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May 14th, 2008 Update
Steve McCallum
Hello Everybody,
It's already the middle of May, the loveliest month of the year almost everywhere on the globe. I hope that you are enjoying it as much as I have been.
This month began with a mechoui (which means lamb or sheep roasted over an open wood fire) here in Carry le Rouet. Some friends from North Africa hosted the party at our house and we consumed a whole roasted lamb along with many other traditional foods. We danced until the early morning to the irresistible rhythms of the Maghrebian music of North Africa and there were enough empty bottles to fill the trunk of our car.
Last week we hosted a party for all of my new friends here in France, and I prepared spicy black beans, shrimp jambalaya, and New Orleans style cornbread to go along with many dishes brought by the guests. We danced until early morning to the irresistible rhythms of blues and jump swing from North America, and I haven't yet gathered up all the empty bottles.
So, that is enough about eating and drinking and dancing, isn't it? Well, actually not…the beat goes on. There are plans for another long weekend of music and camping en masse in the little valley of Vercors during the Bastille Day weekend in July (the French parallel to our Independence Day). August will include a Third Annual Back to the Routes Tour of Burgundy for Steven McCallum & Friends.
In between parties there is hiking and biking and swimming and films. Of course all the films here are "foreign films" that you are unlikely to be able to rent at Blockbuster. I strongly recommend "Gadjo dilo" by Tony Gatlif about a young Frenchman who searches Romania for a Gypsy singer whom his father had recorded. He is sheltered from a cold night by an old Tsigane with a bottle of vodka and during the rest of the film he learns what it is really like to live as a Gypsy. There is enough good music, anthropology, political incorrectness, irreverence, and casual sexuality to rate it as a TEN in my book. (NOT RECOMMENDED for children under 2 years of age). Here is a link to some information: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0122082/
To exercise my patience I sometimes wrestle with the French bureaucracy—but their endurance seems to be much greater than my own. I went to the government bureau early one morning to get my "green card" and stood in line for over an hour only to discover that all of the numbers were already taken for that day and I must return another day before the office opens and stand in line on the sidewalk to get an appointment number. Then the next week, I spent a night in town so I could be at the office before 7AM, where I stood in line with nearly a hundred other immigrants until they opened the doors at 8:15, and then waited in another line for my number, and waited until nearly 11AM when my number was finally called. After ten minutes more waiting for a woman to finish chatting with her co-workers, she gave me a slip of paper with an official stamp on it that certifies that I have an appointment to return again in September. Then I walked across town to wait in line to buy a train ticket and waited two hours more for the half-hour ride home and another half-hour walk to the house. That's a whole day out of my life with no drinking, dancing, music, and only junk food, so life here is not perfect after all!
I love you all and thank you for letting me stay in contact with you in this way. Friendship is something more valuable than gold, and I feel rich with all that we have shared.
Amicalement,
Steve
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August 1st, 2007
Hello to all my English-speaking Friends,
Lewis Carroll might have been writing about the weather in Marseille:
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
And I write:
The sun is but another slow poison,
a seductress shining in a golden apple.
Shall a man weep for his dull, dun overcoat
to drip with drizzle for weeks at a time?
Must a man wail for the dense, dusky overcast
to deny the deadly radiance?
You can feel a cool vapor caress your face at a certain point
as the bicycle coasts silently down a path toward the river.
The misty droplets mingle and build to the size of a tear
that slowly trickles and grows,
until the rush of your passing
blows it off of your cheek,
and into the past,
and no one will ever know
if you have been crying.
And more Jabberwocky:
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
The intensity of the desert sunlight obliges me to shroud myself beneath clouds. I considered continuing my adventure by relocating to northern Europe. Scandinavia and Great Britain have dreary enough weather, and Dublin seemed a good option. In Belgium I could still use my French. However, I finally decided that I don't have the energy to start cold in another new city like I did in Marseille. It is expensive at first, searching for a new apartment, new musicians, new clubs to play in, learning another new culture, and improvising my way around. I would still be a "tourist," or in other words, an illegal worker, and I can't even get a driver's license. I am actually doing the same thing I did in Eugene, playing in clubs for just enough money to get by. How many more days will I have to spend teaching the simplest list of songs to a new bass player, just to make a few bucks on the weekend?
It's been a great adventure and vacation, and I have improved and grown and learned many things, and it was the right thing to do at the time I did it. If I hadn't, I would always have regretted it. My last gigs here are scheduled for September, and my regular guitarist is also moving out of town then, so I have bought airline tickets for early October.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;
Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?
My dream continues to be simply to communicate my experiences. I will record my original songs and write about my life. Manufacturing something is always the easy part The key to success is distribution. Does anybody know of a good widget salesman? I suck at it.
DREAM BOOGIE
By Langston Hughes
Good morning, daddy!
Ain't you heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream deferred?
Listen closely:
You'll hear their feet
Beating out and Beating out a --
You think
It's a happy beat?
Listen to it closely:
Ain't you heard
something underneath
like a --
What did I say?
Sure,
I'm happy!
Take it away!
Hey, pop!
Re-bop!
Mop!
Y-e-a-h!
I think the best idea is for me to return to Eugene. I know very good musicians there who already can play most of my music, so I will quickly put together a group for gigging and recording. Everything will be easier there than anywhere else I could go, and the beer is much better. I will have the damage of the sun repaired and slow its progression under the shield of the dense Oregon skies. I'll probably plan a short tour of France some time again before too long.
April Rain Song
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
-- Langston Hughes
See you sooner or later,
Steve
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June 10th, 2007
Salut à tous!
It's time to say hello again. Ca va? (How's it going?) Ici ça roule. (Here things are rolling along.)
Yes, I am still in Marseilles. In French it is spelled without the "s" and it is pronounced "mar-SAY-(uh)." I haven't found any good reasons to leave yet, and I keep finding more reasons to stay. I must still look like a tourist though, because I seem to attract the pick pockets like flies to honey. I have learned how to recognize them, just as they have learned to recognize me. I hope one day they will all have tried and failed and then we can just be friends. I wish they would practice guitar instead.
Summer is so wonderful that I barely even have time to say hello to you. Last night I played a private party for a lawyer's birthday at a hilltop home where the sunset over the sea reflected on the still waters of his swimming pool and the stars came out on the dark rouge surface of a lovely Bandol wine in my glass. I slept until noon today, then played guitar in the square for an hour to help attract customers to my housemate's "yard sale."
Last Sunday is worth mentioning. I went to La Ciotat the night before the Mother's Day Festival because sound check began the following morning at 9 AM! It reminded me of being in the Navy because the program is "Hurry up and wait." I have a love-hate relationship with sound engineers but we depend upon each other.
I had a bit of a hangover from greeting the band the previous night. I moved a chair to the shade of the hospitality tent behind the stage and began to saturate myself with mineral water while I watched the long process of miking the drums. After placing nearly a dozen microphones, the drummer had to play on everything to equalize the sound and they were having a problem with the snare drum. He kept hitting it over and over and it was echoing off the empty grandstand in front of the stage causing my head to throb as if a blacksmith was working inside of it. After about ten minutes of hammering, one of the stage hands discovered that they had forgotten to even mike the snare, so they positioned another microphone and had to do everything all over again. That was when I learned of a little trick they use here to level the stage. They keep adjusting the height of the risers until the drummer is drooling equally out of both sides of his mouth!
After a long afternoon nap we dressed and started on aperitifs before going to the stadium. We ordered an extra apero when we received word that the first act had been delayed because they hadn't even finished all the sound checks yet. "Tant mieux!" (So much the better!)
The show went great! It was an enormous stage set up in a soccer field and surrounded by a towering framework to support lights and speakers. We were the next to last, which was perfect timing, just after sunset around 9:30 pm. The Master of Ceremonies introduced me in such a way that I thought to myself, "I guess I better try to live up to the hype." Here is what he said in French, with an English translation:
"Stevun McCalloom. Pianiste et chanteur originaire d'Oregon, riche d'une carriére de quarante années, jeté son ancre à La Ciotat. Entouré d'un nouveau quartet de blues, swing, et jazz, il y a également enregistré son dernier album, couronnant plus de 4000 concerts à travers les Etats-Unis et l'Europe. Alternant entre de grands classiques du blues, du jazz, du swing, et quelques compositions, Steven McCallum s'est produit devant tous types de publics au fil de sa carrière."
"Steven McCallum. Pianist and singer, native of Oregon, with a rich career of forty years, he has cast his anchor in La Ciotat. Surrounded by a new quartet of blues, swing, and jazz, there he also recorded his last album, crowning more than 4000 concerts through the United States and Europe. Alternating between the grand classics of the blues, jazz, swing, and some original compositions, Steven McCallum has entertained all types of audiences during his career."
Everything ran late, so we were given only a 40 minute set, but I was not surprised. I simply cut two songs from the program and it probably made for an even stronger show. I gave huge gestures, smiling and dancing and jumping and spinning. I joked around and thanked everyone, and I sang with much joy and excitement, and with a couple of tender and sensitive moments. A thousand people cheered and applauded and I was complimented by everyone including the organizer, the stage manager, the sound men, other bandleaders, a musicologist from Ohio State University, and even the guard at the gate. When the last band went on after me, the lighting failed and there was a long delay, so we got off the stage just in time. My band joked that we had used up all the light during our set. (OK, who brought that bottle of rhum backstage, all the way from Guadeloup?)
I saved up a couple of idioms I learned here that may shed a little light on the way French people think. I wish someone had put this kind of stuff in my dry old anthropology text.
First, I want to remind you that everything "American" did not actually originate in America. I think I already told you about "Corsican Cola" in a previous update. Now Levi & Strauss must give up a little credit. "Denim" is a contraction or derivative of the French term, serge de Nimes. Nimes is a village in Provence. The woven cloth was traditionally colored blue with indigo dye to make blue jeans. "Jean" actually then denoted a different, lighter cotton textile, made in Italy. The contemporary use of jean comes from the French word for Genoa, Italy ( Gênes), from which the first denim trousers were made. So denim blue jeans are actually indigo dyed cloth from Nimes that resembles the textiles of Genoa. What Levi & Strauss patented was only putting the rivets at the corners of the pockets, and that idea was sold to them by an inventor who didn't have the $63 necessary to apply for a patent in his own name. So now you know "the rest of the story."
Here are the idioms:
"Manger sur le pouce" is one you might hear. It means "to grab a quick meal," or literally "to eat on the thumb" and it probably refers to cutting bread with a knife when making a sandwich. It is like stopping at McDonald's, or over here it might be ordering "un morceau" at one of the pizza trucks that advertise ovens with a real wood fire, "feu de bois." They are as ubiquitous as espresso stands in Oregon parking lots.
"Enculer les mouches" is my favorite. It means "to pay attention to minute details of little importance," or "to be extremely nitpicking." We might use the Freudian term "anal retentive," but I like the French expression which literally translated means "to fuck flies up their ass." I imagine that would take great care and precision.
"C'est comme pisser dans un violon." Literally, "It is like pissing in a violin," and it refers to useless effort. It is like when you ask your friend for the money he has owed you for so long. You ask over and over again, and he always says he will have it in a couple of weeks. Pissing in the wind. The phrase began as "blowing or whistling in a violin," because that is not a productive way to play a stringed instrument, but it got vulgarized a little bit over time. Maybe you could say "It's like bowing an oboe!"
By the way, if you need a light for your cigarette, ask for fire. This only makes good sense. If you ask for "a light" on a bright desert afternoon people will think you are crazy, or they will know you are an American, which is almost the same thing. "And what do you think about George Bush?" is a common question, to which I can now quickly reply, "Et que pensez-vous de Sarkozy?"
Bonne journée,
(Have a nice day),
Steven
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April 23rd, 2007
Hello my friends,
Yeah, I got over my list of problems. Sometimes things just hit you all at once. I would be a fool to leave now, just when the good times are starting to roll again. Last Saturday the phone rang and I picked up a nice trio gig in nearby La Ciotat. It could become a regular this summer, 100€ each for 3 hours on the patio right at the beach. Here's a look:
http://www.hotelrose-the.com/index_en.html. Later that night I played solo in a small bar and it went so well that the owner slipped me an extra 20€. Afterward I went to a restaurant to listen to a duo, was asked to sit in, and got hired immediately to play weekly. Then I stopped at a tapas bar for a nightcap on the way home and the owner said he wants to schedule me solo twice a month!
The next day was Easter Sunday and I took a long bike ride. Spring has sprung! In town I caught the scent and bright color of lush wisteria blossoming along the walls in the neighborhoods. Then, cruising the beaches, I saw my first topless bathing beauty of the season and drank in the negative ions on the sea breeze. At the end of the road I found a trail into the rocky cliffs south of the city where wildflowers were blooming and I could sit under a stunted pine tree and meditate on the distinction between my fantasy and my destiny. They are starting to come closer together. I stopped to quench my thirst in a park on the way home and noticed the Drakes are all chasing the Susies. GO DUCKS!
Of course the big news has been the elections here in France. The two major candidates are Nicolas Sarkozy and Ségolène Royal. Sarko is a tough-talking former interior minister and candidate of the Union for a Popular Movement. He is an authoritarian who called the unemployed youth who rioted last year "scum." He is a hard-liner and pro-American who would give a free hand to corporations and limit immigration. Royal is a Socialist who offers a gentle approach maintaining France's generous health, education, and welfare system. She is the maternal protector and he is the strict disciplinarian. It's a little like having to choose between your father or your mother to run the family. Maybe they should both be elected like a marriage and have to hammer out a budget together. Of course each would have some discretionary spending, like getting an "allowance," but the biggest decisions must be agreed upon. Whoever wins will be the first French president born after WWII, a generational shift.
Elections and campaigning are a little different in France. There are two polls unless a candidate receives more than 50% in the first poll. In the first there were twelve candidates and strict media rules required all of them to get equal coverage, 45 minutes total, so even José Bové got his "alter-globalization" message into the news. Spending is limited to 22 million dollars each, most of which comes from the government. The official campaign began just two weeks before the voting, and no polls can be published during the final two days preceding the actual vote. A record eighty-four percent turned out. The two top finishers will meet in a head-to-head runoff on May 6th. I'm cheering for MOM.
I know that some of you particularly enjoy reading my anecdotes about French culture, so here are a couple of sayings that reveal something about the national character. The first you probably have said many times yourself in English: "Apres les forts, les conforts." After hard work comes the rewards or comforts. And the comforts often include a glass or two of wine or the liquorice-flavored pastis that is especially popular in the south. When I was offered a second drink I tried to say "You can't fly on one wing," but I had to explain it so much that it wasn't very funny. I think that here a second drink is just taken for granted, but if you are offered a third it is not uncommon to reply "Jamais deux sans troix." That's the kind of language I can understand: "Never two without three." It's an old French proverb that generally means "Troubles always come in threes," but I like this particular application.
I have been asked to recommend French music, but tastes vary so much that I hesitate. Of course I love the old Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli collaboration in the Quintet of the Hot Club of France, but here are some artists that people my age were listening to when they grew up here:
Jacques Higelin (Older than me-- even older than McCartney.)
Album: "Amor Doloroso" (2006)
Best Song: Queue De Paon "Peacock's Tail"
For those of you with stronger tastes for harder rock, check out Camel .
This is the Led Zeppelin of France.
Album: "Mirage"
Best Song: Freefall
Serge Gainsbourg http://www.francevision.com/nsltr/vf14/gains.htm is the Bob Dylan of France, and Johnny Hallyday http://www.answers.com/topic/johnny-hallyday is the Elvis.
A friend of mine took a video of our band's performance at a party for Corsicans at the ocean front casino in La Ciotat last season. He has edited the result and put it on the web at YouTube, so if you have a Jones for "Red Beans," give it a click: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKJqTOQiqps
I must express my feeling of loss from the passing of Kurt Vonnegut who died this month after a fall had put him into a coma at the age of eighty-four. We need many more like him.
He believed that the only possible redemption for the madness and apparent meaninglessness of existence was human kindness. The title character in his 1965 novel, "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater," summed up his philosophy:
"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies — 'God damn it, you've got to be kind.'"
You may also remember Mark Vonnegut, his son who wrote "The Eden Express" about his hippie commune days in British Columbia when he fell into schizophrenia for a time. Kurt asked him for advice:
"I put the big question about life to my son, the pediatrician. Dr. Vonnegut said this to his doddering old dad: 'Father, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.'"
Interestingly, another of my heroes came to the same conclusion:
"It is a bit embarrassing to have been concerned with the human problem all one's life and find at the end that one has no more to offer by way of advice than 'try to be a little kinder'."--Aldous Huxley
So it goes,
Steven
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March 30th, 2007
Steve McCallum Update
Hello Everbody,
I was overwhelmed with responses to my last e-mail and felt very inspired and supported. I especially want to thank those of you who recognized that I had just hit a bump in the road, the kind of thing that can happen wherever you live, and you encouraged me to continue following my dream. Capricorns may move slowly, and we may take a winding path, but we never stop climbing. I would enjoy hearing any stories of patience, perseverance, and tenacity from other Capricorns on my mailing list. I'm happy to identify with the sea goat, though I wish my knees were a bit younger.
I have solved most of my problems, considered many options including a return to Eugene, Oregon, but have decided that staying in Marseille is the best choice for now. There are many good reasons for "staying the course." For one thing, the temperature is in the sixties now with mostly sunshine. Spring has sprung once again, and the best weather is ahead. When I first arrived here in November of 2005 my conscious wish was to be able to stay long enough to see a Provençal springtime when flowers bloom, the beaches fill, the food is fresh, and the clubs and restaurants hire more musicians to accommodate the tourists. Last year was great and it would be a shame to pass two winters here without knowing two springs and two summers.
Looking at my list of losses I see only one that I haven't regained. The guitarist will be around until September; I have a great bassist; I can do the booking myself now, and that saves a percentage; I have options for a new apartment, so that's no big deal; a new credit card came--big whup! My piano is my mistress, the muse has captured all of my attention, and as I once heard Bobby Blue Bland sing at the Ann Arbor Blues Festival, " Further On Up the Road ...I'll have somebody new."
I realized that I have actually made a lot of progress here and I am far better off than when I first arrived. I can speak the language, though I still don't understand everything around me. I have met some good musicians and have filtered out some who are not compatible. I know something about the clubs, have some regular monthly gigs, and have been asked back almost everywhere I've played. I have figured out how to eat well and inexpensively and where to find the things I need to satisfy most of my cravings. Of course, I already knew all these things about Bluejean Oregon, and I almost fell back into that cradle, but I want to keep climbing wherever the path leads. Chasing dreams is my nature.
I saw an incredible funk concert here last week and I want to share the name of the group with you so you don't miss an opportunity to see them yourselves. They play all over the world, but also were at Bumbershoot in Seattle last year. Sharon Jones is the front. She's from Georgia and puts on an electrifying performance with high energy and a buoyant spirit. The band is the Zap-Tones, mostly from Brooklyn. I've never heard a tighter punctuation from a horn section. It was impossible to stop dancing, but for me, the highlight of the show was the soulful ballad It's a Man's World, sung with power and passion and subtle emotion that can bring up tears. "...but it wouldn't be nothing without a woman or a girl." Yes this is the authentic old-school funk, and they still sell their music on LPs and 45s. It was a real touch of home for me. Check it out: http://www.daptonerecords.com/pages/stable_sharon.html And here you can find photos of a concert in Bellingham, Washington: http://www.daptonerecords.com/pages/gallery.html#
I've got a show tonight with my best band at my favorite club. This is what balances everything else that happens during the week. The jerks who cut you off on the roadway, the rejection from self-important fat cats, the unsatisfied desires of the flesh, the aches and pains of a relentlessly aging body, and even the greedy masters waging war in my name, all disappear for a few hours. When it's showtime nothing else can creep into my mind. I feel so indebted to each person who offers their attention and support of my music that it is not possible to return enough in preparation and performance. The gratitude we exchange is heaven itself.
Amicalement,
Steven
P.S. - Let me leave you with an anecdote to ponder. I hope it makes you smile.
After hearing that George Bush still didn't know if bin Laden was alive,
Osama sent Bush a hand written letter to let him know he was still in the game.
Bush opened the letter and it appeared to contain a coded message: 370HSSV 0773H
Bush was baffled. He sent it to Condi Rice, but she had no clue. So it went to the FBI, CIA and NSA - all without result.
Then Bush asked Britain's MI-6. They cabled the White House: "Tell the President he's holding the message upside down."
370HSSV 0773H
P.P.S. - The photo identification was a lot of fun.
Some of you may remember this young feller:
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March 3rd, 2007
Salut,
Hello to all my friends who speak English and have e-mail.
This is a note especially for those of you who are getting tired of listening to what a good time I am having. I have waited this long to write again because I haven't been certain what will happen next. I still don't know, but why not share it with you. Things are getting worse and worse lately and I'm afraid the dream is dissolving and diffusing like smoke in the wind from the last toke in the bottom of the pipe. Still, there's a little bit of a buzz, and the weather is good, and taken in fifteen minute intervals life is mostly comfort and joy. It's just dreams that get trampled, and expectations get frustrated when the highway narrows to a road, and the road becomes only a track which dwindles to a footpath, and the path fades to a goat trail that ends at a steep precipice. That's where a good Capricorn either makes another leap of faith, or patiently turns back and takes a different fork.
Enough metaphor, here's the reality. Since the tour of Burgundy last August and a vacation in Corsica in November, I have not been making enough to cover my rent and food, and I have lost a few things:
1) My bass player, to front his own band;
2) My guitarist, to become a winemaker and better provide for his young family;
3) My booking agent, the guitarist's wife;
4) My girlfriend, no comment;
5) My apartment, housemate wants to live with her girlfriend instead of me;
6) My credit card, fell out of my wallet somewhere.
I guess it's time to count blessings, take inventory, consider options, then pull a little bit harder in the harness. It's been a good run. After sixty-one years I have seen my fortune change like the weather in March, yet the Universe continues to support my folly. When I don't ask for much, there is abundance. I just want a few more good gigs, and no day job.
The French say it like this: " Un rêve s'écroule, un autre se forge..." "One dream collapses, another is built."
The changes will do me good. Remember my favorite Frank Zappa quotation? "Without deviation, progress is not possible." He also said, "Jazz is not dead...it just smells funny." However, the one that informs my decisions the most: "In the fight between you and the world, back the world."
I am playing solo more now, and I am also taking work as a duo with a new guitarist. We rehearse at a cool place called the Hotel of Music. It is an old hotel building full of practice rooms for rent, with a bar for drinks and snacks, and an elevator for equipment. Somebody should try that for a business in a big enough city in the USA.
I have contacted some agencies both for piano bar and band work. They've accepted my applications but have not referred me for anything yet. I would travel anywhere to play more often. Now that I have learned French, maybe next I will have to learn Arabic.
Yes, I haven't lost my sense of humor, and I have even learned to make puns in my new language, but with puns, pronunciation is critical. Humor is the hardest thing to translate.
Here are a couple of of anecdotes that reveal something of the culture here, and then I must get busy building that next dream. I am definitely going to need some more smoke, and maybe a few mirrors.
Recently I did something unusual for me. I attended a competition of nine different RAP groups. I must explain that they were all high school students, and it was government-sponsored as part of a youth activities program. I have a musician friend whose son was competing, and he took the second place trophy with his partner! There must have been two or three hundred teens there, and just a handful of parents. I think it is wonderful that the government offers activities like this to promote the arts and distract the youths from burning up automobiles.
Yesterday I had a beer with a friend who brought another friend who was some kind of classic stereotype. He was one huge muscle with a few ounces of gold jewelery draped around his neck, a red sport coat over a silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and with silver-mirrored wrap-around sun glasses. I thought "pimp" at first, and when I asked if he was a musician he said he was a professional at weightlifting and fucking. I was not too surprised later when my friend told me he was with the mafia and works as a bodyguard at the Italian Embassy. He was very congenial and I gave him a good laugh when I told him I am a professional at apéritifs (before dinner cocktails and hors d'ouvres, sometimes with live music.)
Ok now, don't anybody worry about me. Either I'll write again from a new address, a new city, a new country, or maybe I'll just pop in at your favorite blues jam. Que sera, sera.
Take care of your dreams,
Steven
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