dementia.

Brush with fame: George Harrison

In the late 90's I was working in University Hall at Brown University. The school had become quite popular among children of celebrities such as JFK Jr., Amy Carter, etc. I guess having your child attend Rhode Island's oldest institution of higher learning was a status symbol of sorts. Among the more famous parents in the 90's was George Harrison whose son Dhani was studying physics and industrial design.

Apparently the final exam schedule for the first semester (classes ended in December but exams took place in January) conflicted the Harrison family's holiday plans. Try as he might, Dhani just couldn't convince the Dean to be flexible and allow him to take his exams before, or after, his trip to the UK.

What Dhani didn't know, or more accurately what I suspect, is that the Dean was a Beatles fan. I'm sure in the back of his mind, he was hoping for the Harrison family to put on a full court press. If they wanted Dhani home for the holidays, they'd have to make a special effort to seal the deal.

Sure enough, before the semester came to an end, George Harrison made a trip to Brown University to beseech the Dean on Dhani's behalf. Anyone who learned about his visit was warned in advance not to approach George or fawn over him. Naturally, I ignored that admonition and made sure that I camped out in the Dean's outer office until the quiet Beatle made his appearance. While I didn't fawn over him or ask for his autograph, I did get to shake his hand and have an extremely brief conversation with him before he met with the Dean.

In the wake of his visit, Dhani was indeed granted his special dispensation and rumors of a legendary conversation began to circulate.  Apparently, before his meeting with the Dean, George was having lunch (alone) in the Blue Room (a student/staff dining facility). An enterprising student approached George and asked if he'd be interested in joining the student's band. Legend has it that Harrison cracked a smile and resumed eating his lunch.

Summer recipes

Here's an easy, but tasty, shrimp and pasta salad.

1 pound pasta

1 pound shrimp (21-30)

3 scallions

3 ribs celery

1 carrot

1 lemon (juiced and zested)

parsley

basil

roasted peppers

ginger

halab pepper

salt & pepper

sugar

lime juice

soy sauce

rice wine vinegar

olive oil

Peel and devein shrimp. This will have the effect of curling the shrimp when they're sauteed but as they'll be in a salad, I like this. Add grated ginger, salt, pepper, lemon zest, lemon juice and haleb pepper (this is a syrian pepper that is kind of sweet but adds a wee bit of heat. You can use any hot pepper that suits your fancy: red pepper flakes, jalepeno, etc), and let marinate for 15 minutes. Then sauté in olive oil. When done, set aside and let cool.

Boil pasta (I use farfale) in salted water and then set aside and let cool. Don't rinse. While cooling, occasionally break up pasta so that it doesn't stick together.

Chop scallions into quarter inch pieces. Finely chop celery. Grate carrot. Slice roasted peppers into half inch pieces. Rough chop parsley and basil. Set aside.

Combine sugar (just a teaspoon), lime juice (1 lime), a couple of dashes of soy sauce, a couple of dashes of rice wine vinegar in a small jar. Add enough oil to make an emulsion. Shake and set aside.

When shrimp and pasta have cooled, combine and then add scallions, celery, carrot, peppers, parsley and basil. Add salt & pepper as needed. Shake dressing and slowly drizzle in. Mix, taste, and add more dressing if needed.

Chicken & Mango salad

boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 lemon, juiced and zested

halab pepper

oregano dried

basil dried and fresh

garlic finely minced

salad greens you can use any greens you like. I used a mix of arugula, radiccio and basil

red onion

mango

scallions

roasted peppers

calamatta olives

feta cheese

tomato slices

potato slices roasted

Marinate chicken with the juiced and zested lemon, halab pepper, oregano, salt & pepper, dried basil, olive oil and garlic. The chicken should marinate for at least 20 minutes, no more than 2 hours. After chicken has cooked (I used the grill but you could just as easily roast it), allow it to cool and rest before slicing. Figure one breast per serving.

Slice potato and rub with olive oil, salt & pepper and halab pepper. Roast in a 400 degree oven for 30 - 40 minutes or until done. When done, the slices should be caramelized and blistered. You should have 3 sliced potatoes per person.

All that's remaining is to assemble the ingredients. Mix the salad greens, sliced red onions with a light coating of salad dressing (I use a lemon vinaigrette). Place greens on a flat salad plate. Add chicken slices, mango slices, roasted peppers, olives, feta cheese, tomatoes, and potatoes and sprinkle with sliced scallions.

Weather & Wealth

If you like to admire the automobile as either a work of art or an object of desire, then Florida is the place to be. The combination of great weather and incredible wealth make the sunshine state an auto paradise.

Living most of my life in Rhode Island, summer and it's abundance of sunshine and warmth was but one of four seasons. And even in summer, the roads never fully escaped the grip, or wrath, of winter.

The roads in the northeast are filled with pot holes and frost heaves in the winter and in spring, summer and fall the roadways are crisscrossed with a varicose vein like web of asphalt patching. In the winter, drivers have to contend with freezing rain, black ice  and snow. To counteract the poor traction caused by snow and ice, the roads are regularly treated with sand and salt. While these help to make vehicles more tractable in inclement road conditions, the salt has a corrosive effect on cars and in the spring and summer the remaining sand on the roadways makes travel more interesting for motor vehicles, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians.

Given all that, it isn't surprising that you don't find many classic [older] cars on the road. They've either succumbed to the elements or they're kept in hermetically sealed garages. In Florida, it is just the opposite. With year round sunshine and warm temps, the roadways are remarkable free of any blemishes. In the nearly ten months that I've been here, I've not come across a single pot hole. The only sand you see is on the beach and the only salt is on the kitchen table.

Up north, if the asphalt changes color from dark charcoal to light gray, driver beware! That road surface will not only be worn down, but it will be chock full of imperfections. In Florida, that light gray colored asphalt is still as smooth as a baby's bottom. Its no wonder that the roads down here are filled with plenty of older, classic (and some not so classic) cars.

Of course, the other side of the equation is wealth. Cruise the streets of Rhode Island and you'll see your fair share of Cadillacs, Mercedes, BMWs, Porsche, even the occasional Rolls Royce or rarer still, a Ferrari.

Here in south Florida the landscape is a little more exotic. Sure, you'll still see Mercedes, BMWs, Porsche but they'll typically be the top of the line models which are usually customized. Ferrari sightings are almost common place, as are Bentley and Lamborghini sightings (almost never seen in little Rhody). In fact, a few months back there were two Lamborghinis at the gym. Lots of eye candy!

Brush with fame: Jack Bruce

When I was a kid, I went to a camp in the Catskills where I met my musical mentor, John Halberian. For a 13 year old kid in 1975, John was the epitome of cool. He had the great car (a Thunderbird convertible from the 1950's), a cool guitar (a black Fender Stratocaster like Clapton's Blackie) and an awesome, if unique, stereo (a Dual turntable plugged into a Fender Twin amp).

Best of all, however, was John's record collection. Vinyl being vinyl, and heat & humidity being what they are, John left his best records home. That meant there were no Beatles or Stones records for the entire summer. This wasn't a tragedy, it was a blessing. Through John I was introduced to the Allman Brothers, learned that Jimi Hendrix (sadly) had not retired but in fact had died, and was exposed to great music from artists such as Cream, Derek & the Dominos, Emerson Lake & Palmer, the Who, etc. We even devoted much time and discussion regarding side 2 (this was the era of vinyl after all) of Clapton's EC Was Here and declared it the single best 20 minutes of music available to us.

When I got home from camp my Aunt Seroun (from California) was visiting. While I knew who she was, we had never met. I suppose in an effort to ingratiate herself to me, she decided to take me to the record store and let me run wild. Armed with my Halberian inspired knowledge, I bought Eat A Peach, Who's Next, Layla, and Wheels of Fire.

The 70's being what they were, and Cranston RI being what it was, the rest of the decade was spent having to fight against the scourge that was disco. My friends and I fought the good fight and listened to lots of Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd, the Police and the Pretenders but there wasn't much love in my circles for Cream. Instead of rising to the top, Cream sort sank to the depths of my consciousness.

Enter Jack Spaulding. The year was 1984 and I was living in Washington DC and attending George Washington University. I met Jack while hanging around the sports complex. Jack was a few years older than me. He was a post hippie football player with eidetic memory and a vast knowledge of great literature. By day, Jack taught english lit to kids in DC's juvenile detention centers. In his off hours Jack liked to hang out, drink and listen to great music.

Unlike John, Jack had all his music with him. In fact, he had two floor to ceiling book cases filled with records. There was so much vinyl that he didn't need a sprinkler system. If there was a fire, there'd be enough melting, oozing vinyl to extinguish any fire. Bookcase number one was filled with Jack's classical and jazz collection. He was a completist so he had all 9 of Beethoven's symphonies, Mozart's 41 symphonies and even Haydn's 104 symphonies. Nice stuff.

But it was bookcase number 2 that was of greater interest to me. Hundreds of rock and roll albums including the Allmans, Hendrix, Mountain, Roy Buchanan, Derek & the Dominos, and yes . . . Cream. On a typical Friday evening Jack would pick me up in DC, we'd stop and get some take out food, a bottle of single malt or Bushmills and a bag of ice before heading to his house in Arlington, VA. We'd spend the evening polishing off the bottle and listening to some great music. The next morning we'd get up and play football at Haynes Point in DC. We were members of the only white team in an all African American flag football league. We didn't win many (or any, I just don't remember) games. Hung over, we never played well but we never felt any pain (aside from our massive headaches!)

On one of these Friday nights we were discussing the dearth of what we considered great music (even Led Zeppelin had recently broken up with the death of John Bonham) when an ad in the paper caught our eye:

One night only -- Jack Bruce at the 9:30 Club!

Naturally we bought tickets and made plans to attend the show. At the club's original location on F Street, there was a long, narrow corridor that led from the front door to the club. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack Bruce, and to the consternation of the bouncer, we hung out waiting for our hero. To say it was anti climatic would be a vast understatement. He did indeed come in the front door and we did get a chance to greet him but the reality didn't match the image. For years, he was a mythical figure, a musical giant. But the guy who walked past us was short (shorter than me!), had bad facial complexion, and he certainly looked pissed off. He didn't look like he wanted to be there.

From there it only got worse. We were expecting if not Cream, at least a small combo playing Jack's eclectic mix of jazz, blues and rock. We were expecting to hear Jack wail away on his EB3 and sing his ass off. We should have read the fine print. Jack was playing as part of Kip Hanrahan's band. Jack was indeed front and center stage but he was one of two bass players. And he stood in front of a music stand, reading sheet music. Instead of a small combo, it was a 13 piece big band. When the music started, Jack played 4 or 5 notes on his bass, wailed some unintelligible lyrics and then stood stoically for 3 minutes after which time he'd play a few more notes, sing a lyric or two and then return to his state of stony silence.

Of course it didn't help matters that we, and I in particular, were drunk as could be. Who knows, it might have been a great show. But to us, it wasn't. And while he was standing stoically on stage I'm sure Jack Bruce heard some drunken idiot screaming "White Room! White Room!" He had to hear it; I mean I was screaming like a mad man. :-) After 20 minutes, we had had enough (as I'm sure Mr. Bruce had) and we left. I figured I'd never see him again.

Then, 4 years later and 400 miles to the north, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker were scheduled to play at the Living Room on Promenade street in Providence RI. I tried to limit my expectations and my alcohol intake this time. The show was phenomenal, everything the first show wasn't. It wasn't without it's hiccups though. If you don't know anything about Jack and Ginger's relationship, let's just say they regularly fight like they're cats and dogs. I got the feeling that Ginger didn't want to play any of Jack's solo material so a compromise was struck. The first set consisted of Jack's solo material and Tom Goss played drums. The second set consisted of material from Cream and thus featured Ginger on the drums.

Of course the show started late and Jack insisted that Ginger hadn't shown up yet and that's why Tom was behind the drum kit. And because they started so late (90 minutes) the second set was short. In fact, about 15 minutes before curfew time the club manager told Jack the show had to end at 1:00 a.m. Poor Ginger was in the middle of his tour de force (Toad) when Jack screamed at him to finish up so that they could play Spoonful and Sunshine of Your Love, songs which highlighted Jack, not Ginger. Toad, which featured Ginger's drum solo and typically was 10 - 15 minutes long, was shortened to a mere 5 minutes.

Still, it was a great show and one that I always remembered fondly. And then, thanks to the magic of the internet, I was able to download a bootleg recording of that show. Sound quality wasn't bad and the performance was even better than I remembered. Funnily enough, when I listened to the show I heard a drunken idiot screaming out a song request. This time it was Deserted Cities of the Heart and the voice wasn't mine . . . but it could have been.

Prince Miroslav

I've never actually met a member of the Croatian monarchy (or any Balkan monarch for that matter) but there's a guy at the gym who certainly seems to fit the bill. He's not too tall, has real busy eyebrows, a little on the dark side and is quite aloof. He wears a towel around his neck that he tucks into his shirt -- looks like he's wearing an ascot. If not a member of some Balkan royal family, perhaps he was a communist overlord operating behind the iron curtain. I've nick named him Prince Miroslav. In addition to his royal upbringing and/or years of Stalinist indoctrination, he must have received some training in the dramatic arts. Heck, that kind of training always comes in handy when your subjugating the populace.

The Prince certainly is a regular at the gym. Like me, he's there nearly every morning. He always comes in with a large Starbucks and a liter of Smart Water . . . and he just leaves them wherever he pleases . . . he's quite the diva. And never has anyone lifted so little and grimaced as much as our dear Prince. Believe me, he's not a frail guy and he must have some inner core of strength in order to yield a truncheon the way I'm sure he did in the old country. But here in the U.S., lifting a 10 pound weight and twisting his body 3 inches in either direction certainly appears to be quite an effort for this former leader. Or perhaps, to quote Saturday Night Live's Jon Lovitz, "that's acting!"

Like any good actor, Miro (as I like to call him) certainly is no stranger to make up and costumes. I've already mentioned his pseudo ascot. But what really amazed me was his locker room set up. The first time I saw it, I thought I was in the ladies locker room. On a counter (that's 4 feet long!) in front of a mirror (naturally) he laid out three bags filled with all sorts of lotions & potions, creams & powders, colognes, and other assorted grooming products. All that seemed to be missing were those light bulbs that surround the mirrors in all the finest dressing rooms. Come to think of it, the Prince probably gets his workout just carrying his gear into the gym. If you don't believe me, look at the picture below.

I'll do my best to keep you informed of the Prince's activities. He spoke to me the other day. You never know, I could be headed to the Balkans as part of his coup team. Check back here for updates.

In the beginning

You've got to start somewhere. So this is the beginning, the starting point. Where things go from here . . .