nyc dispatch 1.19.08
man is life just occasionally random yet synchronistic. check this out. i play bass in a yoga video for kids that just came out (www.barikoral.com) called sundance. and the dred scott trio appears backing linda fiorentino during a dream sequence in a film called once more with feeling that's screening four times this week at the (get this) sundance film festival. trippy, right?
i wrote a dispatch about the shoot awhile back. i have not seen the film but the video looks great. i'm like a telatubby with a bass in it.

one thing about miracles. dred scott flies plane into hudson. everybody lives. miracle.
dude with pilot's license at age 14, air force training and subsequent service and 30 years of airline experience flies plane into hudson. everybody lives. not a miracle.
i consulted with my family born agains and they agree. definitely god's work. he was watching down on them. our prayers were with them and so on. but no miracle.
that's been bugging me.

nyc dispatch 1.12.09
'young man do you have a chair?'
'what? i don't know.' the guy worked in the deli what did he know about a chair.
'well you better go and find one or you're going to be picking me up off the floor!'
my mother was collapsing in the publix and very quickly the manager was on the case taking care of her and summoning the emt's.
'i'm 87, you know.' she told the people gathered around her.
'well i'm not letting you go home alone. at your age you could have a heart attack.'
my mother would later tell me she thought the grocery store manager was very nice and seemed to have some training in basic emergency medical procedures.
'oh i hate be a bother.'
'it's no bother at all ma'am. it's our job.'
the emt's were also very nice and got her comfortably to the hospital.

my oldest sister took charge when my dad needed to transition into some kind of assisted living. and she was there for him till the day
he died. but she and my mom do not get along. even though the cause of her weakness was a perforated stitch from the whipple procedure she had 8 years ago ulcerating causing significant enough bloodloss to induce fainting, my sister would insist it was because my mother
wasn't eating enough (she is down to 92 lbs) and that she brought this on herself. not very sympathetic. my mother has been known to view aids as what happens when you engage in immoral acts of sex. they get what they deserve. also not very sympathetic. i think it is their sameness in this way that creates friction.
point of the story.
i am back in florida. bane of my existence. the place i have come to hate. the appendix of america. the place of cancer and death. if it wasn't for the warm weather i'd hate it as much as, i don't know, gary, indiana. or eire, pennsylvania. or buffalo. or texas.
i'll be down here trying to fatten up my mom for the rest of the week. so i'm going to miss tonite's gig at the rockwood. but i encourage you to go and hear bill. he is just fucking amazing.

nyc dispatch 1.1.08
i will remember this past year as the worst but possibly also the best year of my life. the trio played the newport jazz festival. we went to cannes and played. i went to italy and played. the trio was on t.v. all firsts for me. but my dad died this year and my beautiful and amazing wife was stricken with breast cancer.
she's going to be ok, thank satan.
after going the longest stretch of my life without drinking in '07
(five months), '08 was a series of starts and stops. not drinking. then drinking. then not drinking.
it has been a most challenging undertaking. but in the end i'm drinking a whole lot less which is a good thing. g.k. chesterton once commented on americans,
'oh, those are the people who are so concerned with how much they drink.'
i wonder what he meant by that.
the worst financial crisis of our times. and the first black president.
it just seems like push and pull is in the air. a time of extremes.
all in all, though, it has not been dull. so far, '09 is already looking like a great year for the trio. in february, live at the rockwood
is coming out on ropeadope and we are going to be up and down the
eastern seaboard and on the west coast to promote it. we are going back to europe as well in may. and we got asked to play the freihofer jazz fest in saratoga. so i'm pretty psyched all in all. i've decided i'm going to try and practice every day (thanks, bill), exercise every
day and what do you know, try not to drink. those are the new year's
resolutions. wish me luck.

nyc dispatch 1.6.09
doldrums. blase. ho-hummery.
don't know whether to nap or go to the pool.
watch t.v. in a mindless stupor or practice.
must......do.........something.
i make some tea and sit down to write the
folderol. nothing comes. i clean the kitchen,
vacuum the living room and look through the
garbage to see if the pack of cigarettes i ran
under the tap and threw in there two days ago
is dry and smokeable.
nope.
i've had a couple of hits of weed already today and
that's just not appealing to me right now either.
what to do.
what to do.
my nephew is making jambalaya so i can go up there.
hmmm.
i go outside and skip rope for a few minutes and am
briefly invigorated. yeah, that's what i'll do.
practice. and try to write a new tune. more like finish
a new tune. i've got quite a pile of ideas in various states
of incompletion. going to get right to that. yes i am.
i turn on the computer and cruise some internet porn.
must stop wasting time.
i turn on the t.v. and pick up the guitar. this is like
practicing i tell myself. so i play scales and arpeggios
making myself feel productive while i watch another
episode of criminal intent. goran does his dances and
gesticulations to my harmonic minor scales. it occasionally
matches up perfectly. i wonder how eric bogosian got that
gig. it is at this point that i would want a little cocktail to liven
things up a bit. is this how people who don't drink go through life?
up and down. with mood swings, times of contemplation and
melancholy? got to stay busy. idle hands, the devil's playthings.
so going downstairs to the piano and come up with something
special for tonite's gig.
or not.

nyc dispatch 11.1.08
his name is roberto. that roberto. the guy from last week.
turns out he is a great drummer. and an excellent cook.
so far we have only had a very simple and perfect carbonara.
there's a lot to do in new york and he has been busy.
it's nice to have a roman around. roberto is very upbeat
and pleasant. his manners are impeccable
and he whistles the nicest tunes when he is showering.
he wears nice clothes and always looks his best.
maybe some of you met him last week. he came down
to the rockwood with some italian friends (there are a lot
of italian musicians in new york - i didn't realize) and they
all took over the stage and played some tunes. it was
great. our band won, of course. but they were all so gracious
in defeat. just like italians.
i wish i were italian. or something. i am proud to be an american, though.
not in that imperialistic, gun-toting, truck driving, gay-hating christian way.
but in that our-president-listens-to-coltrane kind of way.
in that bbq kind of way. in that alice waters kind of way.
umm. help me out here. potato salad? hot dogs? hamburgers.
we're only a couple of hundred years old. our culture will emerge
from the wreckage of capitalism.

nyc dispatch 10.28.08
it's that time of year again. the only holy day of the year.
devil time. satan's holiday. all soul's day.
the night when the soul's of the dead return to earth.
whatever you want to call it, it's the most fun holiday.
now tonight is not exactly halloween.
or the day before halloween.
or even the day before the day before halloween.
but i can't change that so rather than have our halloween
show after halloween when everyone's tired of the whole
death thing, we're going to do what the catholics do and
have kind of a mini ramp up to the holiday. kind of like
advent or lent but just a couple of days. so tonight is
the first day of hellvent. that season that begins the time
leading up to halloween. and tomorrow would then be the
second day of hellvent and so on right up until friday.
i have to come up with some sort of candle lighting thing
to go along with the days. and maybe some ritual reverse
fasting and some sex stuff. i'll talk to some wiccans and get
back to you.
meantime, we will be celebrating the first day of hellvent tonite
with special guests, giveaways and i will be in costume at least.

rome dispatch 10.26.08
hemingway
i was to travel to italy for two days and was looking for an appropriate book to read and on my way to barnard college from the 96th st express stop – sometimes i like to walk instead of taking the local the extra 20 blocks – when i happened upon an old edition of a moveable feast and thought,
‘well, i’m not going to paris, but...’
turning it over and reading, ‘...candor that amazed the literary world...’
i had not read this very famous book and it was only $2, so i picked it up. and like the other book of his i had read (the spanish civil war one), i found the prose clunky and forced and the dialogue not the way people actually talk to one another. unless, that is, people in the twenties talked to each other in long, run-on sentences. i don’t think so. d.h. lawrence didn’t write like that. but i appreciated his efforts to recount the mundane and ordinary in a somewhat romanticized way. that’s what i try to do in my dispatches. i just prefer the way bukowski did it. or hamsun. except i liked him a whole lot less when i found out he was a big nazi sympathizer. so i will relate my brief (48 hours) visit to the great city of rome with the great specter of tatie hanging over me. i should warn you in advance, however, i did not go to the track or fish or watch men fish or make love every day or hob-nob with famous literary figures. but i did eat.

‘do you have your ticket?’
‘uh, yeah.’
‘what about your i.d., your phone charger, your laptop, your laptop charger. i’m just saying is all because if we have to come back for something i got to charge you extra. you wouldn’t believe what people forget on their way to the airport.’
‘uh, yeah. i think i’m good to go. thanks.’
‘just making sure is all. you know. you locked your door? turned off the stove?’
‘dude, you’re making me nervous.’
‘oh, sorry. i get that sometimes. we’re going to newark, right?’
‘yes, please.’
and we go along in silence. except for the faint sound of opera i can now here coming out of the speakers behind me. (note: i think here hemingway would insert some detail about which opera it was or who was singing it – i won’t front. opera is not something i know a great deal about.)
a truck cuts in front of us. on the back of it in big letters, U.S.A IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT GET THE F*** OUT! and it makes me laugh out loud.
‘did that say what i think it said?’ he says.
‘yeah,’ i say, ‘pretty ignorant, huh?’
‘what the fuck?! those people come to this country and get health services and then complain about it? this is the best place to live on earth!’
‘yes, but our job as citizens is to make sure our leaders are representing us. questioning authority is an important part of a good democracy. besides everyone comes from somewhere.’
‘yeah? well where they come from you get your hand chopped off for stealing a piece of fruit. i been in two wars. been shot, stabbed and blown up. i fought for their freedom and all they can do is complain. you know, people are dying to get into this country. mexicans in trucks and shipping containers, doing whatever they can to get here and they just sponge off the system bleeding us dry.’
now he has adjusted his rearview mirror so he’s looking directly at me. there’s nothing i can really say so i just look out the window trying to avoid eye contact as he mutters and i catch about every fifth word,
‘...fucking....go back......native americans.....
blood suckers...’
i know. ‘native americans.’ not sure what that was all about. but he is getting pretty worked up and we are now weaving in and out of the traffic on 3rd ave under the bqe. i’m getting a little nervous again so i say,
‘hey man. can we change the subject?’
nothing. then,
‘yeah.......sure.’
so we roll along in awkward silence and as we cross the verrazano bridge i think he might stop at the top and throw me off so i say,
‘so, do you like classical music?’
‘yeah! it’s the best for road rage.’
‘for sure. i want to kill everyone when i’m driving.’ (note: probably not what i said exactly. hemingway was friends with a mercenary soldier guy in feast. i’m just acting macho for the story. there will be those who have driven with me, however, who will dispute this and insist i do indeed want to kill everyone when i am driving.)
‘yeah, me too,’ he laughs. ‘you know after 1am they play the top-notch stuff.’
and we make it over the bridge so i stop talking.
we continue in still more awkward silence until we come to the other side of the goethal’s bridge where there is a fat racoon lumbering full speed against traffic up the side of the span we have just descended.
‘wow,’ i say.
‘yeah,’ he says. ‘must’ve took a wrong turn.’
‘man. one time there was a racoon in the tree next to my house trying to jump on the fire escape and get into an open window. right there on 17th st.’
‘oh yeah. they’ll just come right in the tent and go straight into your duffel bag.’
‘i know. i’ve camped some in california and you have to tie your food up in the trees or the bears will just come right in. people get killed.’
he chuckles at the thought of this and i imagine this guy rolling around with a bear in his tent. gutting it with a big knife, eating it and wearing the fur.
we arrive at the airport. i leave him a good tip and say,
‘hey, i’m sorry if i seemed rude. i didn’t mean to-‘
‘what? never. no way. it’s cool.’
‘thanks for your service. i’m sorry it had to come to that.’
‘hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.’

i was so looking forward to hanging out in the international terminal. free wi-fi. probably some good food. overpriced, but good. alitalia is now being run by delta and delta sucks, so naturally there was no wi-fi and no edible food items. fortunately, i ran into three jazzmen on their way to a gig off the coast of portugal and that more than passed the time. one of them i had played with but the other two i knew only be name. (note: h. hung out with gertrude stein and scott fitzgerald in feast so here i should mention that it was marty ehrlich and pheeroan akleff and james zoeller.) we talked mostly about politics. specifically, whether or not bloomberg should be allowed to run for a third term.

the plane was an old 767 that groaned, rattled and creaked during take off. i was sure we weren’t going fast enough to get airborne, but we took off without incident. i was the only one seated in the exit row and after a totally forgettable meal (i honestly can’t remember what it was), i popped an ambien and settled down in the window seat. as i drifted off i could hear the wind whistling through the exit door i was leaned up against and i couldn’t stop imagining it flying off and sucking me out with it. so i moved over to the aisle, double checked my seat belt and crashed.

my driver, santo, was a young man, sharply dressed and handsome. i sat in the front seat with him and we chatted easily all the way into town – a long trip made longer by the bad traffic. it was weird to think of santo as a roman. but that is what he is. born and raised in rome.
rome does not reveal itself a little at a time like other cities where you sense the suburbs and the increasing density. we turned and suddenly the colleseo loomed large and breathtaking, the road we were on circling it almost completely. we were in rome and it seemed to come from out of nowhere. and i felt that thing about traveling that forces you to confront your smallness. your place in the cosmos which is nowhere and the significance of your existence which will likely be nothing. what you make of the moment you are here is totally you own.

we traverse the piazza venezia and head up the via del corso off of which is my hotel on the piazza san silvestro. (note: that sounds exotic. i can see why hemingway named every street and cafe he passed.)
i was hungry. so after i settled into my room i took a walk. within half a block i came across a fruit stand. it was only 11am and fruit sounded great right then so i got a cup of pineapple that was so great i got a cup of mango right after. i crossed the piazza and went into a cafe and got an espresso that came with four silver dollar size pizzas that were very tasty. there were three policemen standing next to me laughing and eating sandwiches with no crust. cops always make me nervous so i went around the corner and found a small cafeteria-style restaurant that was just opening. i hadn’t picked up a phrase book and had no time to practice my italian (of which i knew zero) so i was glad i could point. peas with pancetta and a steamed piece of salmon. i sat alone in an empty room in the back. it was delicious. i left the restaurant and walked around. picked up some presents. found my way back to the hotel and took a nap.

i was supposed to be at the museo borghese at 4pm but my wake up call never happened and the cell santo had given me from the people i was working for rang at 4:45.
‘dred, where are you?’
‘in my room. what time is it?’
‘almost 5.’
‘shit! my wake up call didn’t happen. sorry.’
‘it’s ok. we’re running behind. just get here when you can.’
so i dressed quickly and found a cab up to the gig.

by then i was hungry again and was wondering what the food might be at the event even though i would not likely have time to eat any of it. soundcheck and rehearsal went smoothly. the piano was in fine shape so i practiced a bit and before i knew it, i was at the cocktail party having a campari drink that tasted like fruit juice and enjoying hors d’oevres that were molto bene. dinner was served during which i did my usual mix of jazz, classical and rock tunes plus all the italian songs i knew: santa lucia, a clemente sonatina, the theme from the godfather, the tarantella and bella ciao. this last tune is an italian anti-fascist song of the resistance during the second world war. yes, there was a resistance in italy. apparently, the mayor of rome was to come to this aids research fund-raiser but was a no show. well two newspapers printed in headlines that the playing of this song was a snub aimed back at the mayor for not coming. i don’t know why he should be offended (if he even was – my italian friends tell me the papers are full of shit mostly, anyway. sounds familiar.). the mayor may be a conservative but i doubt he is pro-fascist. although that is the party of berlusconi and one could make a very good argument his style of governing is a neo-corporate-proto-fascist dictatorship. coincidentally, thousands of people took to the streets the next day to protest his policies (education cuts among them) so it was a politically charged environment already. i only hope the work amfar is doing there will not be effected.

so the after party. loud. i made friends with a talented (and hilarious) actor who had bit of weed. so i got some rolling papers from one of the bartenders and we got high in the garden next to some very old and naked statues. we hung around for a bit but i started feeling tired and a little drunk. i didn’t know campari was alcohol. it’s red for fuck’s sake. so i said my goodbyes and tried to walk back to the hotel. i got very lost and having all the bread i got paid for the gig in my pocket decided to grab a taxi. rome hardly seems like the kind of place where you could get mugged, but you never know. it was late and there were no people on the streets.

i slept late. dressed and went straight to my fruit stand. back across the piazza for an espresso (no little pizzas this time) then went down along the via tritone to find the gagosian gallery a friend had told me i must go and see.
it was a beautiful round high space with just five paintings in it. very large paintings, all of a colorful figure with an oversized (by that i mean exaggerated) erect prick. something about the artist’s ‘meditations on war, time, presence, failure and possibility.’
it turns out the gallery was near the spanish steps so i walked up there and on the way ducked into a cafe for a limoncello and a sandwich of ham and cheese. that’s all it was – on white bread with the crust cut off – but it was amazing. down the steps and along this street where every store was a famous designer and i noticed there were no cars. it was saturday and most of the area where i was staying is closed to auto traffic. cool. and the romans were out. and dressed well. and walking slowly. i passed a basquiat show but didn’t go in. it was very crowded and i had just seen his stuff in the brooklyn art museum near my house. come to think of it, take a basquiat figure. add a bunch of color. a big dick sticking way out. and you’ve got that other guy. baselitz. i did check out his other stuff when i got back to my room and he is an awesome painter.

after a nap, i headed out to meet the people from amfar for dinner at st. ana’s – a little, overstuffed, basement restaurant off the piazza del populo down by the river. the appetizer course was served family style – mortadella, tuna, shrimp, proscuitto, cheeses and everyone got a charred artichoke. during this course we were all treated to the story about the reappearance of a pesky fistula on duncan’s ass and how glad he was to be in italy where there would likely be a bidet in his room. i then told of my fascination with the automated japanese ass-washer toilets and the women at the table considered how it was possible that all japanese women were not chronically yeast infected. the water must not come from the toilet bowl itself but from another separate line we all concluded. everyone was raving about the cacio e pepe so that is what i had and it was sublime. hard to believe it’s only three ingredients. during the pasta course there were more tales of mirth and hilarity. like the one alex told of getting shoved back into a rapidly rotating revolving door by fernanda and nearly being decapitated. good times.

after dinner we went across the street to the hotel locana and i almost got lured into accompanying the contest fernanda and duncan were having trying to remember every song from mame. but the piano was so wrecked all i could really do was play a boogie. i don’t know any songs from mame anyway. more good times. i left my new friends to meet a pianist friend of mine who had just moved to rome from milano. we were to meet at the fontana de trevi at 1am.
roberto showed up at the very surreal scene of the fontana de trevi with his girlfriend and another friend named roberto. they took me to a very nice jazz club called gregory’s. the band had finished but we sat in nice chairs and had some beer. talking and smoking.
‘it sounds good in here, but the piano is not so good,’ roberto says.
‘that’s too bad,’ i say.
both roberto’s were coming to new york in a couple of weeks and i discover the other roberto – he is a drummer – needs a place to stay for a week so i offer my basement studio and tell him he can stay as long as he needs.
‘i can give you some money, dred,’ he says.
‘we’ll work something out. can you cook?’
and the two roberto’s exchange knowing looks and roberto’s girlfriend is looking down shaking her head from side to side. like i have opened some big can of worms.
‘what?’ i say.
smiling humbly, roberto the drummer says,
‘dred, i am a very good cook.’
and everyone laughs.

i woke up like a shot. i had been hardly dozing since it got light. in that restless zone of knowing the call is coming but not fully trusting it to come. i must’ve actually slept for a second because i was suddenly wide awake - sure it was noon and my flight was long gone. i threw on some pants and a shirt and padded down to the lobby in my bare feet. it was 8:15 and santo was standing there next to the front desk.
‘sorry. i didn’t get my wake up call,’ glaring at the clerk who appeared not to give a shit.
‘no problem. we have plenty of time. i’ll wait outside.’
‘thanks.’

‘let me just go down to this fruit stand real quick,’ i say to santo.
‘sure. no problem.’
‘do you want something?’
‘no. thank you.’
santo and i drive out of town. he wants to come to new york sometime so i give him my email and tell him to let me know. he drives fast and we get to the airport in under half an hour. again i can’t believe how rural and normal everything seems on the way. like rome was some fantasy land – romeworld. i say goodbye to santo. i have a lot of time to kill so i find a cafeteria next to the gate and get a salad of tomato, fresh (and i mean fresh) mozzarella, radicchio, frisee and kidney bean with a tiny bottle of valpolicella. i find a seat facing the windows and start writing. the planes land and take-off in the near distance. thick groves of trees line the air field. and the clouds roll on by.

new york dispatch 10.15.08
newport
last weekend was kind of a blur. me and mc extra cheese drove up from nyc friday nite because our set was at 11am saturday morning. i remember hitting the pillow about midnight and waking what seemed like ten minutes later at 6am. time to pick up tony at the train station. he had a gig the night before in philly and took the midnight train up to kingston where at 7am i found him sleeping under an oak tree. breakfast in the too quaint town of newport was had and we pulled into the venue at about 9am. we dropped off our merch and hung around the stage waiting and trying not to sit down. shark mode, i call it. if you stop moving you die. or in our case, fall asleep. so we hit the stage at about 11:10 to a good size audience. half of which disappeared at about 11:30 to go see dave holland. at the time i thought it was because we had just played a rousing version of 'mojo rhythm' and had turned some people off. thanks to ben's small army of family members, it still sounded like a whole crowd from the stage. i think i can say with relative confidence that we made newport jazz history by combining free jazz, suit jazz, blue oyster cult and rapping into a 50 minute set. i had programmed a standard but that got cut in a game time decision. after, we did some interviews (watch for a travel channel documentary on the festival) got some food and hung out in the press tent. and oh my god, saw wayne. he was just amazing. i mean other worldly. also saw brian blade's band. awesome. and ethan iverson with charlie haden and bill frisell. also awesome. we also saw a virtuosic ukelele dude from hawaii. tony thought he was ready to graduate to guitar. smoked some weed with some fat hippie chicks i think had been there since last weeks folk festival. at least that was the last time i think they had been indoors. didn't get to meet chris botti. a disappointment, for sure. we recorded the set so we might get a live at newport album out of it. and they asked us back for next year. sweet.

jacksonville 8.08.08
i'm sitting in 4d. an aisle seat. i like to sit in the front of the aircraft and on the aisle so i can get up anytime i want. i am always one of the last people to board and today as i turn the corner to go up the aisle there is a two year old boy smearing his germs all over my seat. wiping his mouth and playing with my channel changer, waving a crumbling cookie in his hand that is being ground into still smaller crumbs as he jumps up and down. his mother sees me and scoops him up onto her lap . she is about 20 and wears a burka. next to her in the window seat a four year old girl sleeps face down on the metallic arm rest.
the boy fusses. he shouts. and then after his mother smacks him one, he wails.
'stop it!' she screams at him. 'i'm so sorry, sir,' to me.
'smacking him just makes it worse. he's just a little boy. give him a break.'
'why don't you mind your own business,' she snaps.
'i'm just saying, is all.'

i just get settled in my seat when the boy pukes all over the seat in front of him and onto the floor near my bag which is under the seat in front of me. not chunks, fortunately. i'm guessing too much juice. i grab my bag and stand up in the aisle.
'i am so sorry, sir.' she says again.
'it's ok. just a little puke. the sky waiters will help you.' i say loud enough for them to hear. i say this because they have been giving this poor young girl annoyed glances ever since the boy started crying which is the second she took him out of my seat. they reluctantly bring her juice and each time scold her that the child must be unbuckled in the seat. she protests that it is impossible to keep him in one place and the buckle restrains him.
'no maam. he MUST be on your lap. and he must remain UNBUCKLED. that is the rule. it is for you own safety. beep, beep, beep. whirrrrrr. bop.'
i am flanked by a tall gay man with a crew cut and a round southern lady with too much make-up.
'what's going on here?' says crew cut and puts his hand on his hip.
'sir, you are going to have to move that bag out of the aisle,' i hear simultaneously from the other one behind me.
the burka girl is furiously dabbing the floor and the middle seat.
'it will be ok in a minute,' i say, but the woman sky waitress grabs my
bag and says,
'i can just put this in the overhead for you.'
to which i reply,
'no that's ok.' and i pull it away from her bumping into crew cut who's bent over helping the burka woman. he smacks his head on the back of the seat and yells too loudly,
'owwwwww.'
'cmon. the seat's padded. that didn't even hurt,' i offer.
but he doesn't hear. he's had enough. he's going back to the front of the plane to sit down.
'sir you have to move that bag.'
'what's the big deal? we're at the gate. we're not going anywhere.'
'the BIG DEAL is that bag blocks my easement and is a safety hazard!'
so i say,
'your easement isn't completely blocked. if you're easement was blocked you wouldn't be able to get by. and you can. and i think that's considered passable easement which is technically easement.'
the puke was cleaned up so with that i put the bag back under the seat in front of me and sat down.

about a half and hour goes by and we are still sitting at the gate so i open the sandwich i brought. it's a little messy and there was no napkin in the bag so i get tall, blond and snooty's attention. he's just standing there, but he does nothing to indicate he has seen me so i push the sky waiter button over the seat.
'bing.'
he lets out a sigh and comes over.
'what is it sir?' as he reaches over and turns of the call button.
'bing.'
'could i please have a napkin?'
'you'll have to give me a second.'
'well, a second is all it will take.'
pivots. one, two, three, four steps and he's at his station picking up a handful of napkins. one, two, three, four steps and he's back.
'thanks. that wasn't so bad was it?'
'sir. you have to put on your seatbelt.'
'woops, sorry.'

we finally pull out of the gate and go out to a runway where we park uninformed for another 45 minutes. so i pull out my phone to text my wife who is picking me up. i get about half way when the delta burke waitress catches me,
'sir, we are on an active runway.'
'doesn't look very active to me. i think we're parked.'
'you have to turn that off now!' yelling.
'other people are doing it. why are you yelling at me?' and i'm almost finished. i am a very slow texter.
'ok. i'm.....turning.....my.....phone......off...............now.'
now an older black woman i have not yet encountered comes over and crouches down in front of me.
'now sir. you have not been in compliance.'
'because i wanted a napkin? because i didn't want my bag to get puke all over it??'
'sir, you are raising your voice. compliance is-'
'well you guys keep hassling me. you know i'm not drunk. i haven't had a single drink. you know i quit drinking. it hasn't been easy and i haven't been perfect, but i'm not about beating myself up about it, you know? i haven't had a drink in two months so you can give me a breathalizer right now if you want.'
'sir, we're not saying that. we just need to let you know that you need to be in compliance.'
'yeah, i got that. you just said compliance like five times. stop saying compliance.'
'sir - '
'look. is there anything you want me to do right now?'
'no sir.'
and so i put my headphones on and flipped through the channels using the napkin my friends the sky waiters brought me so i wouldn't have to touch the channel changer.

new york dispatch 6.23.08
day 1-3. dick too sore to really think about it.
day 4-6. feeling better but still not an issue.
day 7. surf internet porn bookmarking for future reference.
day 8. pressure building. practice piano for five hours.
day 9. swim a mile. vacuum the house. clean out the
gutters. scanning internet for other opinions on
t.u.n.a. procedure post-op dos and don'ts. nothing confirming
the month long rx my doctor gave me about the wanking.
i think back on when i first told my friend, diego, about
the recovery period and he said,
'just kill me now.'
and i try to put a positive spin on the strange feelings i'm having.
it's like i have a different kind of chi going on right now. might
be a good time to tap into it and improvise some different shit.
i've tried a lot of mind altering drugs in the hope of stimulating some
different creative nerve. occasionally successful. often not. but this could be something new. it's all natural. and it just gives you a different kind of energy. i can see why the monks do it. i played with a buddhist bass player once who said he didn't like to 'spill his seed' before the gig. i thought he was crazy at the time, but maybe there's something to it. we'll see.
day 10. dred scott trio live at the rockwood music hall. midnight.

new york dispatch 6.16.08
in an act of civil disobedience i have decided to stop paying my student loan. the balance is about $17,000, the payment is
$180/month and that keeps me right at negative amortization, so at that rate i will never pay it off. so i'm thinking 17 grand vs. a
$700 billion financial industry bailout and they can go fuck themselves. typical equation - privatize profit and socialize loss. i'm sure i'm no different than anyone else - rent, health care out of pocket (plus the hundreds of dollars i've needed to copay for this or that), credit card, cell phone, car insurance and upkeep (215,000 mi not long for this world), shrink and meds (my $250/mo premium gets me a copay of $80 on the lexapro i take) and i'm going to struggle to pay back my student loan?? i don't think so. what do you think would happen if everyone stopped paying their student loans?
bailout. the student loan industry is collapsing and we need a bailout right now!! too lazy to go to a demonstration? me too.
just stop paying your student loan and send a message to the government right from the comfort of your sofa. what could
be easier? you don't have to do anything.
power to the people.

ft. myers dispatch 6.15.08
if it's one thing i can't stand it's a story about some dysfunctional family gathering somewhere in new england usually surrounding some holiday and appearing way to often in the new yorker. maybe it's because my idea of crazy family members includes my schizo-effective mother-in-law and my born-again, swinger, clothing-optional brother. he's the one who got 'saved' first and like dominoes my other two brothers flipped soon after - the oldest aided by a wife who thinks the joker in a deck of cards represents satan and that the earth is 10,000 years old (do the math). so a story about a road trip with my 95lb., 86-year-old mother might not be all that interesting or amusing.
so i'll try to be brief.
'sir. is there some reason you were going so fast?' the south carolina state trooper was standing back from my direct field of vision but i could see in the sideview mirror he had his hand on his gun. it was sunday morning and there were few cars on the highway.
'my mother and i are on a long trip and i guess i just wasn't paying attention.' i'd been driving between 80 and 90 most of the way so i was not surprised to get pulled over.
'i told him to slow down. i told him to slow down, officer. throw the book at him.'
'mom, please.'
it was the morning and she was at full strength.
'what do i know. nothing.' and she went back to filling in yesterday's crossword puzzle using today's answer key. the trouper's face was like concrete behind his mirrored shades, but i could've sworn he was smirking; chuckling inside.
'i'll be right back, mr. scott.'
my mother comes north from her home in the south of florida every summer to stay
with my sisters and be around the family. she can still drive short distances, but a long trip is out of the question. she needs her television because my sisters can't stand to watch cowboy movies with her and she brings her sewing machine and all her quilting supplies. that and all the clothes and shoes she would need for four months and her camry is packed. we left my sister's house in pittsburgh yesterday and drove for a good 7 hours before stopping outside of charlotte where we got a room in the small town of belmont and found a local steakhouse that was very good. i left my hat behind so that i could drop her off at the room and go back and get it. have some time to myself. i hadn't brought any weed, so i was a little edgy. and she was starting to bug me. for most of the day i managed to avoid the hot button issues - illegal immigrants (send them all back), the williams sisters (they are bad for tennis with their outfits) and obama.
'if he gets in the blacks will live wherever they want.'
'um. mom, they can live wherever they want now.'
'yeah, but they don't!'
that and she reads every single road sign and i was ready for a drink but the bar had clausthaler (which i like) and not odouls (which i do not like) so that's what i got instead. will of iron, that's me.
when i got back to the room she was fast asleep, a cowboy movie blasting on the tv. it looked like the indians were losing again.

after the speeding ticket, i decided i wanted to get off the highway for awhile so we took a shortcut directly south, bypassing atlanta. this turned out to be a pleasant diversion and we stopped at a couple of fruit stands (my mom loves to chat with strangers) and ate peaches and pecans and took in the rural southern scenery slowing down to check out roadside oddities (like the sculptor with his front lawn filled with metal animals). we got lunch at a bbq place that looked good but was only ok.
'the meat was too fatty and i make better potato salad.' and we got lost in macon.
we made it back to the 75 on which it is a straight shot all the way to ft. myers. let me just say here that florida drivers are the worst in the first world. a line of cars in the passing lane all the way south. whom are they passing?? anyway, made it back with little incident. had a nice meal in a sports bar that had tv's in every single booth. and my mother was mortified upon our return to find that her gardner had not been doing a very good a job.


nyc dispatch 7.3.08
hello citizens.
trying to get into the election season mood and am having a hard time. i don't know if it's the long preseason that wears me out or i'm just flat from the lexapro. i'm sure i can get motivated enough to vote when the time comes but for now i'm just blase about it all. i mean, it was exciting to think of either a woman or a black man being in the white (man) house. but that was like what a year ago?? i'm just saturated. speaking of...
looks like new orleans escaped a direct hit and what's left of it will continue to remain. it's like they want a fucking pat on the back for doing their jobs. nice work, guys. you didn't fuck up and the whole town didn't get destroyed. oh let's down low the convention to show how concerned we are. should've had it in new orleans.
so this is just a test. i'm trying a new email program so i can more efficiently send these tepid tomes to the people who actually want to receive them. if this is not you, apologies. just type '666' in the subject heading and i will remove you with a little ritual i learned from master severin at the academy.

nyc dispatch 7.21.08
11am - arrive at screen test for reality show involving the kid's band i play bass in. the idea is wife swap except it's lead singer swap. our lead singer trades with some other band's lead singer and reality show mayhem ensues. i tell the director an imaginary story about trying to get the lead singer from deicide to cover the upside down cross tatoo on his forehead with a baseball cap so the parents at the art museum gig we are about to do don't freak out. he wants to start with deicide's big hit, 'kill the christians,' but i suggest 'a day at the beach' or 'dad's new car.' he laughed. you never know.
2pm - drop off the drums at the movie shoot the trio is doing with linda fiorentino and chazz palmentieri. the set is some west soho club i do not know. outside there is a small army working to ready the shoot and inside there is even more confusion. wires criss-cross every step and people with head-sets run complicated choreographic patterns back and forth across the room. there is obviously no place for the drums yet so we put them in the kitchen and go to lunch.
4:30pm - finish a fantastic lunch at lupa where i start drinking. punt e mes at first. then a couple of chilled shots of vodka.
5pm - meet up with the bass player at milady's. i know an ex-cop who used to hang out here with his partner. met him at a ratdog show. he got me out of some trouble once. we play some pool. drink some beers. bass player has weed so we take a slow walk back to the job site.
6:30pm - check in at shoot. not sure when they will be ready for us.
don't go too far.
6:45pm - some bar in western soho. more drinks. i try to call the cocaine dude i know but he won't deliver just one line, so i forget about that idea. the bass player suggests we slow down a little but we ignore him.
8pm - lunch and the set is now closed down for an hour. i try to eat some vegetables and some not too bad tasting foil wrapped fish.
9:30pm - definately can't drink anymore and the drummer has gone missing. i have a splitting headache and try to find some advil. i can't really acount for the next couple of hours.
11pm - we get dressed in a stifling gymnasium. my shirt is completely pit-stained by the time i walk the two blocks from holding over to the set.
midnight - we shoot our scene a few times. i find out for the first time that there will be a close up of my hands playing the solo i played three days ago. i get to listen to it three or four times. while waiting for a reset i ask ms. fiorentino how it was working with vincent d'onofrio in men in black. she confirms my suspicions that he is a lunatic. i mean, what is that shit he is doing in law and order? it's like the dude went to the walken school of punctuation removal.
2am - after talking to the fourth p.a. i finally find out i can't get 20 bucks to get home in a cab because they need the receipt, so i go over to varick and wake up a livery cab driver asleep in his front seat and ask him for a receipt which i produce to somebody who pulls out his wallet and hands me a twenty.
on the way home i'm thinking about poor heath ledger. it's just not easy being in films. lots of waiting, repetition. it's kind of boring for the actors. you don't really get a sense of the kind of job you've done until it's long over. it's easy to get distracted and go down a wrong path. maybe i'll just stick to music. that acting shit is hard work.

pittsburgh dispatch 3.11.08
my father's nursing home is a broad, sprawling, conjoined, single story la-la land. from his window i can see the sky outside is low and threatening. the hills are khaki colored and the trees are empty. i've come to visit him one last time before i leave town. he doesn't know me anymore, but he and his wardmates love it when i play the piano. everyone, that is, except dorothy.
'you stink! you don't know any good songs,' she growls at me in a raspy two-pack-a-day voice.
'well, what song would you like me to play?'
'shut up! i hate you!'
'well, i don't hate you. i love you.'
'you do?' she takes a wild hair and tucks it behind her ear, smooths the front of her dress and bats her eyes at me like a silent film starlet.
'play your cards right and you might get lucky tonight.'
and she does a sexy saunter down the flourescent lit hallway and gives me one last alluring look before disappearing into her room. i look over at my dad and he's got that blank smiling stare as he rubs his hands together over and over.
'how's it going old timer?' i ask him.
'it's coming out!'
and now he's laughing. great. i take him back to his room, remove his diaper and get him over the toilet. i'm able to sit him down and with a little effort i wipe the shit off his ass.
'you doing ok, pop?'
'you betcha boots.' he says.
i tell him i've been playing some golf down in florida. he doesn't respond so i say,
'yeah, i shot 74 one day,' ever eager to get my father's approval.
'hmm.' the old wheel slowly cranks and he suddenly lights up,
'that's pretty good!'
my sisters talk to him like he's a child, but i refuse to treat him that way. to me he's frank sinatra having a cocktail before dinner after a long day at a job he can't stand.
'i got to take off, pete.'
he doesn't understand. but as i walk him back into the hallway (they tell me he walks up and down the halls for hours at a time) he doesn't look up but he says,
'thanks, dredarino.'

nyc dispatch 3/24/08
i'm sitting outside the gourmet garage in the village eating a vegetarian, macro, wheat-free, vegan, spelt, sushi snack before my gig at small's when this cute girl with a mohawk plops down next to me.
'whew,' she sighs.
i look over and notice two very nasty looking wounds just above her forehead.
'damn, are you ok?'
the wounds have a crisscrossing stitch making an 'x' and are bruised vivid shades of crimson and gold and it's just then i notice how perfectly symmetrical they are. i lean in for a closer look and realize they are tatoos.
'oh shit,' i say, 'that's where they pulled out your horns, isn't it?'
'yup.'
'wow. so you must be a big jazz fan.'
'what??'
'yeah, you know jazz was the devil's music way before death metal and bands like deicide.'
'really?'
'sure. but don't take my word for it. i'm playing right across the street in half an hour. you should check it out.'
'you?' and she looks at me for the first time.
'well i don't look very evil in my uncle junior glasses and my argyle sweater, but i am channeling satan in there.'
'yeah right.' she gets up. 'i think i'll pass.'
and she walks away.

4.1.08
it started off like any other day. i made love to my wife two times making her cum each time. i swam 3 miles in our stationary wave pool then dined on a breakfast of ostrich eggs and seedless kiwi. i had my bath of fresh rainwater drawn by our french maid servant and it was while my valet was dressing me that i began to get the sensation this day was going to be different. i practiced for a couple of hours on my steinway that was once owned by glenn gould, then put the finishing touches on my third piano concerto – the one with the 100 member castrati chorus in the second movement. still i couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. so i decided to go for a drive. i had a couple of hours to kill before meeting clint to look at some dailies from our latest and last collaboration - a tribute to the spaghetti westerns that launched his career. i took the long way down the coast in my '74 bmw 3.0 cs, met clint (he was in a mood) and played 18 at pebble on my way back. didn’t play all that well but managed to shoot par. still, there was just something about this day that didn't feel right. so i hung around and had a nice meal at club xix in the lodge there at the golf course. it was during the meal i received a phone call from jack dejohnette asking me to come up to san francisco and play with him for his upcoming week at yoshi's. so i drove up and got a room at the fairmont and played the first night. after the gig i was in the hotel bar thinking about what a great day it had been. and that feeling about it being a strange day finally went away