Susan Cross Writes

Leroy Cooper, the Righteous Brothers and Glen Campbell

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 03:35:00 +0000

As Leroy was reminiscing, sitting in that black and white chair in his living room he got that faraway look in his eyes. I knew he was visiting a special memory. Then he told me this little story.

I quit Ray’s band just to prove to myself that I could survive musically. While I was out of the band I played with the Righteous Brothers.

Glen Campbell was on the show. He was from Arkansas. Those guys didn’t even pay attention to him. He played so good we used to have him in the dressing room playing. He liked to play harmony with everything we played. That sucker would put his foot up in the locker room up on the place where he was sitting and be playing some impossible stuff on the guitar. He’s a great guitar player! Oh, he’d be eating that guitar up! Ooh, that sucker could play the guitar. He’d get wrapped up in it and start sweating.

After we were done he’d be heading to the bar.

He used to say “Anybody want to go with me?”

“We don’t want to listen to no more corny jokes.” Everyone said.

I said, “I’ll go with you.” I’d go up there and he’d be talking this Arkansas stuff.

After awhile I’d say, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I’d go straight up to my room and wouldn't go back down. Then Glen messed around and got a hit and I didn’t see him again.

Glen was tight with Ray Charles and he used to be on Ray’s records for free, just to play with him. I was in the middle of this tight group and didn’t realize it.

When I was with the Righteous Bros it was Hatfield, the blond who sang real high and a replacement for Medley. When I left, Medley came back. I had met him before I was with the group. He was the bad boy. He used to come to Ray’s gigs.

Guys said, “Bill you’re selling all those records. You could at least buy us all a drink.”

Bill would say, "Come on over to my car" and then he’d give ‘em a beer.

They said, “Man you’re tight.”

He said, “I gave you a beer didn’t I?”

After I proved my point to myself I went back to Ray. You know, you owe it to yourself to see if you could survive on your own.

Music makes people happy--and sometimes even makes them sing!

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:06:00 +0000

When I attend a baseball game, during the 7th inning stretch I stand up and sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at the top of my lungs. I cannot sing very well but I feel the song in my heart and sing it with my arms waving because I love baseball. My grandmother taughte me that song when I was about 5 years old and she never told me to sing it quietly because I didnIf have a great singing voice.

Now, these many years later, if a TV camera and boom mic zoomed in on me the media would laugh and say, "She'd never make it on American Idol!"

I sing in the shower, in the car and even out in public. Music is a good thing. I’ve had a vision problem since eye surgery in November and I can't see very well right now but I am grateful that my ears still work. I can still hear and enjoy music and if I couldn't I would probably still sing whether anyone likes my voice or not.

So what's my point?

I am not a Romney supporter but when he sang America the Beautiful at a rally the media ridiculed him. Did it ever occur to anyone that singing usually makes people happy? Even people who can't sing well? And, I personally thought he sang it pretty good considering he is running for office not competing for a record contract.

By the way I dance, too—much better than I sing—and I do that in public and in private, in the living room, when I'm cleaning the house--if there’s music I dance. Because it makes me happy. And I won't be appearing on "So you Think you Can Dance" either.

The forgotten game of Jai Alai

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 05:46:00 +0000

The Annual Citrus Tournament took place this weekend in the Orlando Jai Alai fronton with some of the great players back on the court. And some of the not so great. I got a little nostalgic tonight, missing my favorite player Kompa who wore #22 on his jersey for many years. He's retired now and returned to the Basque region of Spain, or so I'm told. There are some fabulous players with great names such as Azpillaga, Odriozola, but my current favorites are Sierra, Pancho, Churruco, Larru and Olabe. We have some rookies who have a little development still ahead of them, but it makes for a lot of entertainment. Gino is an old-timer who has been in Orlando a long time. You can always recognize him because he's the player who walks out on the court with his left hand on his hip and between plays often returns it there. He usually makes a few good returns before missing. His name is easy to pronounce but when I am cheering for him, it's to drop the ball.

One of the retired players was named Bob. From what I understand he was a local guy named Terry Moore. He was the tallest player on the team and often was seen leaning against the wall while waiting for any action to come his way. He sported #40 and people loved to cheer for him because the odds were always against him and if he won the payouts were pretty good. We couldn't help but yell his name for two reasons, we could pronouce it easily and no matter how hard we tried, we almost bet on him. He was the underdog.

If you have never attended a jai alai game, and you have the opportunity I advise you to take it. The sport is dying out in America and that's a shame. These guys are great athletes with the pelota (ball) traveling up to 90 mph, hitting the wall and then having to catch it in their cesta (basket) strapped to their arm. Some climb the walls to make difficult shots, others fall on the floor to make a difficult play and whether you're a gambler and want to bet or are just looking for an evening of entertainment, give yourself a treat. Admission in Orlando is $3 per person. You can sit and watch 12 games if you like (we usually watch about 5). Games last about 12 minutes and get very exciting. Hope to see you there one Friday or Saturday night. Check the schedule at http://www.orlandojaialai.com

Here's an old clip from the Orlando Jai Alai Fronton.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxBUOEy_4H8&feature=related

The Single Sock

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 17:57:00 +0000

She looked down at the sock on the floor. After folding tee shirts and underwear she had paired the socks, tucking the ends one inside the other to hold them together. Yet, she stared at the lonely sock. It was the inevitable single; no match.

Kim got up and walked back to the laundry room to check the dryer again; then the washer. Both were empty. There were no socks on the floor.

Slowly, contemplating where missing socks go, she walked into the bedroom and put the shirts in a drawer. His socks and undershorts, both boxers and briefs, shared the one above it. Leaning over, she picked up the sock and examined it looking for a hole in the heel or toe that would justify throwing the leftover in the trash without feeling guilty. No holes. No frayed edges. A clean sock without a partner.

Most likely, the other sock would magically appear next week but maybe not. Growing up, her mother’s rule was that you don’t throw things away unless they’re broken or damaged. She pondered. Could you donate one sock to charity? Do one legged men shop at thrift stores? Do homeless men wear unmatched socks when the weather gets cold? Would the owner of a store even take it and put it together with a similar sock that was also singular or should she just toss it out?

She brought her mind back into the bedroom and the sock in her hand. She opened the drawer and counted a dozen pairs of white ones with gray heels and toes.

The ringing phone shook her out of her reverie. As she picked it up she remembered she was supposed to be at her daughter’s house in ten minutes to pick her and her little boy up to go to the doctor. Her daughter was counting on her. She didn’t want to go alone. They would be getting test results that would determine where on the autistic spectrum her grandson fell and what the long term treatment would be.

With the phone in her hand Kim dropped the sock in the drawer and said, “I’m glad you called. I got caught up in something and lost track of time. I’ll leave right away and be there in about five minutes. Don’t worry, honey, it will all work out. Things have a way of falling into place.”

Does Size Matter?

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 20:34:00 +0000

This post is in response to a prompt on Eric Krause's blog, http://ejkwritingspot.blogspot.com/2011/07/writing-prompt-70.html

It's not that I ever wanted to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Nor did I ever consider entering an Olympic high jump or pole vault competition. All I really wanted was to be able to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without standing on my tippy toes, standing on the bottom shelf or, if necessary asking another shopper or store employee to grab a box of FiberOne granola bars. (Why do they always put them on the top shelf?)

While browsing Facebook one day, I saw a link to an article in the Wall Street Journal about a new designer drug that could put a particular drug company back on track. Multiple lawsuits against the company had resulted from TV commercials claiming that birth defects may have resulted from taking any drug they had ever made and the stock had dropped considerably. This new medication, taken in liquid form, could actually cause a temporary growth spurt of up to six inches which would last as long as 24 hours. According to studies, it wasn't recommended that the drug be taken daily, but on an occasional basis it was shown to do no harm in monkeys whose growth was stunted through heredity. Could I possibly be like one of those monkeys? Although my mother was considered short at 5'2", my sister and my cousin were the exact same height as me--4'10-1/2". It seemed worth looking into.

The day after reading the article I made an appointment with my physician to discuss it. Well, actually, I don't see a physician. When I have a medical problem I go to the physician's office and see the Nurse Practitioner. In five years I have never once met the doctor who owns the practice. Although he's a General Practitioner, he and his wife specialize in cosmetic procedures and work together in the office adjoining the one I visit injecting Botox and fillers into wrinkles for baby boomers who are tired of hairstyles with bangs to cover their creasing foreheads and wearing turtlenecks to hide their newly wattled necks. But I digress.

A few days later I went to see the NP and asked her about this new drug. She had read the same article but didn't pay much attention. At a height of 5'8" it didn't interest her in a personal way. I explained to her that I'm terrified of ladders and asked her if she could prescribe it to me so that I might be able to clean the tops of my cabinets while just standing on my little step stool and perform other such tasks that she probably took for granted. After looking over my medical records, she saw no contra-indications and within 30 minutes I was on my way to the pharmacy to fill the prescription.

The next morning, I carefully measured the prescribed dosage and swallowed it in one gulp, like a shot of flavored vodka. I hadn't read the warnings that accompanied the bottle in pharmacy bag but I felt confident I had nothing to worry about. Surely the NP would have told me if there were side effects so I headed for the shower. Daydreaming about what it would be like to have to raise the shower head, I could feel some tingling throughout my body.

Now that I was squeaky clean, I dried my hair and went to get dressed. I got out my favorite jeans and when I stepped into them I found that I couldn't quite pull them up over my thighs. I dropped them to the floor and ran back to look in the bathroom mirror. There was no question that I was taller although I couldn't estimate by how many inches. The horrifying figure that I saw, however, was also wider!

Naked and barefoot I sprinted to the kitchen to read the side effects and there it was. "DO NOT TAKE WITHOUT FOOD. This medication may cause an increase in height up to 6" but when taken on an empty stomach, it may also cause an equal increase in width." With tears in my eyes I returned to the bedroom, put on an oversized tee shirt and yoga pants and waited for the effects to wear off and wondered what was I thinking? Does my short stature really matter that much to me?

Next time I read an article about new medications in the Wall Street Journal, I'll remember they are referring to stock prices of the pharmaceutical companies, not effectiveness or safety of the drugs.

Self-Righteous Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 04:14:00 +0000

Apparently in 1972 I was listening to a lot of Dylan and Leonard Cohen and took a shot at writing some poetry. I found this one in a drawer this morning amongst others. I hope to hear your comments. Please feel free to be honest!

Self-righteous Blues

By Susan Cross
© Susan Cross 1972

Glaring blank faces
Wide-eyed open spaces
Show up clearly when you can’t relate
To the pace in the mazes
Of the frenzied rat races
That tear down everything you create.

When you feel like you’re beaten
And everyone’s cheatin’
You still bit but the hook’s got no bait.

After everything’s broken
You find yourself tokin’
Long deep hits of thick city air
Some crystal cold coke
And the factory’s smoke
With the people you know didn’t care.

You felt you were been beaten
Everyone was cheatin’
Without something there’s nothing to share.

Games that you played
Going out to get laid
Finding out that the rule wasn’t gold
Scores that you made
Not worth prices you paid
But you knew that some things can’t be sold.

Now you’re sure you’ve been beaten
It’s been days since you’ve eaten
Anything, anyone, young or old.

In two brown paper bags
You packed all your rags
And prepared for a long distance ride.
A little time lags from the junkies and fags
You ran into a place you could hide.

You feel you’ve been beaten
And the city’s been cheatin’
All your desires were always denied.

You tried a new place
Another pretty face
But you knew all along it’s the same.
New tails you could chase
Someone else on your case
Your surroundings were never to blame.

So there, too, you got beaten
The whole trip’s self-defeatin’
You’re asking yourself why you came.

Something you said
Spinning round in your head
All the answers you tried to avoid.
You wished yourself dead
But kept goin’ instead
It was the misery that you enjoyed.

Yes, you liked being beaten
By anyone you were meetin’
You’re still licking the wounds where you bled.

The decision you made
To take out in trade
All the bad hands you thought you were dealt.
Forever afraid of the shiny sharp blade
That could end all the hate that you felt.

You’re the one who’s been beaten
And it’s you who’s been cheatin’
So the anger and pain’d be delayed.

Well, come on big shot
If you think you’re so hot
Try to put it together at last
You’ve bullshitted a lot
Now you’re on the spot
Cut the self-pity crap—do it fast!

Or you’re goin’ to get beatin’
You just can’t live with cheatin’
Now it’s Russian Roulette—just one shot.

Leroy Cooper talks about Nat 'King' Cole

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 03:26:00 +0000

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. Cooper was the bandleader for Ray Charles for about 20 years. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

During my years spending afternoons with Leroy Cooper he told me stories that paint a picture of American musical history. Nat 'King' Cole was somebody that played a major part in his youth.

*****

"Back in the ‘40s I went to a little church school down in Austin, Texas, Huston-Tillotson," Cooper said. "We used to call it the Pride of the Great Southwest. It was across town from the University of Texas. It was a Methodist school. They’d teach you to be a teacher or a preacher.

"It was a beautiful school, Huston-Tillotson. The band would play and the choir would sing and the president of the college would beg us to play The Bells of Saint Mary and it would make him cry.

"The president of the college would tell the students: 'In the early years, our forefathers got together to bring this institution about to lift the ban of ignorance…' he would say to us."

"People like Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole and Adam Clayton Powell used to come to the school. Every Wednesday night we had a celebrity speaker. They were so happy to see a bunch of kids trying to get educated. I enjoyed it. I played in the school band three years. I was the lead alto player which was a big deal. We had to try out for the school band like a football player. You earned a scholarship. I didn’t have to pay for nothing but books. Everything else was a freebee, food, dormitory.

"Every time Nat King Cole Trio would come through to play, our band would play the opening for them and then the Nat King Cole trio would play. All those bands would come through there and we would see those musicians dressed in those latest styles.

"Nat King Cole, he brought his wife. Well he wasn’t married to Maria then. He brought his girlfriend down. He was playing some job for the school so we used to go and watch them play tennis. I was really watching his girl in those tennis outfits. You know, a little young boy, he was laughing at us. Teenagers. Oh man, he was hitting the ball."

"We school boys didn’t have nothing. We’d be listening to the bands and the professor would say, “Stay in school.”

In another session Cooper talked about his experiences in Birmingham and the south touring with Ray Charles in the early days.

"Down there It got so bad when we’d play a gig they’d say, “No drinking in this dressing room. And if we catch one of you drinking in the dressing room you’re all going to jail. Everybody was calling home on the public phone out there. “Don’t stay too long on that phone.” Picky, picky, picky, picky, picky. To me, Birmingham was the worst place in the world.

"Nat King Cole was from Birmingham and I read that they had him going through the back door in the auditorium. Well with Ray, when our bus came in, they had us pull around to the back and we had to go in the back door."

Before the Beatles were the Beatles and then there was Billy Preston

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 05:36:00 +0000

This story was told to me by Leroy Cooper during our first session and I transcribed it from the recording. First I wanted to corroborate the story since Leroy was 78 years old and I was checking on his memory. He insisted the club was the Star Club and that they did NOT have a regular drummer during Ray's gig at the club. When I saw Paul, John and George in their 'cowboy clothes' just as Leroy described them I felt I would publish his personal memory of the events that followed. It is all in his own voice.

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

In Hamburg, Germany, I was with Ray and we played in a place called the Star Club. It was a very popular venue in Hamburg at the time. It was very impressive. They met us at the airport with Mercedes Benz convertibles, a whole parade of them.

We went to the club and there was a house band playing there. There was all these guys with English accents and they were wearing cowboy clothes and boots. That seemed real funny to us because they were from England, not from the States. Every night, all we did was play shows but they had to play for the dancing and we used to laugh because they had this black drummer at the time. He was a showman. He really impressed me. He was in the Air Force and just passing through, fillin’ in. We lived at the same hotel as this band

They would say, “Come on over and listen to some records,” in their English accent. You know and we used to hang with them. There were two or three of us to a room because we weren’t making the big bucks, and these guys were all bunched up in one room. We would go and listen to records. Back then, they weren’t the Beatles yet.

So when they came to the States to be on the Ed Sullivan show we were watching these guys and somebody said, “Hey, they are the same guys that were in Hamburg, Germany. They changed their haircuts.” When we first saw them in Germany they were playing rock ‘n’ roll. Now they were doing this other music.

I said, “Wow, they made it. They made it.” From then on they were the Beatles and they were big, big, big, big. What a difference a day makes. What a difference.

*****

Billy Preston

One year we were in Liverpool and we usually packed the place out, but this time the crowd was a little slim. We asked what’s happening?

They said, “They have a local group that’s real big. And they’ve got a movie out A Hard Day’s Night.” We had a big show that same night and that sort of hurt our crowd. So I said this new outfit must be dy-no-mite!

In Ray’s band at the time, Billy Preston was sitting next to me on the front line. He played organ and I played the baritone sax, and he met The Beatles at the rock ‘n’ roll show over here in the States.

Years later we were over in England again and the guys were laughing at Billy, saying the Beatles are big and you are supposed to be such good friends with them and everything.

I said “Why don’t you call them?” You know how guys put you on. “Have another drink. Why don’t you call the Beatles, you’re supposed to know them so much.”

He said, “Okay I’ll call ‘em,” We thought we could get a good laugh.

He calls and the housekeeper answers and she said, “They’re not in at the moment and did you want to leave a message?” So he left a message. Two or three days later he heard from one of them.

They said, “This is so and so and we bought your record contract.” At the time Billy was signed up with Ray Charles. They said, “Oh yeah, we bought it and we want you to join the group.” After that, he was like the fifth Beatle.

This must have been in the ‘60s. I remember he was driving a little ‘67 Plymouth and he was getting five hundred a week. He was always complaining about money.

“I’m tired of these cheeseburgers and I got to have more money,” he told Ray. He got with the Beatles and the next time I saw him he had a white Rolls Royce.

One time we were playing in San Francisco at The Fairmont Hotel there up on Nob Hill. It was real ritzy. We were on stage and I said, “Ray, Billy Preston’s in the audience.”

Ray said, “Aw he’s too big to sing with us now.”

Somebody announced Billy. McCartney and the other guys brought him up to the bandstand and he stayed up on the bandstand with us the rest of the night. The Beatles were sitting right next to him in the audience and Billy stayed up there with us. He didn’t forget. He admired Ray. I’ve never seen anything like him.

Anything Ray would play on the piano Billy would play exactly what Ray was playing and I thought this boy is a genius!

He was a young man at the time. He was so young guys would tell him how to dress. He was eating cheeseburgers and milk shakes. And I didn’t get to see him after he got to be a big wheel. He used to come through here and I was determined to try to get out to see him but you know you can’t get to people when they get that big. It changes.

The Callback

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 04:13:00 +0000

This story was written as a follow up to a previous Friday Flash called The Audition which can be viewed here.
© Susan Cross

The phone rang. Her mother answered and called to her, “It’s the agency, dear.” She couldn’t believe it—she had gotten a call back from her audition! After setting the appointment she went and packed her satchel to head out to the train station.

Before she knew it she was seated comfortably heading for the city. She followed the same rituals as last time, using the toilet, washing her face, pulling her hair back. She wore the same white blouse tucked into straight-legged jeans with her red belt pulled tight accentuating her waist. Truth be told, these were the only clothes she had that didn’t give away her small town origins.

Before she knew it she was walking toward the office and opening the door. There was only one other girl in the small waiting area. She took a seat and shyly struck up a conversation with the other woman. This woman was wearing a suit and looked much older than she was, maybe in her mid 30s.

“Hi. I’m Mary Jane. I’ve never been called back after an audition before,” she said to the stranger.

“Don’t be nervous Mary Jane. I’ve been here many times. I’ve even gotten a few jobs for my troubles. My name is Abigail. Perhaps you’ve seen some of my TV spots although you probably wouldn’t know it if you did.” Abigail laughed at that notion, and then continued. I like your red belt. Do you have lipstick to match?” she asked.

“Well, no. I don’t usually wear makeup. I just focus on my hands, keeping the nails trimmed and lacquered,” Mary Jane replied.

“Well, I think you might look good with some lipstick. You should try it some time. Red would be a good color, sort of like mine. It would make the color in your belt pop, as they say, and perhaps you would be considered for other ads if you got noticed.”

Mary Jane only wore lipstick on special occasions. A local square dance; a movie date with James and occasionally when she and her mother went to a mother-daughter luncheon at the local women’s club. She chose the softer, more delicate shades.

“Mary Jane Tomlinson?” the receptionist said, her voice lilting into a question mark. She had assumed that Abigail would go first since she had been waiting longer. This didn’t seem to disturb Abigail, though. Mary Jane rose and followed the receptionist into a hallway.

She was ushered into a small office and a man invited her to have a seat. There were no family pictures on his desk or walls. The décor consisted of posters for various ad campaigns.

“I’m Mr. Ballinger. I assume you’re Mary Jane?” he said as he reached out his hand and took hers gently. “You really stood out in the audition. Your hands are very special and the way you applied our product was just perfect. I would like to see that again if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Ballinger.” Mary Jane felt her heart beating a little faster. He had noticed her!

Mr. Ballinger had a bottle of the moisturizer on his desk and handed it to her offering her a seat. She sat down.

“I’d like you to put a small pea-size dab on the top of your left hand and rub it across your skin slowly and sensually. Look down at your hand as you’re doing it and make your facial expression match the feel of the lotion.”

Mary Jane did as she was told.

“Now turn your hand over and put a little bit larger dab onto the palm of your hand. Yes, just like that. Look down and rub the lotion liberally on the palms of your hands.”

Mary Jane’s eyes were closed as she felt the warmth of the lotion on her skin. As her eyes opened just a crack she saw that Mr. Ballinger had unzipped his pants. She saw his ‘thing’ standing up high as he moved towards her. She was afraid she was going to be sick.

“I want to feel the lotion now. Are your hands still moist? Place your left hand in my pants under my balls and hold them, not too tight.”

Mary Jane was horrified! What had she gotten herself into? She wanted to run out the door but she also wanted the job.

“Now with your right hand stroke my cock from the bottom to the top and back again. Yes, just like that. Keep moving your hands like that. It feels very good.”

Within a few minutes, she couldn’t maintain her calm disposition and she pulled her hands away. “I’m sorry Mr. Ballinger, but I just can’t do this. I thought you called me back because you liked my audition and I was going to get the job as a hand model. But I can’t do this.”

“Wait Mary Jane. I think you’ve done a wonderful job. If you’re able to come back next week, we can shoot the commercial and possibly some stills for print magazines as well. Would that be alright?”

“I-I guess so. You’re serious? About the job, I mean? You wouldn’t ask me to do this again?”

“No, no. Next week is the photo shoot. You can make the appointment with my receptionist on the way out. Really I was just testing the product and I believe it’s good. Thank you for coming in.”

Mary Jane moved quickly past him to the door and into the reception area. She glanced at Abigail and wondered if she had been asked to do the same thing in order to get her jobs. Maybe Abigail was his girlfriend and had held back that information. She made the appointment and as she turned to leave she asked Abigail what she thought about the hand lotion.

“Hand lotion? I’m here about the lipstick commercial, sweetie. Did you get the job?”

Ray Charles - Traveling in the South

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 21:36:00 +0000

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

Traveling in the South

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

There was a Jewish boy in Ray’s band when we were going through all of this named Donald Peake. I didn’t know anything about his religious background. There were about two or three white boys in Ray’s band during these critical times. I took it upon myself to try to be a protector of Peake’s down south and in Florida. Guys were selling Muhammad Speaks, it was the Muslim newspaper, and when they would see him with us, they’d have a circle on him; they were getting ready to do something. I’d come in the circle and say, “Man, he’s with us,” and blah, blah, blah. He’d be terrified, you know, and who wouldn’t? Having all these crazy people around you.

Miami, Florida

When we used to work in Miami, we couldn’t even stay on the beach. We had to stay up in Hollywood and travel down to the job. Ray was the only one who could stay down there. But we had a good old time and accepted how things were. One of our girls, one of our Raelets had bought some snake boots over in Germany. She paid about 700 or 800 dollars for these fabulous snake boots that come up to her knees. She had on a fur stole and all that and we were off in Miami. She went in the bar next door to the motel where we were living and the cops took her for prostitution. Ray had to go get her out of jail. She was just sitting at the bar having a drink and she told ‘em she was with the band but they didn’t believe her.

Things are better now. The hip hoppers can wear those snake boots and they’re all over Miami. Can you imagine putting one of them in jail? They can buy the jail.

Birmingham, Alabama

Ray started going to towns like Yazoo, Mississippi and Birmingham, Alabama. That was frightening. Back in the day, we were in the bus station and I had to be in the black part of the bus station. I was shooting the pinball machine.

This big cop came over with a fat stomach, a regular cop, and he asked the guy, “What do that big one do?”

“Oh, he’s a saxophone player.”

He said, “Can he blow it? Is he good?” In other words, he just wanted to have some kind of confrontation with me. And I kept ignoring him.

It got so bad when we’d play a gig they’d say, “No drinking in this dressing room. And if we catch one of you drinking in the dressing room you’re all going to jail. Everybody was calling home on the public phone out there. “Don’t stay too long on that phone.” Picky, picky, picky, picky, picky. To me, Birmingham was the worst place in the world.

Nat King Cole was from Birmingham and I read that they had him going through the back door in the auditorium. Well with Ray, when our bus came in, they had us pull around to the back and we had to go in the back door.

When we went to Mobile, Alabama they wouldn’t even let us in the arena unless we got rid of everybody we had white in the band. So the road manager told him we don’t have any whites, we have near whites. So the cops accepted that. The girls put powder on [Don] Peake, brown powder and he was scared that night. They made all the white patrons leave and we had to play to the black audience. The white people stayed outside the arena so they could wave to us when we left.

Things changed. Joe Namath, when he got popular years later opened up a club in Birmingham. We played the circuit in the south with Joe Namath. We went to his club and they had us in the biggest hotel downtown. I forget the name of it, and they had a massage parlor on the mezzanine. The manager of the hotel was telling the band, “You had your back rubbed?”

I said, “Wait a minute; that’s not for us.”

“Oh yes, they’ve got some nice girls up there.”

“This is not Birmingham. Time’s have really changed,” I thought.

We played the Bachelor’s Club in Ft. Lauderdale and we were treated royally everywhere and I said it can’t be the same south; it can’t be the same place.

The Audition -- #FridayFlash

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 05:50:00 +0000

© Susan Cross, January 22, 2011 May not be copied or reprinted in whole or part without permission from the author. It is posted here for inclusion in the #FridayFiction stories.

She hadn’t relaxed enough yet for her body to mold into the faux-leather seat on the train. Looking out the window her thoughts were chasing each other trying to catch up with her emotions. After she had settled her crimson satchel on the seat next to her she rested her hands delicately in her lap. Carefully manicured fingernails were not adorned with any of the latest trends. No two-toned polish or rhinestones. No false, squarely filed extensions painted to match her lipstick. Instead she wore clear lacquer applied to her own healthy nails. They were filed across, squared but gently curving at the edges. Her hands appeared to belong to someone else, as if they were transplanted onto her slim wrists.

She was relieved that nobody was sharing the car to notice her movements. Her goal was to slow down her thoughts and relax for the two hour ride. According to the schedule, the length of time going in each direction was the same but as is always the case, looking forward to a destination gave the illusion of time crawling with each turn of the wheel on the track. The element of the unknown added to her anxiety. The trip home would be quicker because she knew what awaited her when she arrived.

Outside the window the fields were flashing past. Grazing cows and horses were a blur. She wondered how the speed of a train compared to that of a car on a highway. Remove the traffic lights and stop signs and each could cover the same distance but the train seemed to beat the car, even with the occasional stops at stations.

The relaxation exercise was working. Her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes, picked up her satchel and headed toward the rest room. Inside the tiny room, she used the toilet and washed her hands. Then she opened the satchel which held just the necessities. In an instant, she pulled her long brown hair back and secured it into a pony tail. Next she removed a plastic bottle containing a skin cleansing product. In seconds she saw her bare face in the mirror. No makeup; no lipstick. It was a familiar routine. She wore a white blouse tucked into straight-legged jeans. A red belt pulled tight accentuated her waist.

She strolled back down the aisle, head erect. She returned to her seat, folded her legs under her and leaned her head against the window. She wondered if she would ever take this trip again. Once she detrained she took a cab rather than walk the 9 long blocks. She had saved up for this trip to the city.

At the studio, about 40 women stood in line waiting. She had filled out the forms on the website. A man walked back along the line asking each woman’s name and then giving her a sticky nametag with just a number printed on it that corresponded to the number on the form.

Some of the women dressed casually, others overly stylish. She preferred to show off her assets for this audition, thus accounting for her non-descript attire. Some women wore gloves. She had removed hers in the cab. The line moved quickly. She was next.

“Number 22,” the man said. She stepped forward and followed him down a hallway and through a door.

She approached the table on the stage. It was covered with a black cloth. Bright umbrella lights were angled toward the table. A woman told her to put her hands on the table facing the camera with fingertips touching. Then she was asked to turn them over showing her palms. In the bright light, her skin looked translucent. A man appeared with a bottle in his hand.

“Are you left handed or right handed?”

“Right handed,” she replied.

“Good,” said the director. He signaled for the cameras to start rolling.

“Using your right hand, slowly open the bottle and pour a small pea-sized dab of lotion into the palm of your left hand.” She did as she was told.

“Great. Now rub the lotion onto the top of your right hand, slowly,” he said. “Good. Now rub your hands together – be careful not to get any lotion onto your nails. We want the impression that the lotion is so soothing and nurturing that you are having a life changing, almost sexual experience.”

She rubbed her hands together as she had been told. Her face was reflecting the pleasure she would feel if the lotion were truly changing her life, even though the camera was focused on her hands and nobody was paying attention to her body language.

“Thank you. You can go.”

She left having no hint of how she had compared to the others. She would wait for days to find out if she had been selected. She walked outside, hailed a cab and returned to the train station.

Her parents had told her she was beautiful, but she knew better. Her facial features were not symmetrical. Her lips were not full and luscious and could not hide her imperfect teeth. The industry's view of beautiful did not sync with her parents' idealized perception. She had dreamed of being a model for years but she accepted the reality that her face would never appear on magazine covers. She was hoping her one great feature would be enough. She closed her eyes as the train rolled towards home picturing herself in a film studio.

Tomorrow she would get up and go to work at the supermarket. She had been the only employee at the store that had ever worn gloves to work every day. Co-workers thought she might suffer from scars or discoloration but they never asked. Protecting her hands from the unwashed fruit and juicy packages of meat was essential. Maybe one day, her long slender hands would help fulfill her dreams. She would become a famous hand model.

Avoiding Senseless Acts of Violence without Violating Free Speech

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 07:03:00 +0000

I can't stop thinking about the reports showing videos of Jared Loughner before the shooting; hearing accounts of his erratic behavior; his incoherent speech. Neighbors noticed his unusual movements. His parents witnessed changes. Students and teachers at school were aware that he was not rational. He posted YouTube videos of words that made no sense to me and have been examined by psychologists, psychiatrists, terrorism officials (no doubt) and people more qualified by me, all of us coming to the same conclusion--the young man was disturbed or suffered from some form of mental illness or possibly drug abuse.

The words I keep hearing in the media are: This didn't have to happen. It could have been avoided. If only someone would have reported something to the 'authorities' (whoever they are). This brings me to my point.

Hypothetically, let's say that I meet a stranger in a public place--a jazz jam in the lounge of an upscale lounge in a 4 star hotel, for instance. During the break the fans are standing around socializing. Two people (hypothetically me and a man who sat in on a couple of songs) get talking and learn that they are both writers and both lovers of music. They exchange business cards. Conversation continues. I mention my blog.

"Can you make money on a blog?" he asks.

"No, not really," I answer.

"Then what's the point?"

"I like to write and some people like to read what I write. I don't really care if they read it or not but I write because I have to. A blog. A journal. I make a living writing articles for magazines so this is for pleasure."

"That's the problem with society today," he says. "Just like tonight. This is a jam. Nobody's getting paid. People don't value talented musicians anymore. They don't pay them. It's the same with writers."

My husband interrupts and reminds me that he has to get up in the morning so we must leave. We say goodnight to all of our friends (the musicians--who are unpaid and collect tips to donate to local charities) and depart the lively crowd.

The next day I receive a 'friend request' on Facebook from the writer/musician. (This is all hypothetical, remember.) I read his profile and Confirm him as a friend. The following night I am online, as usual, and my chat box pops up. I sort of recognize the name but can't place it. "Hey Susan." To try to get some context I say, "Hi. Where are you?" He names the town and then I put it together. The conversation--excuse me, chat--starts out comfortably enough talking about music. My answers are short. This man is a stranger and I'm not willing to show too much of myself. His conversations wander until he discloses that he's depressed.. "What's up?" I type. He continues to tell me that he suffers from depression and has battled with it for a long time. "Oh," I type. Then the icon shows me that he's typing so I wait. His next message is about sometimes being immobilized or angry. I don't respond. He types some more. "I used to go to a therapist and I'm thinking about going back."

I see the words on my screen in the chat box. I am not a therapist. I ask if the therapist helped and he says yes. I type, "Then go back." He types some more about the death of a friend and then about a broken relationship. I respond, "Make an appointment." Shortly after, I say goodnight since it's gotten pretty late. He thanks me for the chat.

The next night, hypothetically, I am working (writing) with my laptop on its bed tray gently resting over my knees. I hear a little ping and the chat box on Facebook has popped up. "Hi" he says. I switch from my work and type, "Hi." I am expecting a further discussion of his blues and, having been there myself decide to take a few minutes to chat.

To my surprise, the chat turns into a rant. "People don't respect good writers. They don't even recognize good writing. Most readers think that John Grisham is the greatest writer of our time," he types. Gently, I type, "That's true." Short answers. (All hypothetical, remember?) He goes on to tear down the current culture's lack of respect for literature, philosophy, foreign authors as well as great music. I tried to diffuse his anger unsuccessfully so I said goodnight.

Next night, chat box pops up. "I have to apologize for my tirade last night. I was rude and belligerent and I'm sorry." I simply type, "No problem. Gotta go. Working on something." I know he hates it when I use slang because he has mentioned that and made it a point to correct his own typos immediately in the next entry during previous chats. (Aside: I'm so old-fashioned that when I say 'chat' I think of British Chat Shows--the equivalent of American talk shows.)

The following night I am on Facebook to pass along an announcement of a blues jam taking place at a local cigar bar outside in the back parking lot next to the dumpster. Now, granted, that may sound strange but it was targeted at locals who all know and love the venue. It's intimate, non-smokers can move away from smokers, there are woods behind the parking lot with chirping frogs. A colorful cross-section of people attend these events and a barbecue vendor sets up. Beer, wine and soft drinks are available plus chairs.

This person posts a comment about how this just illustrates how little club owners respect musicians, making them play in back parking lots next to dumpsters, having jams rather than hiring paid bands. He doesn't live in the area and therefore isn't familiar with the ambiance. I follow up his comment explaining this. He responds with a hostile remark about to the effect "oh, so blues isn't music?" Then another, “And do the musicians get all they can eat out of the dumpster???”

I live in a small town and there isn't much live music without driving into Orlando. I am grateful for this monthly blues jam 5 minutes from home. I know the people and the musicians. The owner of the cigar bar is struggling to keep his business alive and makes no money from having the band--he just loves the blues. We support him. I post these sentiments only to be barraged with more negativity so I switch to a new thread about people who create. In that thread I refer to people who write because they love writing whether or not they are compensated or if anyone reads their writing, much as a musician loves to play and plays alone at home just for enjoyment and fulfillment.

That's when things really get nasty. The comments (hypothetically, of course) become more and more hostile to the extent of toxicity. I type a 'comment' asking this person to stop posting on the thread because his poison comments offend me and my friends. His final comment is: "People who create without being paid must be putting out a lot of SUPERFICIAL CRAP!"

I start deleting his previous comments while other Facebook friends (writers) 'comment' on his negativity, defending our craft and need to create. While they type, my fingers are flying across the keyboard finding out how to 'unfriend' him. I am not a Facebook expert but successfully get to the right screen and click the button. He can no longer post 'comments' on my 'wall.'

Now, if something like this happened to you, would you consider this behavior erratic? Aggressive? Hostile? Dangerous? Threatening? If so, what would you do?

Keep in mind that this is not a commentary on Facebook. After all I had (allegedly, hypothetically) given him my business card so something like this could happen via email or even telephone. The depression and desperation might have taken place in Facebook chats, along with expression of aggression and incoherent ranting clearly not intended to be directed at me, and yet I was the recipient.

Would you report this behavior as suspicious? If so, to whom? If a person like this were to perpetrate an act of violence on a club owner for disrespecting musicians or book store customers buying John Grisham books would you say, “I knew there was something strange about him?” Would people in retrospect say, “This could have been avoided if only someone had reported this disturbed person communicating his hostility towards strangers?”

Where does one draw the line? I wonder if the 'authorities' have been deluged with phone calls from people who have had experiences like the hypothetical one described here and chalked it up to fear originating from the shooting in Arizona. And what would those authorities do? No crime has been committed. No direct threats made. Would this be considered doing one's civic duty or over-reacting to a person with 'a lot on his mind?'

And therein lie the questions. Are these warning signs? How can a person tell? Neither parents nor 'the authorities' commit an adult to a mental health facility unless he/she has exhibited a reasonable indication that he/she is in imminent danger of hurting himself/herself or another person. Nor can they arrest him/her for hostility on Facebook. Realistically, can these senseless acts of violence be prevented?

Leroy Cooper...Drafted during Korean War

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 04:09:00 +0000

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

…Uncle Sam sent me a letter and I got drafted.

I went in the Army. They handed me a machine gun and said, “I’m going to send you down to the heathens. I’m going to send you down to F company where they don’t even give you commands, they give you whistles.” I said to myself, ‘Oh my goodness. I’ve got to audition for this band!’

They would have an all white outfit with a black leader. I went up to an all black band to audition and I tried to get out of playing the baritone. They said “What do you play?” I said ‘Alto.’ They said, “We only need a baritone.” I said, ‘Oh, oh, oh, I play the baritone.’ He said, “Okay, can you read?” I said ‘Yeah’ I saw music they had and it was something I had played every night so for my audition I took this song and said to this guy, ‘Kick it out for me.’ And he said, “Kick it out yourself.” And I kicked it off because I knew the song without the music and I played it and they were shocked.

He said “Okay, just mess around with the horn. I got to go to the office for minute.” I hadn’t played a horn in awhile because I’d been in training so I started messing around with the horn, blowing, and it felt good to me. I was just blowing away and the 55 piece band was sitting on the stage and they applauded. They said “Who was that?”

In Ernie Field’s band when I thought I was just keeping up I was a big deal to these guys. They knew who I was. I was only 21. They said, “We’re gonna get you in the band.”

Meanwhile I went down to my outfit, this machine gun company, and I was getting ready to go to Korea to fight. If you ever witnessed this, it was like a jail sentence. They said, “The following EM have been alerted for FECOM.” That was Greek to me. I said, ‘EM?’ They said, “Yeah, FECOM. Far East Command.” I said, ‘What does that mean, man?’ They said, “You’re going to Korea to fight.” I said ‘Oh Lord.’ They said, “Send all of your civilian clothes home. You won’t need them.” They gave you $10,000 insurance and they asked, “How do want your people to get the money? Ten thousand at once, or break it down?” I said, ‘Wait a minute. You can tell me nicer than that, man.’ I mean, they were sending us off to die. They said, “How do you want your people to be paid?” I said, “Just give it all to them at once, if something happens.” I went to mail my clothes home.

That’s not a good feeling. I was going to Korea, and in the machine gun company. They said, “The biggest man in the squad formation, the biggest man carries the ammo, the ammo bearer. One man carries the ammo, one carries the tripod.” I said, ‘I’m an ammo bearer, man. What do I fight with?’ They said, “You don’t need nothing. You just gonna carry the ammo. They knock you out first anyway.” Oh man, that’s not a good feeling.

Anyway, two days before I was shipping out, I’m in the barracks. Some guys were crying. It was sad, a depressing time. The CO who was the captain said, “Private Cooper?” I said to myself, ‘What have I done this time?’ So I said, ‘Sir, are you looking for me? Cooper?’

“Who is this damn band?” he asked. I said, ‘What do you mean?’ He said, “Who are you?” I said ‘I’m Private Cooper.’ He said, “This band sent a direct order and drafted you away from us. You’re going to that band.” In other words, going to that band is more important than going to Korea to fight? And I said, ‘Pardon the expression, sir, but don’t bullshit me.’ He said, “No. They’re sending a jeep for you as we speak.” Then a jeep pulled up and said, “Are you Private Cooper? We’re looking for Private Cooper. Get your gear; you’re outta here.”

I threw my stuff in the jeep. My buddies waving and I would never see them again. We went up to where the band lived, and we slept on mattresses. And they had two sheets and they were complaining that the sheets weren’t ironed.

On the same post, Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, they had 20 or 40 square miles; four or five bands. It was a city out there. I got up to the band, and, oh boy, at the PX I saw women walking down the streets; I’d been in the jungle down there.

I used to work hard up there and then not in much time, about ten months, I was a Sergeant. I felt so impressive in the band and when the man gave me those stripes, I didn’t want it. I wanted to hang with those fellows. He said, “No, I’m giving you a direct order, I’m making you a Sergeant.”

They gave me an 18 piece band to be in charge of. I was booking one of my jobs. One of my duties was to book Friday night parties for the different outfits on the post. Where did they send me? To the 91st battalion where I came from! This time I had Sergeant stripes, got my own driver and Jeep and I go back down that hill and there was the same Sergeant that kicked me out and told me I would never be nothing, I walked in and said ‘Request command to see me.’

“Oh yes sir, go back in.” I went into the office. “Close the door, son.” He pulled his liquor out and said, “You drink son, don’t you?” We drank and we had this party and all these girls came from St. Louis and talked about the band and after we finished business we talked about anything; telling jokes and everything. Then he said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

In the Army days they called me Boogie Red. I don’t know what that was about but that was my nickname. I said ‘You remember Boogie Red?’ He said, “You used to be down here?” ‘I told you all the time I was a musician,’ I said.

I keep thinking about those Army experiences and I think the angels are watching out for me.

Leroy Cooper, Ernie Fields, Charlie Barnet and Uncle Sam

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 03:47:00 +0000

This is an excerpt from Leroy Cooper's memoir as told to me back in 2007. The material is copyrighted by Susan Cross and cannot be copied, published or duplicated without permission.

After I left school, I went to Waco, Texas with the little band. While we were there we met a big band leader that had a territorial band. There was a guy named Ernie Fields from Tulsa, Oklahoma that had a big band and part of his band had quit him. I’ll tell you who he had in his band: J.J. Johnson, the trombone player that wrote for the movies; Miles Davis was in that band; Gene Ammons; and Yusef Lateef. All of these guys went on to be big names but back then they were young so they left his band.

Someone from Ernie Fields band called down to where we were staying in Waco. They heard there were some musicians staying there, and they wanted this trumpet player to come join them. We were all high and everything, drinking our wine.

I said, ‘Tell ‘em you got the greatest saxophone player in the world sitting here.’ The guy put him on the phone and he said, “You want a job?” And I said, ‘Yeah.’

I was all cocky; I was tough and I was big and he said, “Okay, I’ll send you a train ticket to come to Oklahoma.” There was four of us, they sent us train tickets. All the people in Waco said we were going to be nothing and we said, ‘We’re going to join Ernie Field’s band in Tulsa, Oklahoma.’

So we caught the train, and I got to the band, and they were more professional than I was accustomed to. These guys were warming up and I heard the sounds coming out of their instruments, and I was afraid to toot my little horn. So I was just sitting there. The bandleader could see I was terrified because I was just a teenager so he said, “I’ll tell you what. Just play anything you want to play and tell the piano player what key you want to play it in. The guys didn’t even want to speak to me—that’s how musicians are. So I played Lady Be Good. And they got all friendly and introduced themselves. I thought, Wow I made an impression.

They wanted me to take Yusef Lateef’s place. He was a famous tenor saxophone player. I didn’t play tenor, I played alto. So that night in bed I thought, the baritone is the same pitch as the alto, it’s an E-flat instrument. They had an opening for a baritone player and the baritone player didn’t have to play solos because it was a bit awkward. So I told the band leader at rehearsal to let me try the baritone. He said okay. I didn’t have a baritone so one of the guys lent me one. So I got on the baritone and I wasn’t used to playing those notes and going through all those changes, and finally I told the bandleader, ‘Look, you can just give me bus fare back to Dallas and I’ll try again.’ I was giving up.

Back in those days, the band leader was like the father. He called everybody Hoss.

“I see something in you, Hoss.” he said, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you give Hal McIntyre or Mooney who played with Duke Ellington’s band, (he was playing lead alto) you give him a dollar or two when you can afford it, and get him to teach you our book. So I got a room down the hall from Geezil Minerve, who went on to play with Duke Ellington, and I would worry him every day to teach me something. I was practicing every day. He was strict and he was from Orlando, Florida. He was a West Indian guy. And he would kick things up. I would say, ‘Slow it down,’ and he would say, “HuH Hut hut”, so being under him I improved. I got this new instrument that was a baritone and I got to where I could play. Sometimes he would get his flute and I could keep up with him on the flute, and in fact I was getting pretty good and they told me anytime a band comes through, worry the baritone player to death about the ins and outs about the instrument.

Basie’s band was forming in Oklahoma City and I was living in Tulsa. So when they came to Tulsa I would worry the baritone player to death. His name was [Jack] Washington. I would ask him, ‘Why do you do this, and why do you do that?’ He would say “Leave me alone.” But still we messed around.

Ernie Fields gave us our first trip to New York. The band went to do the show at the Apollo Theatre. Charlie Barnet’s band was playing there. Charlie Barnet’s band had all these big studio musicians. I remember the drummer had all these drums up on the stage. I had never seen that many drums and our little drummer had some little $1.98 drums. He was my buddy so he said, help me put my drums up on the stage. He was ashamed to take his drums up.

That night, Charlie Barnet had a birthday party and said everybody’s invited. So I went up there and I was drinking up the booze. And I was shaking hands and they didn’t know we were little country bumpkins from Oklahoma that didn’t know nothing. I went out on the stage and sang that first night. Our little drummer got a job with Dizzy Gillespie so when they took the program out I said ‘We don’t have nobody to sing.’ Lemon Drop was the song. So I said ‘I’ll sing it.’ I was 19 and I would do anything. This was at the Apollo Theatre where they would throw bricks at you; I went out there and sang my little song, baboom boom boom and blew with them so long that I got ahead.

The bandleader was teaching me stage decorum. I went out there and I turned around and he said “back up, back up.” I was learning how to entertain. The band paid me more money than I ever had in my life. He called me into where everybody got paid, this was in the late ‘40s, and I never had seen $100, and this man counted me out 100 bucks and he kept going. I thought ‘He’s counting out the money for the band.’ And then he got to $125 and he said, “Okay. Spend it wisely.”

I said ‘I get all this money? And you get paid like this every week?’ He said, “Yeah, boy.” And I said, ‘Wheee! I got money in my pocket!’ I spent it wisely. It was January and I was wearing my little Texas raincoat. I said I need a coat, so one of the little guys hanging around said “I’ll show you where you can get a coat cheap, and uh maybe I can get one if you get it cheap enough.” I thought he’s pulling my leg because everybody in New York needed a coat in January. He took me to a dry cleaner and all the unclaimed stuff was on the rack. He said, “Pick you out a coat.” Oh man, I got this nice, warm overcoat and the guy said “Give me 20 bucks.” ‘20 bucks?’ I said. The other guy I was with said “Fifteen.” I paid $15 and had a nice warm coat and the other guy got him a coat for about five. So I spent 20 bucks and both of us had coats.

He said “Now you need some snow boots.” For my little $125 I had a new suit and everything for the first time in my life. I wanted to go to a barber shop and get the works—shoe shine, nails—like I had seen it in the movies, so they fixed me up. I thought, ‘Oh, I could get used to this.’

They did a record while we were over in Jersey and a Broadway producer saw me. I didn’t know the baritone was popular like that and he said, “I think I can use you in a Broadway show.” I’m with this band over here and he was paying over 2, and I was traveling. Too much was happening too fast, but in the midst of all this Uncle Sam sent me a letter and I was drafted.

The French Cognac Kiss

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 04:10:00 +0000

The weather outside is frightful here in Orlando. The gusting wind chill has us down in the 40s or 30s. Tonight we get the light freeze. Tomorrow night, the hard freeze. The fronds on my Addy tree are dying and I'm crying all over again.

Good news? I didn't spend $1000 or more to fly to Orlando from the freezing north before the blizzard hit, pay for a hotel room at Disney, buy the package to get in all the parks and meet the characters in the hopes of getting out of the cold! Maybe to people from your neck of the woods this is warm but for us, losing palm fronds is not a good sign. Disney elves replace their plants EVERY SINGLE NIGHT while Cinderella is asleep in her castle. Not me. I'll wait until spring.

This is the one time of year that Mickey and Goofy aren't sweating out in the sun, if you know what I mean. I don't want to spoil any secrets here for the young 'uns. I'll check the cupboard and see if my Christmas guests left me any cognac. I tried to hide it behind the wine and other bottles yesterday. I kept pushing the vodka with OJ, cranberry or whatever. At the end of the long day, the Stoli bottle was empty and the Smirnoff still unopened so I thought maybe my Cognac was safe.

I crept into the kitchen and took the small snifter from behind the wine glasses where it hides discreetly, I pulled the Courvoisier out from its dark corner and alas, there was barely a quarter inch of the golden brown liquid clinging to the concave rounded bottom of the corked glass bottle. Would it be enough? I feared it would not so I put the snifter back into its hiding place and instead went to the next shelf.

Reaching my short, stubby fingers up high, I stood on my tippy toes and grabbed two small, stemmed liqueur glasses and brought them down to my line of sight. Yes, yes, I would share the last of the nectar with my beloved. I uncorked the bottle and poured. Halfway to the top of the little glass, just slightly longer than my middle finger, I stopped and moved the lip to the second glass. As I watched the darkness dribble into the clear glazed flute I hoped that it would match the amount in its twin. Drip, drip, drip...I turned the bottle 180 degrees so that the opening was facing directly towards the target and one last little drop plopped in. And that was all.

Putting the pair together I saw that one had the equivalent of an extra few sips and I remembered that this is the holiday season. So I put both in the microwave for 5 seconds and with miniature drinks in hand, went in and handed the fuller one to my hubby. We clinked and we drinked--okay so I'm pushing it there--and it tasted good. One sip at a time the warmth trickled down my throat into my tummy and when the glass was empty, once again, I felt like I was back in sunny Florida. My husband smiled as he licked his lips, put his tongue in the glass to get the last taste, and then in my mouth as we kissed to share the French kiss of Cognac.

Time to turn out the lights.

**A special thank you to my good friend Absolutely*Kate Pilarcik for giving me a holiday boost. You can read more about A*K here.

Red Corvair

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 03:03:00 +0000

What's the point? I figured out that the only revolution I had to fight was my own. I decided that sex, drugs and rock n roll were the way for ME to go. I realized I wasn't going to change the world, I could only change myself. And I did. I got the hell out of Dodge and moved to Florida where the sun shone every day and people were nice to me and we were all broke so I didn't stand out in the crowd. We all shared our drugs and our bodies and our food. Nobody went hungry even if all we had to eat was spaghetti. We did have some University of Miami kids in our apartment complex and they were the rich kids, but they used their money to buy ribs, burgers and anything we could make on the grill on weekends. They fed all of us.

And then when we were all stoned one little moment changed everything. Hank was on his way home from waiting tables at 2 AM and decided to take the shortcut through the ghetto. The bars had just closed so all the drunks were out in the streets. He was tired. It was late. He was going slowly but wanted to get home. A woman stepped out in front of the car and he hit her--the crowd started running to his car and he freaked and stepped on the gas and came home.

When he got to our building he saw my light was still on so he came to my door and we visited for awhile. We talked for about an hour about work and school. Then he said he was really tired so he went to his apartment and I went to bed.

My bedroom was on the corner of the building next to an alley where people sometimes parked their cars. I awoke to the sound of sirens and walkie-talkies and when I looked outside I saw the cops surrounding his red Corvair. I watched them cuff him and put him in the black and white and drive away. I started banging on doors and waking people up. Nobody knew anything. One of the rich college kids was the son of a lawyer. He called his dad. His dad called the court and found out what had happened. He wired money down to get Hank out of jail while the accident was investigated.

The woman was dead. She was black. It was 1969. It was the south.

It was a long drawn out process and Allen's father paid for everything--an attorney, fines, whatever. When it was all over, Hank got a ticket for careless driving.

It changed all of our lives. We were mostly northerners and killing a person (black or white) was a horrible thing, even if it was an accident. Down south there were no charges because she was black. Hank changed. I changed. We recognized that there was no justice. He was so sorry. I thought he was going to kill himself. He was just barely managing to pay for school with that job and he could never go back to the restaurant. He dropped out of school, bought an old pickup truck and hit the road. I was devastated. He was a good kid. His life was ruined. He would rather have gone to jail. He killed a woman and they just gave him a ticket.

We took more drugs. But, one thing we learned was that if one of us was in a bind, the rich kids would come through for us. That was always kind of amazing. Allen and Hank weren't roommates. They weren't best friends. We just all lived in this 40 unit apartment building with a pool in the middle. It looked like a converted motel. It was very communal and we all did the dishes and listened to the Who. Everybody helped everybody else. It was a whole new life. I was so used to being shunned, flat-chested, not pretty enough, and having my mother telling me that I ruined her life, and my family hated me because I was a hippie.

I guess I was on Hank’s side. It was an accident but that woman’s life was worth more than the cost of a traffic ticket. I wonder what happened to him after he left town. A little piece of me left with him in that pickup truck.

E-readers give first time authors a better shot at success

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 20:05:00 +0000

As I watch some of my #fridayflash friends finish and e-publish novels I wonder if the public is ready to select a book by a previously unknown, unpublished author to read on the Kindle, Nook, iPad, or other device. My instincts told me that if you were not a marketeer, a novel would not do well unless without name recognition of the author. I have been doing my own unscientific survey to get some feedback.

While on a connecting flight from Charlotte to Houston last month, a passenger across the aisle was engaged in work related matters on his iPad. When I glanced over again, I saw that he had closed the application and appeared to be reading a book. I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me for bothering you. I am just curious to know how you like using an e-reader?" I asked.

He was quick to clarify that his was actually an iPad (ahem! Excuse me!) but that he is in fact reading a book on it and enjoys doing so.

"One of the major benefits for me is that I can adjust the font size and don't have to wear my reading glasses. And, I can download so many books that when I travel I am never without something to read." he said. "I can't imagine going back to reading hard copy books after this."

Okay. That was one man's opinion. A businessman or so I assumed.

Today I was lunching with a client for whom I'll be writing some marketing material to be followed up by an article in a national magazine. She asked me if there were other magazines (besides the one that has accepted my pitch) to whom we could possibly pitch her subject matter. I explained how the publishing industry has changed in the past year or so and that magazines were slowly going out of business as people were turning more and more to their computers for reading material.

"I can't imagine a world without magazines," she said. "I just have to be able to hold one in my hands while I look at the pictures and read the articles." (That's lucky for me since I write magazine articles for a living.)

"So you don't think you would ever own an e-reader?" I asked.

"Oh, I didn't say that," she replied. "I got a Kindle for Mother's Day and I'll never go back to buying books again. I love my Kindle. It's so much more convenient to carry and it holds so many books I don't have to worry about finishing one and being stuck until I can get my hands on another."

Hmm. Must have paper magazines but will never buy books again. Interesting.

"How do you select the books to download? By subject matter? By author? I mean, what makes you choose which books to buy?"

"Sometimes I get recommendations from a friend who belongs to a book club. They read only first time authors. I've found some of the best books ever that way. Also, I can read up to 3 chapters and decide if this is a book I would like or not. In a bookstore, I'll read the jacket but I won't stand there and read a chapter."

I told this woman that some of my friends were e-publishing their books and pricing them under $5 since they have not been published previously. She said, "They are underselling themselves! If their book is good, they should price it accordingly. Obviously people wouldn't pay the same as they would for a best-selling author, but I personally would not choose a book based on the fact that it was under $5."

These are not the only two people I surveyed. I am surprised at how many baby boomers are using e-readers. It is obviously not a generational thing as I thought it might be. The capability to enlarge the font might entice older readers even more than younger ones.

"The one down side," she said, "is that I can't share my books with anyone." I used to lend them to friends or donate them.

Chalk one up for the writers! Think of how many books get passed around to multiple readers after being bought only once. Now everyone will have to buy the book if they want to read it. The question is, will fewer people buy it if they have to actually pay for it?

Answers are yet to be seen. All I know is that one year ago when I announced I was self-publishing my first book, I was told that it would be the death knell of my writing career. No agent or reputable publisher would ever consider my work if I self-published. Now, self-published books have become accepted the same way "indie" CDs are and we're moving past that into a whole new phase.

I'm glad I'm not in the printing business. Two of the magazines I used to write for can no longer afford to pay writers and have gone to on-line e-zines. While the tree-huggers were climbing redwoods to protect our resources, the techies were finding their own methods of doing the same thing. The difference is, the techies made money and the tree huggers, well, they didn't even get hugged back!

Early? Late? Learned? Hereditary?

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 01:20:00 +0000

The bedside clock reads 3:21 AM although the TV display says it’s 3:26. My alarm clock is always five minutes early. I am neurotic about being late. I want—need to be early. The clock in the car is set that way, too. Most of the time I arrive first wherever I go: a business meeting, lunch with a friend or an appointment with a client. My excuse for doing this could be explained—or at least rationalized. I am prepared for traffic, bad weather, accidents slowing down the roads.

Other people arrive a little bit late, occasionally. Nobody questions them or balks at the possibility of a five car pile-up on the Interstate. These things happen. “My alarm didn’t go off,” someone says entering the conference room just as everyone else is being seated. “There must have been a power outage during the night and my clock was flashing when I woke up.” That is perfectly acceptable. But not for me. I usually awake before the alarm to allow myself ample time for my morning rituals.

A few of my friends are chronically late. In the back of my mind, I keep track of which ones they are so I can remember to bring a book if I’m going to meet them. “Were you waiting long?” one might ask. A few minutes isn’t long but I meet one friend for lunch and she is never less than 15 minutes late. If I didn’t suffer from Allegro-phobia, I would adjust my schedule and not arrive 5 minutes before our scheduled time. No matter what, I can’t seem to do that. Even when the restaurant is only a few blocks away.

One would think that a person develops these idiosyncrasies during childhood, that it was learned behavior. My mother was always harping on us, “Hurry up, you’re going to be late.” Those words would resonate in my mind as I hurriedly dressed. And yet, my sister grew up in the same household with the same mother and she made no apologies for being a few minutes late. It was rarely more than a few minutes but still, how could that not bother her, I wondered. Often, she was exactly on time. For years I theorized that she was surreptitiously arriving early and then waiting in her car until the precise moment came to ring the doorbell. A few times I even waited by the window to see if that was the case. It was not. Maybe she was rebelling and I was conforming.

That wasn’t plausible. I rejected other habits growing up, ones that my sister adhered to. For example: I dress for comfort and ease. My mother always coordinated her outfits perfectly, matching her shoes, handbag and jewelry to go with her polyester pantsuit of the day. My sister doesn’t wear polyester pantsuits but she coordinates her clothing so that she is dressed differently but perfectly coordinated every day of the year, or so it seems. I’ve never seen her in the same clothes twice and she doesn’t believe in mix and match. Her second bedroom is filled with clothes. Not just her closet, either. The dresser drawers are full of pocketbooks, costume jewelry, scarves, belts and accessories. I own four pairs of jeans, one nice pair of black slacks, t-shirts from every concert I’ve been to in the last five years, four nice blouses for interviewing subjects of articles and a little black dress for the annual company Christmas party that my husband and I are obligated to attend. Who cares if it’s the same one each year? The ‘LBD’ never goes out of style and as long as it still fits I’m satisfied. Did I fail to mention the two mini-skirts I still wear?

I have not overcome my shoe fetish though. Since the foot surgery, wearing high heels was verboten. Doctor’s orders. I tried but could not totally accept those restrictions. I own a few pairs of flats and sneakers, but recently I found myself unable to resist a pair of exceptionally well hand-crafted, open-toed stilettos made partly from alligator skin accented with smooth black leather. The scalloped edges around the top of my foot were not lost on me when I first spied them in the store. The heels are almost five inches high plus the front sole has a ½” platform that is invisible unless someone takes them off and savors the deliciousness of the craftsmanship as I do. During a lifetime of a limited interest in clothes, I never denied myself a pair of shoes. The black ones were barely wearable and walking in them was an act of bravery that took practice before leaving the house.

Since buying them, I have been drawn back to that same shoe department where I indulged in a pair of patent leather heels, lipstick red with barely visible black streaks underlying the lacquer finish. They are my ruby slippers. I never want to be without a pair in case a tornado sweeps me up and I need a to click my heels in order to find my way home from the Land of Oz.

It is all a matter of priorities, I decided. Early or late or just on time? Carefully put-together outfits or t-shirts and mini-skirts with high heels? We may have inhabited the same womb at different times but my sister and I were too different animals who have little else in common.

Leroy Cooper leaves Ray Charles - the 1st time

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 05:02:00 +0000

During one of our interview sessions, Leroy told me a story about why he left the small Ray Charles band the first time. Leroy remembered clearly how his feelings were hurt. Just as clearly, he remember his friend, Marcus Belgrave, coming to his rescue. Leroy and Marcus had known each other before they were in Ray's band together, but that's another story. This story speaks for itself and the fact that he remembers the kindness of his friend over 50 years later gives some insight into Leroy's humility and love for his friends.

*****

Ray’s band was in Chicago and I went to Dallas on a break. Our next gig was in Chicago at the Regal Theater. I had to pay everything I had in my pocket for cab fare from the bus station to the south side. I didn’t realize that Chicago was that big. It left me with about two or three bucks in my pocket. I went to see the road manager.

Let me have a loan ‘til payday, I said to Jeff Brown, Ray’s first road manager. Payday was the next day. I had just spent every penny I had on a bus from Dallas to Chicago to rejoin the band.

“I’m sorry, Cooper, I don’t have any money,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it! I said to myself, what am I going to do? A country boy in the big city. I went to Woolworth’s and bought me a jack size bag of popcorn; I ate popcorn and I drank ice water to survive.

We were down in the band room in the theater after I’d asked for a loan and he said he didn’t have anything, he came downstairs and told the straw boss in the band, “I don’t like the neckties the guys in the band are wearing.”

There was a little shopping center up there and he said, “Go buy some kind of neckties that I like.” I was looking in another direction and he put his hand in his pocket and came out with a Philadelphia roll. That really made me feel bad. I said, Wow, he didn’t have any money and he brought out a roll like that.

“What kind of ties should I get?” He said, “I don’t care.”

Marcus Belgrave

The trumpet player, Marcus Belgrave [right] saw me and he said, “You don’t have no money do you?” I said no. So he straightened me out until payday. But I said to myself once I get back to Dallas, I won’t worry about leaving home anymore. That was the first time I was out of the band for a year and it was because of Jeff Brown. He used to not treat me too nice when I was first in the band. I was sensitive.

Here was this man, the road manager, having money in his pocket and not letting me have enough to survive. That’s when I said, when I get back to Texas I’ll be staying there, (I didn’t tell them that) and that’s what I did.

Ray was living in Dallas back then. When they got me back to Dallas, I was home. When they got ready to go back out I said I’m not going, man. They traveled by car in those days. I lived out by the airport in Dallas. Ray came out to my house.

“What’s wrong? How come you’re not going?” he asked me after we had returned to Dallas from Chicago. I had decided I would never tell him that I was upset about what happened in Chicago.

Interview with David 'Fathead' Newman

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 19:09:00 +0000

During the many afternoons I spent with Leroy Hog Cooper he talked about so many of his friends. Some of these people were relatively new friends, people he knew during his 20 year stint at Disney World playing in the Dixieland band, the jazz band and at private functions held in the park and hotels on property. Others were people he met after he retired and became more involved in the local jazz, blues and society bands that filled up his calendar and kept his lips on the mouthpiece of his various horns.

However, in the beginning of our time together, Leroy spoke mostly about his old friends. The ones he knew growing up. The ones that he played with in the school band. And the ones he played with in clubs. Probably the most important one of these was a fellow who was a couple of years younger than Leroy that he knew in school. They both played saxophone. And eventually, this friend would be the one that changed Leroy's life forever. His name was David Newman, also known as Fathead.

Here is the transcript of a telephone interview I did with David on April 23, 2007. Unfortunately, at that time I didn't have enough information to ask more relevant questions and my interview was mostly targeted at his relationship with Leroy. David was soft-spoken, warm, friendly and expressed his love for Leroy, just as Leroy had expressed his love for David.

Susan Cross: How long were you with Ray Charles?

David Newman: From September 1954 to 1964; 10 years. Then I went back in 1970 to 1971, so altogether 11 years.

Susan Cross: What was your relationship with Leroy?

David Newman: We were very good friends and colleagues. We go back a long way. Growing up in Dallas, I was a few years behind Leroy in school, being younger than he was. We got to know each other when we both had the same band director at Lincoln High school, Mr. Miller.

Susan Cross: Was that Uncle Dud?

David Newman: Yes. That was his nickname. I lost touch with Leroy when he went to college and then into the Army. When he got out and came back to Dallas, we got back together.

Leroy joined the Ernie Fields big band and was playing the baritone sax by then. He had started on the alto, but he was such a big man he was blowing the buttons off of it, not literally, but figuratively. The baritone was very fitting for him being the big guy that he was.

Susan Cross: How did Leroy join Ray’s band?

David Newman: Ray’s band needed a baritone sax and knowing Leroy, I recommended bringing him into the band. Later on, I also got James Clay to join.

When Leroy joined, it was a small band. It became a big band in 1960.

The movie, Ray, was inaccurate and so unfortunate.

Susan Cross: When did you start playing the sax?

David Newman: When I was about 8 or 9.

Susan Cross: Was it your first instrument?

David Newman: No. My mother had me taking piano lessons for about 2 years and the other kids were calling me a sissy. So I told my mother that I wanted to play a more masculine instrument. She asked me, like what? I said, I don’t know. A horn, maybe, a saxophone. So I started taking lessons on the alto sax which was the second smallest, soprano being the smallest. Mr. Miller gave me lessons.

In our youth, there was a place called the American Woodlands Hall. All the musicians would go there and jam and get to know each other. That went on for years.

Leroy’s dad was a fine musician. I never heard him play, but Buster Smith was my (and Leroy’s) main influence growing up, and he knew Leroy’s dad and said he was a fine musician.

Susan Cross: Who are your favorite sax players today?

David Newman: James Moody, Jimmy Heath, Benny Golson, Eric Alexander, Javon Jackson.

At the end of the conversation, David told me to feel free to call any time if I had more questions. Unfortunately I did not make a second call. David died less than 2 weeks after Leroy in January 2009. Their music lives on. You can learn more about David 'Fathead' Newman click here.

Milan Kundera - The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 01:30:00 +0000

Books will someday disappear and become a memory for old people and a concept that young people will never understand. Imagine showing a 9 year old child Pong, one of the very first video games that challenged and entertained so many of us as adults. They would look at us as if we were mentally challenged and unable to negotiate the intricacies of modern gaming where athletes look like they are in your living room swinging a bat or dunking a basketball.

In the meanwhile, I am happy to be young enough and old enough to enjoy the choice between hard and virtual versions of a book. For now I am still choosing hard, paper, pulp which I can hold in my hands and turn the pages with my fingertips. That may change but here is one reason I like my books on a shelf in the bookcase.

In the process of moving my office from one room to another I packed up all the books. While putting them back on the shelves I found a collection of books by Milan Kundera, most of which I probably read in the 1980s. I picked one, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, and took it into my hands. Randomly I opened to a page and read a paragraph about 2/3 of the way.

"My talk with the taxi driver gave me sudden insight into the nature of a writer's concerns. The reason we write books is that our kids don't give a damn. We turn to an anonymous world because our wife stops up her ears when we talk to her."

I don't recall the plot or characters of this book. Obviously it's time for me to read it again. That's one reason why I like to have my books where I can touch them. The other is that most of the books I buy and keep are so well written that there are sentences and paragraphs that can be read independently, still have meaning, and be relevant all at once.

In this particular case, I've been struggling with the question of why I write and whether my writing is important to anyone but me. Do I have something significant to say in a novel? I don't know. Can I write a sentence or paragraph that has an impact on a stranger like this one did on me tonight? I don't know, but that alone is something worth striving for.

I've often wondered if other writers read the way I do, in small bites--sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph--or if they swallow a book whole and digest it in its entirety. Apparently many nibble at the syllables and words and savor every morsel as documented here and on many other websites and yes, even in paper/pulp hard cover and soft cover books.

Charles Bukowski - Ham on Rye

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 19:24:00 +0000

As I said in a previous post, I made the decision to explore the Bukowski phenomenon. I had trouble choosing from the 11 Bukowski books on the shelf at Borders. Thanks to my own bad judgment and recommendations from nobody, I chose a novel called Women. I was not impressed however I was intrigued. Why were there 11 books on the shelf and fewer books in stock by Updike? Or Bellow? Or other Pulitzer Prize winning authors? So my studies continued.

After my original post I was directed to read Ham on Rye which features the same character as the one in Women, Henry Chinaski, in his earlier years (which helps define his adult life in the second book--which by the way was written first). I like continuity in characters which is one of the reasons I loved the Rabbit series by Updike. So I returned to Borders and bought Ham on Rye. The appeal was immediate and I found myself unable to put it down. This, I thought, is a book that could make a writer great. (Just my opinion, of course.) There were certain parallels to Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye although I haven't read that in so long I may be wrong about that.

Did you know that the 2005 movie, "Factotum" was based on a novel by Charles Bukowski? I did not. On the imdb website Fac-to-tum scored 6.5. Not having seen the movie or read the book, I will not comment further.

I would like to share some of my favorite quotes from the book, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. Since it is written in the first person they were spoken or thought by the lead character, Henry Chinaski.

"My spoon was bent so that if I wanted to eat I had to pick the spoon up with my right hand. If I picked it up with my left hand, the spoon bent away from my mouther. I wanted to pick the spoon up with my left hand."

"I had decided against religion a couple of years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish."

"One of the failures of Democracy is that the common vote guarantees a common leader who then leads us to a common apathetic predicatability!"

"Never trust a man with a perfectly-trimmed mustache."

"Dying in a war never stopped wars from happening."

Keep in mind, these are quotes from the book. This just gives you a peak into Bukowski's character. When I read a book, I always seek out sentences that can stand alone as quotes, out of context. These are the ones that stood out for me. If you disagree with any of the quotes, don't let that stop you from reading the book. These are just five short quotes out of an entire book. I rate the book 5 *****.

Unchosen -- #fridayflash, poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 15:29:00 +0000

Little girl, little girl
hurting so much.
Why does it hurt so bad?
When do I get my shot,
something for the pain?
Please nurse,
Something for the pain.

If I can't have sometihng
then at least give the doctor some pain
so that he knows.
It isn't fair for him to deny me
when he doesn't hurt.
Give him a chance to suffer
if only for a short while.
I have little doubt
that he'll give us each a shot
if he has a taste of this.
He'll not endure what I do.
Sitting there on my bed
looking down with his sad eyes
feeling sorry for someone
lying on under the white sheets below him.
Let him join me and see
if he doesn't hit us both up.

Why am I so lucky
to be given the chance to prove my strength?
I did not ask to be the messiah.
He chose to be the doctor.

Pressed Flower

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 21:03:00 +0000

Pressed Flower

In the beginning I only consumed what was necessary to be just a life-sustaining formula.
And then came breakfast which was forced upon me to start my day, to fill me with energy.
Lunch was almost always just a matter of feeding my id. Dissatisfaction confused me.
But now I'm tired of eating tofu and greenery, pretending I live a clean, healthy existence.
I feel like a spring flower being pressed in a book during mid-winter,
preserving appearance but under such weight!
How long do I have to wait before dessert is served?

*****

While going through some old papers I found some of my poetry in a box. I have decided to publish some of it here, along with some new poems thanks to Anthony Buccino, poet from New Jersey who has inspired me. You can see his poem of the day here. Thanks Anthony for reminded me of something I used to love to do.

Interview with Pat Travers, 03/2008 - Boom Boom--Out Go the Lights

noreply@blogger.com (Susan Cross) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 02:44:00 +0000

It seems that the title of this entry "Boom Boom--Out Go the Lights" caused quite a reaction. I had over 100 hits on this post from all over the world, many of which had a duration time of 0 seconds. Perhaps they were looking for a more juicy news story. I've changed the title of the post, putting the subject matter first and the name of the song second. I didn't mean to alarm anyone or get on any government lists. I should have thought before I started with a title like Boom Boom...Let's try this again.

Pat Travers has toured the world -- performing, writing and composing music that is catalogued on more than 40 albums. Over three decades after his first album was released, Travers is still experimenting with his music but as a Central Florida resident his priorities have changed just a bit.

When I called him to do the interview I asked him if it was a convenient time. He said it was, that he was just in the middle of making a PB and J sandwich for his son who had just come in from school.

Susan Cross: When did you first come to Orlando?

Pat Travers: I came here in 1980. I was living in Miami at the time. We were recording a live show at the Great Southern Music Hall in downtown Orlando. We took a break because they were doing some sound checking and I had a friend drive me around. I was a young man looking to buy a house and I was ready to leave Miami. I moved to Rosemont where I lived for 22 years. I’m in Apopka now. I’ve been all over the world and I think that Central Florida is a great place to live.

Susan Cross: What local activities do you enjoy?

Pat Travers: I tried golf for awhile but I could never break a hundred so I got into martial arts. For the last four years I’ve been doing karate training. I’m a black belt now. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do.

Susan Cross: How does touring affect your family life?

Pat Travers: My wife is fantastic; we’ve been married for almost 17 years and been together for 20. For my kids, it’s what they were brought up on, but I try not to be away for too long.

Susan Cross: Of all the albums you recorded, do you have a favorite?

Pat Travers: I think the Crash and Burn album I did in 1980 came out pretty good. An album I did in Miami called Black Pearl is another one I really like.

Susan Cross: What are you working on now?

Pat Travers: I’m working on a new album. I’ve been getting more and more bluesy in the past several years. I figure that’s more dignified at my age. We were a party band for years but I prefer to do something that will appeal to a broader demographic. The tunes will be more song oriented.

Susan Cross: Do people in the area know your background? Do you get recognized?

Pat Travers: Yeah, sometimes I walk down the street and they say, hey aren’t you…? But I go to the grocery store and I’m just a normal dad.

To get up to date view the website here Pat Travers or look for Pat on Facebook.