Month: April 2016

Sweet Weekend, Part 2

I had so much fun bumming around the Word of [South] festival on Saturday that I couldn’t wait to return on Sunday. Pre-festival I stopped in at one of my favorite eateries, the Crepevine for breakfast and then once at Cascades Park I was immediately handed a free mimosa. Life was good!

Part of me was a little nervous that Sunday wouldn’t be able to compete with Saturday, but that free mimosa totally erased my doubts. I’m uncomplicated that way.

My first stop was to the stage where an act billed as The Sonnet Man was already in progress. http://www.thesonnetmannyc.com  

This young man has set Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies to music, creating “Hip-Hop Shakespeare Fusion.” He was incredibly fun. I loved watching the kids in the audience head bobbing to Sonnet 130. 

Next up on the same stage was musician Jim White, whose debut album, The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted “Wrong-Eyed Jesus” was the inspiration behind the 2003 doucumentary “Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.”

 http://www.jimwhite.net 
I became an instant fan of Jim White who bills himself on his website as “songer/songwriter, author, fine art photographer, crackpot philosopher, folk artist, record producer, film maker, dad.” He’s quirky, immensely talented, and might be a little addictive.

  
Jim’s set made me thirsty. There might’ve been alcohol involved, but I had decisions to make. Did I want to listen to Grant Peeples and Tom Franklin or Chatham County Line? Ultimately I flipped a coin and ended up at Grant Peeple’s gig. 

Pictured below is Grant. He’s the bald guy. I didn’t catch his guitarist’s name. A self-described “’vegetarian that watches NASCAR, and tree-hugger with a gun below the seat,’Grant Peeples is known for his axe-sharp socio-political tunes, raucous humor and heart-gigging ballads.”

Watching the crowd as Grant performed, it occurred to me that many in attendance weren’t quite grasping that his lyrics were hitting close to home. He poked pointed fun at the GOP, racists, homophobes, etc., and they loved him. 

http://grantpeeples.com
  
Trading off with Grant was author Tom Franklin, who read aloud excerpts from his novel, Smonk. https://g.co/kgs/uCw4M

I didn’t get to the book tent in time to purchase his book, but it quickly was added to my wish list on Amazon. He writes the south as he sees it, and he sees it clearly. 

Next on my impromptu itinerary was author Adam Johnson. Adam is an FSU graduate with some serious writing credentials. According to Wikipedia “Adam Johnson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist and short story writer. 

“He won the Pulitzer for his 2012 novel, The Orphan Master’s Son. He is also a professor of English at Stanford University with a focus on creative writing.”

 
Adam read his short story, Nirvana, and had the audience in the palm of his hand. Check out this man’s work. He is amazing. https://g.co/kgs/ZdTev

You’d think I could’ve gone home happy after all I’d experienced, but like a glutton I stayed for one more author, renowned columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr. Having read Mr. Pitts’s column in the Miami Herald for years I could scarcely believe I was sitting just a few feet from him as he read excerpts from his latest novel, Grant Park.  

  
I was in awe, and pray that I didn’t sit there on the front row with my jaw hanging open like a beached fish during his talk. He also offered his keen insights on the current political climate in the U.S. and accepted questions from the audience. 

As soon as the applause died down at the end of the presentation I sprinted to the book sellers’ tent and bought a copy of Grant Park. 

 
Best of all, I made him laugh when he signed my book. Leonard Pitts, Jr. has a great laugh. Here’s the link to his website:

http://www.leonardpittsjr.com
What an awesome day. I cannot wait to dig into the books I purchased, and I’m already looking forward to next year’s festival.

Peace, and happy reading, people.

The Perils of Luckenbach, Texas

This is an old one, but it popped up under “related posts” and I thought I’d share it again.

nananoyz's avatarPraying for Eyebrowz

Many years ago, back when I was expecting our first child, Studly decided he needed to take a major motorcycle trip. Apparently he was feeling the old ball and chain growing ever more cumbersome as my due date neared. So in the eighth month of my pregnancy I went to stay with my Nanny Grace for a week of coddling while Studly and his brother-in-law, Don, took off on their bikes for a tour of the Texas Hill Country.

Don, an avid hunter, wanted to check out the Llano River, famous for its plentiful deer, and both guys were curious about Luckenbach, Texas, the little burg made famous back in the 70’s by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. Their song, lyrics below, made Luckenbach sound like an oasis of good, honest country living.

Studly, on a borrowed Honda CB 750, and Don on his XS 650 Yamaha left the Texas…

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Sweet Weekend, Part I

If days were desserts this past weekend would have been a fresh slice of orange sponge cake, piled high with luscious red strawberries and topped with cream cheese icing. It was that good.

After a ridiculously pleasant night’s sleep Friday night (thank you Tempur-pedic!), a refreshing shower, and a hearty breakfast I dressed and headed into Tallahassee on Saturday for the Word of [South] Festival of Literature and Music.

This marks the festival’s second year. I was in La Antigua de Guatemala last April and missed out. Not that I’m complaining. My week in Antigua was the experience of a lifetime. And from what I hear the festival saw its share of rain in 2015.

There was not even a hint of precipitation this time around, though, as authors, musicians, and artists from all over the country shared their time and talents with those of us in Tallahassee. There was something for everyone, from gospel, folk, soul, rock, and jazz on the musical spectrum and every imaginable genre on the literary side.

Cascades Park hosted the event and one had only to walk from one venue to another within the park to experience a completely new vibe. And did I mention that with the exception of two concerts  the event was free of charge? Sweet!   

I wandered aimlessly for a bit before finding a schedule of events for one of the stages.

  
The Biergarten stage was just one of five venues featuring performers. Seeing Rita Coolidge’s name on the list I hurried over to grab a seat. I had no idea who Leslie Poole and Paul Garfinkel were, but I arrived as their set was in progress and fell in love with their words and message.

  
Ms. Poole, the author of several books about Florida, read from her most recent published work, Saving Florida. I’m not a native Floridian, so learning about the efforts of women on the front lines of environmental activism in the Sunshine State was an eye-opening experience. 

Mr. Garfinkel’s engaging folk songs woven around Florida’s delicate ecosystem bestowed even greater weight to Ms. Poole’s vignettes as the two traded places in the spotlight. Their performance was a lively, thought-provoking give and take.

Leslie Poole, left, Paul Garfinkel and his accompanist.

Then the beautiful Rita Coolidge took the stage.

   

Rita, a graduate of Florida State University, read from her memoir Delta Lady, and entertained the crowd with tales of her bohemian days as an art major here. 

Rita, like all of the artists and authors, signed books after her presentation.

 

My friend Julie and her lovely mom enjoyed Rita’s talk with me. We hadn’t arranged to meet at the event; it just happened. Sweet, right?

After Rita’s presentation I had lunch at the Edison and ran into yet another friend, Cathy, who made room for me next to her place at the bar. We then hustled over to another of the stages to hear Diane Roberts read excerpts from her book, Tribal: College Football and the Secret Heart of America.

  

Having grown up in Texas, I could completely relate to Diane’s college football obsession. This woman, a professor at FSU, is hysterically funny. If you have any love for the game you need this book. Even if you despise the game you need this book. 

I knew Studly would be getting restless, so I headed home shortly after having Ms. Roberts sign my newly purchased copy of her book. When I got home he was chomping at the bit to take the Goldwing out for an evening drive, so we suited up (“all the gear, all the time” is our motto) and rode over to Havana for a meal at a local Italian restaurant, providing the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Tomorrow I’ll share photos of Sunday at the festival. I’m still on an intellectual and emotional high after my experiences. 

Peace, people!

New Addition to the Family

We’ve been blessed by the arrival of a new family member–a beautiful 2010 Honda Goldwing:

  

The red bike in the background is my Yamaha Majesty. For the past couple of years it has led a sad life, sitting for months on end without any meaningful trips outside of our garage. Oh, Studly starts it up periodically and takes it for spins around the neighborhood, but the poor dear was languishing for lack of attention.

It’s not that I don’t still adore the bike. She’s taken me on some epic journeys, including a solo trip from Illinois to Texas and back the year I turned 50. But ten years later I’ve noticed that my reflexes aren’t as sharp as they once were, and while I’ve never been a fearless rider, I now find myself a jumpy one. That’s not a good characteristic for a motorcyclist to have.

It seems we’ve come full circle, having had a Goldwing many years ago and selling it when I declared I wanted to be in the driver’s seat on my own ride. It really is all about me. 

Studly is going to sell one of his bikes, and I’m going to sell my Majesty. We’ll still have a small stable of dirt bikes and his beloved Ole ’93.

 

Ole ’93 is Studly’s project bike. He’d part with me before he’d part with it.
  
A couple of our dirt bikes.
  
Studly’s VStrom will also be going to a new home.
 
I’m typing this while drinking a beer and watching Studly check over and polish the Goldwing.  

 I can hardly wait for our first adventure.

Peace, people.

12 Held as Whitechapel Street Brawl Descends into Trump Rally

Brilliant satire.

The Whitechapel Whelk's avatarThe Whitechapel Whelk

trump with spade meme Mr Trump pictured last year tending his allotment in Shoreditch

Police were forced to draw batons and wade into a Friday night punch-up in Whitechapel Road last night as the melee descended into a full-scale Donald Trump political rally.

12 arrests were made, mostly for insulting behaviour and affray, and a number of “Trump Ain’t No Chump”” banners confiscated.

Chief Inspector Toby Dell from The Whitechapel Constabulary, told The Whelk: “We normally turn a blind eye to these weekend tear-ups among the local yobbos, but when a member of the public informed us that some of the mob were carrying pro-Trump banners and were wearing blue dungarees, we decided to move in and break things up. Otherwise, it would only have been a matter of time before a black woman was punched in the face and dragged along the ground by the ankles or something along those lines.

When told…

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Cooking for Studly: Lighten Up

For any of my readers who’ve wondered, I’m still cooking meals for Studly Doright. There were many years during our marriage when my culinary efforts were sporadic at best and non-existent, at worst. The truth is, I’m not very good in the kitchen. 

But Studly and I made a deal wherein I could retire from working in exchange for becoming his scullery maid, er, cook. For the most part, I’m enjoying my end of the bargain, and occasionally I even make a great meal.

Now a new issue has arisen in my cooking experiment–Studly and I are trying to be more health conscious. My first suggestion was a diet of all salads. That got vetoed pretty quickly, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. So I’m to figure out how to make things he likes in a healthier manner.

One of his favorite entrees is a dish I’ve made successfully since discovering it in a Beta Sigma Phi cookbook published in 1981. 

  
You can tell the book has seen its share of use, and I’d like to say I’ve tried every single recipe in it, but that would be a lie. 

Golden Beef Quiche is the only recipe I’ve succesfully produced from the cookbook, and I’d sincerely like to thank Ms. Judith Essenpreis of Centralia, Illinois, for submitting it to the cookbook committee back in the day. 
Studly loves this dish, even though he’s a real man and supposedly real men don’t eat quiche. It is one of the few dishes that he will eat as leftovers. I love it because it’s foolproof, and in the kitchen I am something of a fool.

Now that he’s decided to eat healthier I’ve been using extra lean ground beef, but I would also like to replace the cheddar cheese soup with something less processed. I simply do not know how to do that. If anyone reading this could give me a suggestion that would be lovely.

A New, Old Language

We shared smiles and stilted conversation in a darkened smoke-filled room. Blues 

licks melted around a makeshift stage like butter on hotcakes. The smell of burgers 

cooking on an old Coleman grill raised a growl from my stomach while my mind 

wandered in rhythm to the music. When my friend spoke again I strained to listen 

over a low down lyric, “somebody done his woman wrong and someone made him pay.”

I asked my companion to repeat himself; as he talked I noted something new:

He spoke without contractions. Instead of “I’m glad you’re here,” it was “I am” and

 
“you are.” There was no “we’ve,” but “we have.” And I thought, who is this man? 

What has shaped him to speak in this oddly stilted, yet unaffected way? Without 

intending to, I found myself adopting his speech pattern. Would he notice and be 

offended? Oh hell, would he think I was flirting? Adroitly I threw “isn’t” and

“aren’t,” “didn’t,” and “won’t” into the mix narrowly avoiding an awkward 

situation. I can’t make this stuff up, y’all.

  

When Mercy was Murdered

The day they murdered Mercy we all stood still around
Hands inside our pockets; eyes firmly on the ground
Unwilling to witness the death of our dear friend,
Yet complicit were we in assuring her end.

Fierce sun beat down, unabridged, unabated
Sweat’s stench laced with fear filled the street, permeated
No respite in shade on summer’s cloudless day
Mercy lost a step, slumped into a sway.

Sharpened spears in their grasps, old men prodded apace
Laughing and pawing as she fell upon her face
Roughened hands yanked bleeding Mercy sharply to her feet
Spun her in a circle, stomping to a beat.

The scene looked so familiar as we’d lost Hope two days past,
And Mercy’s fate was sealed when she stood up at the last
Calling foul upon accusers, judge, and jury, in the wrong
But the damage was done and Hope was dead before that day was done.

Now most pray that Mercy’s end will come without a hitch
That we can mourn in silence; no one will raise a fist
Surely if we remain inert the murderers will soon tire
Of dragging innocents to their deaths upon a raging pyre.

The grisly deed is drawing near, the wood begins to smolder
Perhaps we ought to save her, perhaps we should be bolder.
But we bargained for this merciless life when we let Charity die
Upon the bloody campaign trail stoked by wicked lies.

Apalachicola Art Walk

Saturday morning I had no idea I’d be sipping a beer at noon at a corner cafe in the small port town of Apalachicola. Having had the most luxurious night of sleep I’ve experienced in years, I lingered in bed feeling as if I’d been kissed by an angel. 

Of course, it was probably only Studly Doright who’d pecked me on the brow on his way to the golf course. I guess his grey hair was halo-like in the semidarkness, but you never know.

Before showering I looked on Facebook and read a post about an art walk in Apalachicola. Knowing that Studly would be tied up with his favorite hobby well into the afternoon I made haste with my shower and got on the road.

I’ve written about Apalachicola before. The quaint fishing village on Florida’s forgotten coast is known for oysters and sponges and apparently, art. 

I snapped a few photos as I walked about town:

  
    
    
    
    
   
I even purchased a photograph (below) by and directly from photojournalist Richard Bickel whose work has appeared in National Geographic Traveler, Conde Naste Traveler, Newsweek, and other publications of note. It makes me happy.

  
After a lunch of salmon and grapefruit salad (oddly wonderful) at Tamara’s Cafe, I drove across the bridge to Eastpoint and then crossed another bridge for my first taste of the beach this year on Saint George Island.

   
    
  
   
Studly Doright doesn’t understand my attraction to the ocean. I tell him I have a compulsion to be in the presence of sand and waves and water, but the only sand and water he acknowledges are on the golf courses he plays, and he does his best to avoid landing in either.

So I sent him this photo, and told him sand was a good thing. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t impressed.

  

I’m already planning my next beach day. 

Peace, people.