Lodo Grdzak Stays Put And Watches the World Go Round

When The Love Runs Out, Time to Hit The Road--Conclusion* (Scroll down for Parts 1-7):

2010-10-04T19:31:00.001-07:00

The problem with the world is that dumb people are rarely as dumb as you think and smart people are never quite as smart as you’d hoped. I don’t know why I choose to start this final post on that note, but it seems appropriate.

That said, summer is and was an odd time for me to visit land-locked Denver. Temperatures are invariably in the high 90’s and its so dry that it feels like a tandoori oven. No beach for relief, and the dusty air with its lack of oxygen makes it a struggle for my ravaged lungs to breathe.

So if my goal was to avoid the choking heat of New York I had to be some kind of dumbass to head to Denver.

But my man Catfish has a new apartment with a pool, and he’d been comped a set of tickets to go whitewater rafting up in the Royal Gorge. So in some shape or form I got out on the water everyday, which is what summer’s all about for me.

When we got back from rafting there was a sublime sunset in the sky. A burst of orange and reds that splashed before our spent eyes as we sat on Catfish’s balcony. It was Catfish, EP, the Gentle Giant and me.

“So you leave tomorrow,” Catfish said to me over his shoulder as he monitored the chicken on the barbecue. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Shit yeah,” I answered as EP handed me a glass of wine. “I walked Spiffy everyday, went to Kansas with Jaybird; I went horseback riding, smoked a ton of great weed, got up into the mountains with my dad, went whitewater rafting. Christ, I did it all.”

“...Did you get laid?” EP suddenly asked from the kitchen as he uncorked a fresh bottle of red.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You said you did it all,” EP said as he turned toward me. “Well, did you get laid?”

“..Naw, I guess I didn’t” I had to admit.

“Do you want to?,” the Gentle Giant said as he crumbled some weed into Catfish’s vaporizer. “You can call Lina.”

“Yeah? Is she hot” I asked.

“Fuck yeah,” EP responded as he searched for a clean glass in Catfish’s cabinet, “she’s a pornstar. Or at least, she used to be.”

“No shit,” I answered.

“Yeah,” Catfish assured me with a nod of his head, ”she’s on the internet. Show ‘em guys.”

At which point The Giant brought Catfish’s laptop outside where I got to see this chick in action.

“She does look pretty good,” I admitted.

“Her tits are huge!” EP exclaimed, excited by either those huge tits or his finding of a glass.

“Yeah,” the Gentle Giant chimed in, “and she knows things. How to do things.”

“Hmm,” I thought as I considered it.

“Bring her some weed and she’ll do you twice,” EP said as he came back out on to the balcony, “that is, if you can.”

“Hmmm,” I mumbled again, still on the fence

“Ah come on Lodo. You know you’re a total horndog,” Catfish said to me. “How long you been out here--three weeks? You of all people must be going crazy.”

“I guess there’s some truth to that,” I admitted.

Yet I really wasn’t all that motivated to action. We’d had a long day on the water and the wine and the sunset had put me in a lazy mood.

But an idea in motion stays in motion, and after a few minutes of indecision on my part Catfish suddenly turned from the barbecue to face me.

“Jesus Lodo,” he said with raised tongs as though I’d somehow disappointed him, “you’re still a vibrant man. A single man. I know you’ve got money. Hell, you’ve got a job waiting for you. And you’re a writer for God’s sake--on a roadtrip! You’re obligated to bang this whore.”

“I am?”

“Sure! Jack Kerouack, Jim Carroll, Charles Bukowski, William Vollman. Your favorite--Henry Miller. Who are you to defy tradition? Now you’re some type of groundbreaker or something? Gonna tear down established institutions?”

Catfish. Like Marc Cary when he told me to watch Cold in The ‘D’ it was hard to tell if he was being serious. That’s what made me laugh so hard.

But he’d shamed me.

So I drove out toward the airport where I pulled up to the anonymous, shitbox house and found the former pornstar--Lina waiting for me in her high heels, short denim skirt, and unbuttoned blouse knotted in front. A Chinese Daisy Duke, with big heavy legs and jugs.

She was older than she looked on the internet. Late-30’s. A mix of Asian and Spanish; least that’s what she said. In perfect English that sounded like California. She had a few pock marks on her face, but she was attractive in a debauched way. Jet black hair past her shoulders. Big lips. Those monster tits and thick legs.

If there were any cameras in the small space I didn’t see them, and if she had any male protection they must have been in her closet. If so, they were in there a long time.

She opened the door and scrutinized my face.

“You look like somebody,” she said with a laugh as she led me to her couch.

“I’ve heard that,” I said as I sat down on the worn red cushion. She sat next to me and rested her hands on my lap. Her face was right next to mine. I could smell her stale breath.

“EP says you live in New York”

“That’s true,” I told her. “Brooklyn.”

“I like guys from New York,” she whispered in my ear, then ran her tongue down my neck.

“Oh, well,...”

She traced her way back up my neck with her tongue, then un-knotted her blouse.

“Did you bring some milk money for me baby?” she asked as she squeezed her tits together and bopped them up and down for my amusement.

“What’s that?” I asked, momentarily distracted.

“Mommy can’t work without milk money,” she repeated with expectancy.

“Oh yeah, right. Here you go,” I said, as I reached into my pocket and gave her $200.00. “But don’t say mommy. ”

She counted my stiff 20’s that had come straight out the ATM and laughed.

“You don’t like that? EP loves when I say that shit.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

And I’m not gonna say anything either. At least not about what happened next. You’ll have to go to a different blog for that, though I’ll mention Lina was a really good lay. Knew things as the Gentle Giant had said. But I introduce her only because of a conversation we had about an hour later.

I’d just got out the shower and stepped back into the bedroom to get dressed. Lina looked me up and down.

“How old are you?’ she asked me.

“”I’ll be 44.”

“Really. ...What do you do out there in New York?” she asked.

I didn’t want to say investigator, so I said, “I don’t do anything--I just quit my job.”

We looked at each other silently. Lina lay on her belly on top of the bed. The sight of her big ass and huge tits began to make me hard again. She placed her index finger on my junk and traced a path along its increasing length.

“Hey,” I said as I reached into my pocket, “EP said if I gave you this I could maybe get another throw. What d’ya say?”

She reached for the weed and smelled it.

“EP gave you this?” she asked.

“Um hmm. Its from the clinic.”

She smelled it again.

“...Okay, let’s go in here.”

Lina threw on a robe and led me back to the original room. We sat on the green carpeted floor and leaned against the couch as she proceeded to dump the weed on to a large glossy magazine.

“So why’d you come out here if you’re from New York?” she asked as she broke-up the buds.

“I’ve got my dog out here. I had to leave her when I moved to New York, but I see her whenever I get free time. Plus my niece is out here--and my sister. My folks..all my people really.”

Lina nodded her head, then activated a vaporizer that was on a small table.

“Let that warm-up for a minute,” she said. “...So, you mind if I ask why you quit your job? Women like a working man you know.”

I laughed.

“No, I don’t mind. We’d had this meeting--a meeting I was on time for. Nobody denies that. Except there were only four chairs in my boss’s office. We’ve got five people in my unit but only four chairs, right? So no big deal, I run out to get a chair from my cubicle when my boss is like (here I snap my fingers and point) 'Where do you think you’re going? You’re not going anywhere....'"

I told her the story. The whole story. I’d told it often by this point so I had all the little nuances and phrases down. At one point I used that phrase pulling rank like the guy on the plane had said and began to get myself worked up all over again. Lina laughed at that as she installed the whip and drew from the vaporizer.

“..So that’s it?” she said when I’d finished. She was careful the way she said it, unsure as to my sensitivities. “That made you so mad that you quit?” she asked again as she handed me the whip.

“Yep,” I told her. “Why, you wouldn’t have done that?”

But Lina just held up her hands and stayed quiet.

“Come on,” I said, “you can tell me. I’m not gonna freak-out on you. We’re just two people talking.”

Lina’s eyes narrowed as she evaluated me. She was older than in her movies. Late 30’s at least.

“..Let me ask you, do you like New York?” she asked as she reached for the whip.

“Yeah, definitely--except for summer.”

“Okay. And did you like this job?”

“Yeah I liked it, when they’d just let me do the job. But I couldn’t do the other stuff. The personal relations stuff.”

“Like that meeting with your boss, right? That made you angry,” she said flatly.

“I suppose. Why do you say it like that?”

“No reason. Men get angry, that’s all..,” she trailed off as she drew a long, deep inhale from the whip. I waited for her to complete the thought but she obviously had no plans to do so.

“...Well don’t stop there,” I said with a laugh that I hoped would put her at ease. “Tell me what you think. You’ve got me curious now.”

She exhaled her hit and sighed in a single mannerism as she handed me the whip.

“Well baby,” she said cautiously, “...I mean, maybe this wasn't really about your boss. Job’s are a pain in the ass, but listen to what you said. You’ve got your niece out here, and your folks. All your people--isn’t that how you said it? Even your dog’s out here.”

“Yeah, so.”

“So,...”

Again she hesitated, not sure of my reaction; as though used to violence.

“Go on,” I said as I took a pull off the whip.

“..Well,...it just sort of sounds like--I don’t know.”

“Just say it!” I said again.

“...Well, it sounds like maybe things just sort of dried-up on you out there in New York. Know what I mean? Its happened to me.“

“Dried-up?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know. Like maybe the love just ran out over there. Why else would you get so mad? I mean, you seem like a happy guy. Good looking. If you were a woman you’d have just gone home and cried. But you’re a man so you got angry. Maybe--I don’t know you at all.”

Something ‘bout the look on my face must have caused her to withdraw; which in fact, made me angry. But I couldn’t help but consider what she’d said.

“...What?” she eventually asked as she gestured toward the whip.

“Nothing,” I said as I took one final pull and handed it to her, “they said you knew things.”

* NOTE: Special thanks to anyone who's stuck with me thus far, and who's supported the blog throughout these 300+ posts. Until this last series, I've posted almost every 3-4 days, and I'm fairly proud of what I've accomplished. The blog format definitely made me a better writer. That said, I really wanted a lot more out of this last one, but I've been forced to write it piecemeal--an hour or so here and there, and I feel its suffered.

As you can see, my new job has caused the time between posts to become almost moronic. As such, I think I'm gonna have to end Stays Put here. Just feels like the end--at least of this set of stories (though they could all use a second draft).

The link to my new blog is posted at the very top of this page; as well as on the right-hand side, beneath the LINKS header. Thanks for reading!

When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 7* (*Scroll down for Parts 1-6):

2010-09-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

Self-portrait in Montauk (something still weird and tight behind my eyes):

"Montauk was supposed to be the end..."

Catfish (left)/Lodo (right): In Denver

"All I wanted to do was throw the ball for my dog Spiffy..."

Jaybird (left) and Rules feed chickens somewhere in Kansas:

I suppose words like pretty or love aren’t so easy for American heterosexual men to say. At least, not according to the beer commercials or television sitcoms. Just not that manly. Maybe that’s why the word love never came to me.

Or maybe I was just able to avoid it. Because in truth, Montauk was supposed to be the end. The end of everything--my time in New York, my career as an investigator, my cheap Brooklyn apartment. Everything. That’s what life was telling me on that long bike ride back from the lighthouse. Time to re-invent this thing called Lodo Grdzak.

But a funny thing happened. When I got home from my apartment I began to pack my things. Sort through them as I prepared to leave town when my cellphone rang. The caller I.D. said WITHHELD, which meant that I normally wouldn’t pick up, but for some reason, I turned down the music and answered.

“This is Lodo.”

“Lodo! Barry S_____ . Remember me? You did some work for me about 3 or 4 years ago. That case with the bad burn out in _______.”

“Barry!” I responded, “Of course I remember you. What’s going on?”

“Well Lodo, I heard a rumor. I don’t know if its true or not, so I figured, why not call the guy. We always hit it off, at least I thought we had. Anyw...”

“Yeah of course we did. I had fun that night with those gals.”

(laughs) “Right! Good. Me too. ...So anyway, what I wanted to ask is...are you on the market right now?”

“What?--you mean for work?” I asked with a laugh.

“Yeah, of course! Christ, what’d you think I meant? You know I’ve always got my feelers out. Word gets around in this business. You still over at _______?”

“Yeah man, I’m still there,” I lied as I threw a pair of boots into my travel bag , “..at least until the end of the month.”

“Yeah? What’s at the end of the month?” he asked.

“That’s it, man. I’m outta there.”

“So what I heard is true.”

“Well, I’m not sure what you heard.”

“Ha!--same old Lodo. Listen, you wanna get together for dinner? Catch up a little bit?”

“...Okay, as long as there’s air conditioning.”

“Ha!--same old Lodo.”

Well, you all know from Part 1 that I landed my new job and got a month off to boot--so what does that tell you about the wisdom of quitting your job!

Man, I was outta New York so fast. All I wanted to do was throw the ball for my girl Spiffy and sleep with her in my bed. Plus I got to see my niece Jaybird again and even my man Catfish returned my call. “Freak, I got my medical marijuana card, so be sure to look me up when you get out here.”

So yeah, I had a full plate once I got out to Denver with no reason to think about my job or why I’d quit. Baseball games, horseback riding, whitewater rafting. And everything back in New York was right where I’d started. Even better, like a new episode of The Simpsons, with no need or reason to contemplate or consider what was gleaned from last week.

It was only my last day--or actually, my 2nd to last day that got me thinking again.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into one final excerpt. Hadn't really planned to split it here, but its been a long time between posts! Thanks for hanging around y'all!

When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 6* (*Scroll Down for Parts 1-5):

2010-09-17T05:13:00.000-07:00

"Can't get any further east than the lighthouse..."

For all my talk ‘bout how I’d quit my job, the status of my employment was still unknown until I returned to New York. Before I’d left for Maine the head of my company’s Claim Department called me to get a handle on what had happened and then a subsequent phone conversation took place with the Human Resources Manager. I felt I had a 50-50 shot at being asked to return, but all the managers would have to agree to it.

“So listen Lodo, is there any way you’d be willing to come back?” the Claims Head asked.

“..I suppose if _____ apologized I’d consider it,” I said, pressing my cellphone to my ear as I rode the AirTrain into JFK. “But it’d have to be in front of the unit, not just to me. He really embarrassed me and made me look like a fool. I still don’t know why he did that. I was on time for that meeting. We all agree on that. There were five of us and only four chairs. Wha...”

“Yeah--okay Lodo, we don’t have to go over that again. I understand why you got upset. Do me a favor, let us talk this thing over on this end and...would it be okay if we called you back in a few days?”

Sure, whatever. I knew my boss would never apologize. If I really wanted my job back I wouldn’t have made that demand, but what’d I care? As long as my family fits under my hat I can afford to feed it. That’s what Dickens might say and its a motto that’s served me well. Just another in a long string of jobs from which I’d quit or got fired. No forty years and the gold watch for me. These jobs always end, just like everything ends: friendships, lives, youth, health. I'm probably dying of cancer already. Only thing that seemed never to end was the heat of this fuck-wad New York summer.

Vacations end, that’s for sure. Once I returned from Maine--and after my sister and Jaybird went home, I’d planned to call a recruiter and work on my resume. That was the plan, but when I awoke to yet another 90+ degree day I stuffed my backpack full of clothes and hit the road for Long Beach.

Only before I got to the train station, my phone rang.

“Hey Lodo, its _____. Listen..(sigh), I went to bat for you, I really did. If it were solely up to me we’d keep you. But in the end, I don’t think things are gonna work out. I’m really sorry.”

Like I said reader, everything ends. And good riddance I said to myself as I made my way towards Jamaica en route to Long Beach.

But for some odd reason, the thought of Long Beach caused a sudden tightening in my chest. A twist of my belly. I mind-flashed to the last time I’d been there--that day with Iwona, then envisioned myself alone as I’d be today.

You know what? I don’t wanna go to Long Beach, I said to myself.

What? I responded, almost in a panic. Not go to Long Beach? Why not?

I don’t know. ‘Cause we’ve been going there for ten years.

...But then what’re we gonna do? We can’t go back in the city--don’t tell me we’re going back to the city!

(I laughed to myself).

...Naw, we’re not going back to the city.

And that’s how I wound up on the train to Montauk.

I stared out the window of the Long Island Railroad as each stop eastward clicked off one by one: Freeport; Merrick; Bellemore; Wantaugh. Sometimes I'd hear my former Claims Manager If it were solely up to me Lodo..., but eventually that voice quieted and my head cleared. I kept the Ipod turned off. Never opened my book or lifted my pen. My mind became empty, filled only with the rhythm of the train and the chatter of the rich people and elderly who don’t work weekdays as they made their way to The Hamptons.

Eventually we reached places I’d never been: Oakville; Sayville; Patchogue; Speonk; Amagansett. Funny names from olden times. Indian times. Until their time ended; like my train ride as we pulled into Montauk.

I don’t know what I’d expected from Montauk. It was more of an idea than an actual destination--like that ice cream stand I’ve often dreamed of opening in Madison, Wisconsin. Hell, I’ve never even been to Madison! But that place has symbolic meaning. It’s the thought that I could go that’s fueled me thru some dogshit days.

In Montauk you have to take cab from the train station to get into town. I wasn’t crazy ‘bout that, but I had a funny cabbie worthy of a future post. He dropped me off in the middle of town, where I could smell the open ocean and feel a genuine breeze.

As I closed the car door I planned to walk to the beach. That had been the sole vision in my mind’s eye the entire train ride--despite the new scenery, but immediately in front me was a bike rental shop where a teenaged kid in a black T-shirt stood outside.

“Hey there mister, wanna rent a bike? We’ve got a weekday special.”

“Naw, I’m off to the beach. Maybe later.”

“Come on, man. We’re getting killed out here this season. $12 bucks for half-a-day. You can ride all the way out to the lighthouse.”

“Yeah, what’s out there?”

“What’s out there?” the kid asked, seemingly surprised by my follow-up question. “Welll,..” he stammered with a scratch of his head, “I mean,..its the lighthouse. The end of everything.”

“The end of everything?” I asked with a laugh. “That’s a pretty dramatic statement.”

“Welll, the end of New York. America really. Can’t get any further east than the lighthouse. That’s it.”

“..And its worth seeing?” I asked.

“Sure,” the kid answered with growing confidence. “Its a real old lighthouse. And you look out over the ocean. Its...pretty,” he said, as though his young manhood struggled to say that word.

“Welll, I really want to get into that water.”

“Ah, come on man. The beach’ll be here. You can build up a good sweat, swim it off when you get back. It's still early. We’ve had a real tough season this year.”

Fucking kid. Got me with that last sob line.

So off I rode, six miles out to the lighthouse, where I scampered off into the brush to smoke some weed and take-in the scenery away from the tourists. I sat on the bluff and caught a buzz as I watched the waves and the boats and the tide roll away. It wasn’t Maine, but... I suddenly burst into laughter at the thought of that teenaged kid and his struggle with words.

It’s pretty he’d said and I said it again to myself out loud. Said it with awe and appreciation--and even a touch of odd trepidation before I got back on my bike and rode to...nowhere in particular.

"It's the end of everything."

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split into another few parts. Next excerpt after the weekend.

When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 5* (*Scroll Down for Parts 1-4):

2010-09-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

My sister (left); Jaybird (center); and my mom in white (almost smiling):

"Uncle Lodo."

"Wait a minute Jaybird, I'm talking."

My sister on our first day in Maine:

"Throw the softball with her or help her finish her puzzle. She likes that kind of stuff."

“So there’s five of us in my unit, okay? But there’s only four chairs in the office. So what am I supposed to do--right?”

“Right.”

“So I run out the office to grab the chair from my cubicle, when my boss suddenly snaps his fingers at me and is like ‘Oh no you don’t, you don’t go anywhere on my time. You ju..’”

Suddenly I heard my sister’s voice as she exited her bedroom.

“Lodo.”

“Wait a minute ____,” I told her over my shoulder, “I’m in the middle of something. ..So where was I...oh!--right. So I ran out the office to grab a chair from my cubicle whe...”

“Lodo!” my sister said again as I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned ‘round in my seat only to find her directly behind me, hands on her hips.

“What?” I asked as I looked up at her stern face.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“...Uh, sure,” I answered with a bit of concern, “what’s up?”

“..Not here,” she said, “in the bedroom.”

I followed my sister back into her bedroom and watched with curiosity as she closed the door behind her.

“..What’re you two talking about in there?” she asked once the door was sealed shut.

“I was telling Jaybird about what happened at work.”

“Really? Jaybird wanted to talk about that?”

“I think so,” I answered, somewhat confused.

“You do? Why?”

“..I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause she likes me. ..Truth be told, I don’t remember how the topic came up.”

“Okay--now that I believe. Listen Lodo, I’m gonna give you a bit of advice. Jay’s eleven. You get to see her maybe one week a year, so why don’t you have some fun with her. She doesn’t care ‘bout what happened with your boss, and even if she did--so what? Mom’s already moping around like her cat died, lets at least make this fun for Jay. We’ve planned this for months. Throw the softball with her or help her finish her puzzle. She likes that kind of stuff.”

“You think so?” I asked.

But by then my sister had already turned ‘round to walk out the room.

So okay, Jay and I went outside and threw the ball around til my folks came back from breakfast. Then we all went whale watching out by Bar Harbor.

And let me tell you reader, whales are freaking beautiful. I mean, I’m sure you already knew or assumed that; but for someone like me who spends six days a week in the shit-holes of The Bronx or Brooklyn, watching those whales was like an epiphany. Or perhaps I should say a reminder that there are larger forces in the world than us. Or me.

Yet huge as those whales were, I almost missed the first one. They don’t breach the surface for long, and even when they do they only reveal a small section of their enormous bodies. So you’ve gotta be attentive, which is why I stayed close to our guide.

“So there’s five of us in my unit, okay. But there’s only four chairs,” I told her while she scanned the surface for signs of life. “So what am I supposed to do, right?”

“Okay.”

“So I run out the office to grab my chair from my cu...”

“Uncle Lodo.”

“Wait a minute Jaybird, I’m talking. Anyway I run out the offi...”

“Uncle Lodo!” Jaybird screamed again with a tug on my arm, “look!”

At which point I turned just in time to see what turned out to be a Minke whale as it breached and dived below the surface.

Jay screamed with delight as we hugged each other and jumped up and down.

“That was so cool Uncle Lodo!”

“You bet it was sweetie!,” I responded before I turned back toward our guide.

“So anyway, I ran out the office to grab my chair whe...”

“Listen, don’t talk to me anymore,” the guide suddenly said with a raised hand, “I’ve got work to do.”

Well okay reader, I can take a hint even if it is subtle. And at the end of the day it was fine with me ‘cause Jay and I really got to bond. We saw lots of whales--a lot more than I’d expected and after awhile I think even my mom smiled amidst all that majestic beauty and familial love. Overall a near-perfect day, and nobody gets enough of those.

‘Course all good things come to an end, and eventually our week in Maine was up. But what was great was that my sister and Jay flew back to New York with me for one last day before returning to Colorado. So I took them for real pizza at Arturos and then to Coney Island where we rode The Cyclone til I got whiplash and re-herniated one of the discs in my back. Then Jay and I watched Simpsons re-runs and Spiderman til 3:00 in the morning while my sister snored away on the futon.

Next day I kept ‘em with me as long as I could, but eventually it came time to race them to the airport. They only made their flight ‘cause of help from the skycap, but at least they made it.

Thank God!” I told my sister over the phone when she called to tell me she was boarding, but once I shut off the phone and found myself alone in the green room I didn’t feel so happy after all. Not that I felt sad either, it was more like...I didn’t feel anything. Nowhere I had to be the next day. 95 degrees outside so no way I was leaving the apartment. I'd have really liked to pet my dog Spiffy, but she was out in Denver.

I bumbled ‘round my small apartment in a bit of a daze, surrounded by the unkept futon and empty Arturo’s box, which for some reason I was in no hurry to discard. I paced for several minutes, not sure what to do with myself, until finally I sat my ass down in my leather chair with the lumbar support.

I surveyed the empty apartment as though it weren’t my own until my eye landed on the Spiderman DVD case on the arm of the chair. I lifted the case, stared at the image, and let out a submissive sigh much like my dog Spiffy emits when there’s nothing left to do but stay put and watch the world go round.

In the Green Room:

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into several more parts. Next excerpt...hopefully after the weekend.

When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 4* (*Scroll down for Parts 1-3):

2010-09-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

"You ruined everything you ruiner!"

“So there’s five of us--right? But there’s only four chairs in the office, so what am I supposed to do?” I asked the couple in the seats across from me on the plane. “I ran out the office to grab the chair from my cubicle. But my boss is like...”

I recounted the story--the whole story as our plane taxied out toward the runway. But afterward the bleach-blonde woman with the white leather handbag just sat there with a blank look on her face.

“That’s it?” she asked with a baffled smile when I’d finished. “That made you so mad that you quit your job? That’s nothing.”

“Oh no,” her bulky husband suddenly interjected, “I understand what got him mad.”

“You do, right?” I asked him with a thankful look in my eye. “Was my boss messing me with me or not?”

“Oh he was definitely pulling rank on you.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed. “Pulling rank--well said. That’s just what he was doing,” I repeated as I reached across the aisle to shake the large man’s hand adorned with a college ring. “Pulling rank--that’s exactly what it was. ..In front of everybody!”

“...Whatever,” the wife responded with a shake of her head, “that’s what boss’s do.”

“No I don’t think so,” I snapped back. “There’s a way you’re supposed to treat people you work with. I see these people everyday. More than my family. I always made that guy look great. Always killed on these moronic evaluations they used to score our performance. Always...”

Suddenly I felt a light tap on my shoulder and heard a soft voice in my ear.

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to be quiet while my partner demonstrates the seatbelts and points-out the exit rows.”

“What? Oh, yeah--sure” I answered with muted agitation. “Listen, get me a Johnny Walker would you please.”

“Sir, cocktail service won’t begin until we reach full cruising altitude and the captain’s turned off the seatbelt sign. Its a short flight to Maine, I hope we can get there without any trouble.”

Without any trouble? What’d this woman think? That I was gonna go apewire there on the plane? This family trip had been planned for over six months, no way I was going to fuck it up.

But as it turned out I’d already ruined everything. ‘Cause I’m a ruiner as Sherri and Terri might say from The Simpsons. Quit my job a week before our vacation so that my poor mother couldn’t sleep or eat or even speak to me on the phone due to her anger and disappointment.

Luckily I had someone to talk to before seeing the fam.

“So there’s five of us--right? But there’s only four chairs in the office, so what am I supposed to do?” I asked the cabbie as he drove me toward the hotel. “ I ran out the office to grab the chair from my cubicle. But my boss snaps his fingers at me and is like...”

“Oh hell no!” the cabbie said as we locked eyes via his rearview mirror affixed to the windshield.

“Yeah! I’m telling you, that’s what he did--in front of everybody,” I answered as I finished the story.

“You see,” the cabbie told me when I was done and we rolled up to the hotel, “that’s why I work for myself. ‘Cause I can’t take shit like that anymore. Not at my age. Life’s too short.”

“Damn right,” I said as I paid him and slapped another ten-spot in his palm. “There’s a way you’re supposed to treat people.”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into a few more parts. Thanks to all those who've stuck with it thus far!!

When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 3* (*Scroll down for Parts 1 & 2):

2010-09-02T15:32:00.000-07:00

N.Y.C. Forecast: July 2010

"Smoking her Newport 100's in her worn cotton dress and flip-flops..."

My old boss looked a lot like NBA legend Darryl "Chocolate Thunder" Dawkins

"I feel like my soul is empty. My blood is cold and I can't feel my legs."

Perhaps its best I’ve waited till now for this excerpt since only now is New York experiencing the kind of heat we had back in July when I quit my job. Well over a month ago, but just like today the temperatures were 95-plus. Over 100 on the dank subway platforms, ensconced in the airless humidity and foul sweat as though I were a tampon stuffed up the twat of a Spanx-wearing crackwhore infected with syphillis. ...Cccan’t breathe!!

Nope--doesn’t get hotter than July; that’s what Stevie would tell you and everyday that infamous month of 2010 was more humid than the last. Until finally that Thursday which blew ‘em all away.

My first appointment was up in the Bronx. Not even 10:30 in the morning and New York already hit 90. The Dominican woman I had to meet was on the 5th floor of a walk-up near Elder Avenue. I knew she wouldn’t have A/C, but held out hope until the end. 'Til she opened her apartment door and I saw that pathetic, lone window fan that didn’t even take up the whole sill. (heavy sigh).

No A/C and no English. Not much that she’d reveal anyway. Smoking her Newport 100’s in her worn cotton dress and flip-flops as she filled the kitchen with second-hand smoke that swirled ‘round the cheap table and clung to my clothes like a malevolent spirit.

How much they gonna give me? she asked with a conspiratorial smile as she blew out the hot smoke, “...’cause I think I feelin’ worse today.”

She knew how to say that much.

There was some bad mojo in that apartment. Some kind of voodoo. That Caribbean woman never broke a sweat, yet I walked out the door drenched in perspiration. Spent and confused, as though my soul had been emptied. I staggered back to my office and its A/C like a lost man in the desert seeks solace from a mirage. A/C. P-p-p-please. I’ll do anything.

I returned to work on time for my unit meeting--no one argues that. Not even my old boss. Someone had to be last in his office and it happened to be me. There were (5) of us, but only (4) chairs, so what was I supposed to do?

But I can’t re-hash that now. No one close to me can stand to hear it again. It’d just be you and me reader if I bring it up one more time. That’s what I’ve been assured by family and close-friends alike, so the story of that meeting will have to be a future post.

But I can tell you I wasn’t wrong. Not by a longshot. It wasn’t just the heat (as has been alleged by some). There’s a proper way to treat people. A way you must treat people--especially people who work hard for you and make you look good. Who help you succeed and who believe in team.

“What did you make of what happened in there Cindy?” I asked my co-worker afterward. She’d been at the meeting and I wanted some perspective. “You think I overreacted?”

“Honestly Lodo?” she asked as she looked up from her chair with timid eyes, “...it was weird.”

“It was weird, wasn’t it?!” I asked.

“Yeah,” she emphasized again, in a reassuring manner, “...but was it bad enough where I would have quit?”

“What?!” I interjected “you don’t think I should be seriously offended?”

“I didn’t say that Lodo,” Cindy answered as she slowly retreated from me in her cheap office chair, “...I’m just saying. What're you gonna do now?”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into some additional parts. Next post should be sometime over the weekend. Thanks for reading!!

When The Love Runs Out, Its Time to Hit The Road--Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

2010-08-25T17:16:00.000-07:00

"...Agata, Ilona, Marta, Camilla, Joanna--one of them was always at the beach."

w/ Gosha (left) and Iwona (right):

w/ Ilona:

Agata in Central Park:

Ms. Lulu:

I first went to Long Beach with my buddy Jake about 10 years ago. Then Jake began to date Ms. Lulu and it became Jake, Ms. Lulu and me. Shortly thereafter, Lulu’s friends Mike and Ike began to go with us; and then I met the Polish gals and one of them was always at the beach! Agata, Ilona, Marta, Iwona, Camilla, Gosha, Joanna. For a writer, I’d say that’s a lot of social acquaintances. Maybe even a record--but of course, I’m just a blogger.

The first text message I ever got was from Agata. Lodo--wake up sleepy. We’re going to the beach!

It used to be all the Polish girls would lay-out in the sun topless. No sunscreen--just baby oil. It’d be (10) gals and me stretched-out on our blankets next to Jake, Lulu, Mike and Ike. We’d bake under the rays; play frisbee and paddle ball. Ride the waves for hours on end then catch the 2-for-1 Happy Hour at Beach Cafe. Man we had some laughs on the train ride back to Woodside! Sunburnt and spent, with the sand and salt still in our hair. But that was a long time ago.

This summer, no one’s been around. Note how many names are listed at the top of this post. A double-digit figure, but the best one--Jake’s gone forever. Course I still see Lulu from time to time, but as for the Polish gals? Ilona and Marta moved to Florida last winter. Joanna got married. Gosha took her kids to Moscow and Agata’s had a steady boyfriend all summer. Meanwhile Camilla had some kind of shoulder surgery that’s kept her from the beach since June.

So back in mid-July, about a week before I quit my job and in the midst of New York City’s hottest day of the last (6) years, it was just Iwona and me at Long Beach.

“You’re going to get cancer if you keep using that stuff,” she said to me with her thick East-European accent.

“Excuse me?” I asked as I continued to apply my sunscreen.

“Your body needs sun,” she stressed. “Vitamin D. I don’t know what kind of plastic they put in that lotion to block-out the sun, but its not good for your body. It absorbs the chemical. Plus it washes off into the water and hurts the plants. I’ll bet you already have cancer from that stuff.”

“...You bet I already have cancer?” I asked again as I sat down on my blanket.

“Yep,” she answered with a laugh as she waived disdainfully at my sunscreen. “From that plastic stuff in the bottle.”

“...So you’re gonna sit out here all day and not use anything?”

“Damn right--I don’t want the cancer.”

Well reader, there are some comments to which no reply will move the conversation forward. So rather than respond to Iwona I proceeded to fold my towel into a pillow, lay down on my blanket, and close my eyes.

I began to descend into sleep, but Iwona’s voice suddenly snapped me back.

“...We’re the last one’s now,” she said out of nowhere.

My eyes opened from behind my sunglasses, but I didn’t turn in her direction. Instead I stared at the cloud formations in the sky.

“What’s that?” I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant.

“Of the group,” she said with her thick accent, “Of all of them, we’re the last one’s left. Does that worry you a little bit?"

"...Not really," I answered

“No?--Why not?" she asked as she blindly reached for my hand.

"...I guess cause I’m dying of cancer."

Jake:

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into several more parts.

When The Love Runs Out, Time to Hit The Road (Part One):

2010-08-22T14:43:00.000-07:00

"...like that interpreter in Private Ryan with the ammo belt..."

Catfish (left); Lodo Grdzak (right): In Denver

Catfish (front left); EP (2nd from left); Lodo Grdzak (middle); Guide (face obscured):

"There's a girl I'd definitely like to see."

The voice in last night’s dream said blog like you’ve never blogged before, which struck me as a moronic statement even then, let alone now in print. What it means to blog still unclear, though I think it meant it's time to relieve myself of these accumulated stories rather than stifle them down the way EP choked his vomit down before our trip on the Arkansas River. A bad portent for sure, yet validated entirely by his performance out on the water. Catfish and I navigating our way thru endless pushy 3’s and 4’s while EP simply cringed and heaved and stared into the bottom of the raft like that nerdy interpreter in Private Ryan who sat and cried with the ammo belt in that final battle scene. Uh,..tough time to bail on us you wanted to tell that guy and what I’d have told EP. But as we approached a lull in the river’s current EP must have sensed our mood and thus immediately interjected before we could comment, “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

Sure, no sleep. I suppose that’s an excuse just like our guide’s being a former Army Ranger could excuse his constant use of the words gay and Jew to describe various aspects of our performance and the scenery.

"Now when your guide tells you to paddle,” he told the group while we were on the bus, “don’t just stick your paddle in the water and splash it around. That’s gay. You need to pull with your whole core (here he demonstrated the technique) all the way past your body--okay. None of that gay stuff.”

And later as we passed a huge cliff with a large protuberance our guide told us, “You see this rock here?--we call it The Jew ‘cause it looks like it has a real big nose. See it there? Looks just like a big Jew.”

Did I mention I have a huge nose reader?

Well, I guess you can’t stay in New York City forever, even if you’re mantra is to stay put and watch the world go round. As for myself, I’ve been on the road for the last month--Maine, Montauk, Colorado, Kansas. Hell, if lack of sleep made me sick I’d have puked non-stop since July. Ever since I met with my new boss in Corona towards the end of last month.

“Lodo, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Tell me again what happened.”

At which point I provided a detailed explanation of what caused me to quit my last job. A description I’ll perhaps post at a later time, but will avoid now for brevity; and because those closest to me all agree its time to let it go.

But back in July it still felt good to get it out--each phrase capped with an exclamation point or a fist slam on the hardwood table until I was about to stand-up from my chair before my new boss descended into a giggle fit and gestured for me to sit down.

“So you just quit?!” he asked as he wiped a merry tear from his eye.

“Yep, right then and there,” I responded still breathing hard.

“Oh that’s classic! Good for you. ...So what’re you gonna do now?”

“Well there’s talk of possibly assigning me to a desk so I could work for a different supervisor. But that’s just talk for now. All the manager’s would have to agree to it and I don’t see that happening.”

My new boss looked at me skeptically.

“A desk?” he asked with eyes locked on mine.

“Yeah,” I responded with darting eyes.

“You?” he asked again, this time with just a hint of the Cheshire’s grin.

“...Yep,” I answered, “I am getting older.”

“Yeah you are,” he answered as he momentarily looked away. “...Listen Lodo, I’m not gonna beat ‘round the bush. You’ve got a job right now if you wanna work for me.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised by his abruptness. “I brought a resume with me and a few report samples if yo...”

“Please,” he said as he waved me off. “I don’t need any of that--I remember your work. Those guys at _______ are idiots to have let you go, but I can see why you wouldn’t fit into that culture. I’ve got a ton of cases right now you can handle. My clients would love you. What were you making at ______?”

“$_______.___”

“You got it. How much vacation do you need?”

“Uh..okay--wow,... __ days?”

“Done. Plus I’ll give you 6% of everything you bill out--to start, a laptop, and I’ll put you on my health insurance right away. What d’ya say?”

“Well,...whew! This is a bit of a surprise. A pleasant one for sure, but...”

“Tell you what Lodo--think about it. Get the hell out of New York for awhile. This summer’s’ been too freaking hot. I’m not going anywhere and once you get out you can gain some perspective.”

“...I suppose that sounds like a good idea. There’s a girl in Denver I’d definitely like to see.”

“So go see her. Talk it over with her. ...’Cause lets be honest Lodo,” he said as he raised his wine glass for a toast, “I don’t see you leaving the road.”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into...several more parts.

2010-08-19T08:16:00.000-07:00

New writing in a few days y'all. In the meantime...I'm just staying put and watching the world go round!!!

Billy Cobham w/ John Scofield (guitar), Alphonso Johnson (bass), and George Duke (keys): Red Baron:

Blogging's Complicated (or maybe...A Post Without Pics?)

2010-08-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

Her: "You haven't posted in a long time."

Lodo: "That's not true, I've posted a lot of pics."

Her: "You know what I mean. Those aren't real posts."

Lodo: "They're not?"

Her: "No, not writing posts."

Lodo: "...Well, I've been traveling."

Her: "So, you should keep a journal. Just a few paragraphs every few days or so. You'd kill at that."

Lodo: "...Naw, I forgot my camera's USB cord so I can't post any of the pics I've taken. A blog post needs pics."

Her: "Is that right?"

Lodo: "Absolutley."

Her: "..But its okay to post pictures without writing?"

Lodo: "I do it all the time. No one's going to read a post without pics--but they'll look at cool photos if they're great."

Her: "Hmm. I guess blogging's more complicated than I'd realized."

-extended silence-

Lodo: "Besides, Stays Put is a New York blog. If I write about traveling its kind of defeats the theme of my blog."

Her: "..Really? I thought the title Stays Put was meant to promote a state of mind more than being about..literally staying in one spot or New York or..."

Lodo: "Actually I stole it from Henry Miller. He had this line where he said "Stay put, and watch the world go round!"

Her: "I know where it comes from. But I thought the line was trying to convey a philosophy of...you know, being the hub of the wheel or being everywhere at once. Like that Be Here Now/Now Be Here crap you always spout off. You don't think so?"

Lodo: "...I suppose you could be right. Its a complicated line. Maybe I could write about my travels. ...But a post without pics? Is that even blogging?"

(heavy sigh) More NYC Pics!--double-click on Image for full-view

2010-08-09T08:33:00.000-07:00

Real Good Panel Truck:

Red Paint Splattered on 5 Pointz Wall:

Mural at A/C Train Station in Soho:

Dead-Man's Party at Houston Street:

Electric Box on Lower East Side:

Bad Pic (I was drunk), but great mural off Houston Street:

* All Pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. NYC, NY. All rights reserved. 2010.

NYC Pics* (*double-click on Image for Full-View):

2010-08-05T06:46:00.001-07:00

Back-side of 5 Pointz:

Shiggy:
2 Dogs!:

Throwin' it down!:

Breaking the sound barrier on a motorcycle:

Street Girls (my favorite kind!):

Joker w/ Gotham in background( posted this once before, but mural hadn't been completed yet. Freaking great!):

Somewhere in Bronx:

All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. All rights reserved. Most murals completed by 5 Pointz artists, Long Island City, NY. Great work guys!!

Dedication to My Man VintageZ::

2010-07-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

Vintage and Lulu:

"We were so close some of my pictures didn't come out since the stage-lights messed with my camera's auto-focus."

Lodo: "You know these names here?"

Vintage: "I wouldn't be surprised if they're well known."

I don’t remember the first time I spoke to my man Vintage. He’s one of those guys who walks the streets with a presence. Someone you know’s in the room even when your back’s turned. Not that I’d ever turn my back on Vintage--I’m just saying, he’s one of those guys you’re aware of long before you’ve ever talked to him.

As a writer--and particularly an investigator, I’m always intrigued by people who don’t fit in the box. The black Republican. The gay conservative. Not that I necessarily like these people or believe they’re properly integrated, but they’re intriguing. Interesting. Particularly to someone like myself who seeks patterns to behavior.

Vintage is one of those conundrums that I get a real kick out of. He tends to walk the streets in camouflage pants and an NRA ball-cap which, combined with his long, unkempt biker-beard and bald head project a definite skinhead vibe.

But Vintage’s rough exterior is softened by his constant companion--his French bulldog Lulu; and as it turns out, Vintage makes his living as (of all things!) an art dealer. Go figure.

Again, I can’t recall our first conversation, but the first time we actually hung-out was when I got a call from Vintage.

“Yo Lodo, its Vintage. Remember me?”

“You’d be pretty hard to forget.”

“Ha! Listen, I’ve got an extra ticket for Buddy Guy tonight. You wanna go?”

“Buddy Guy? No shit. Where’s he playing?”

“Out here in Jersey.”

“Jersey?”

(laughs) “I’ll drive, man. Just take a PATH train to Jersey City.”

Well between all my hemming and hawing about getting out to Jersey and the fact that I took the wrong train, we didn’t get to that Buddy Guy show until about five minutes before showtime. Keep in mind, we didn’t have an assigned seat--it was General Admission and the house was sold-out. So I assumed we’d watch that show from the rear of the balcony.

But Vintage walked us calmly from his truck to the venue like we had reserved seats. He threw open the front doors, marched us deliberately down the aisle to the front row where everyone (security included) simply made way, 'til we rested our elbows right on the stage. No sooner had we done so than the lights dimmed and Buddy appeared. Wow. We were so close I could have touched the guy. In fact, some of my pictures didn’t come out since the colored stage-lights messed with my camera’s auto focus. I mean, we were on the stage.

That was the first time Vintage and I hung out, but it was the last time I saw him that prompted this post. Days mean nothing to me now, so its hard for me to remember; but it had to be either Wednesday or Thursday of last week. It was only on accident that we bumped into each other, but as we shared a beer Vintage suddenly had an epiphany.

“You know Lodo, I’ve got something out in my truck you might like. Something that made me think of you when I saw it.”

Of course I was intrigued, so after we finished our beers we walked to Vintage’s truck, where he carefully pulled a painting from out the hatch.

It was a good painting. My kind of painting--with a New York subway car covered in graffiti and high-quality calligraphy in bright colors.

“Wow Vintage, I like this.”

“I thought of you as soon as I saw it,” he said with a warm laugh.

“...Wow,” I repeated as we continued to absorb the artwork, “ I really like this.”

“C’mon,” Vintage said, “lets drive it to your apartment to see how it looks.”

“Naw man,” I answered somewhat apologetically, “now probably isn’t a good time for me to be buying art.”

“Listen Lodo, lets just take it over there to see how it looks.”

So we went to my apartment and of course the painting looked great. Not only a perfect fit aesthetically, but in proper lighting it was obvious the painting itself was even better than I’d realized outdoors.

“Look at some of the names on here,” I said to Vintage as we re-inspected the canvass. “Odd Partnerz. James TOP. You know those names?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised of these guys are well known,” Vintage answered. “I buy and sell a lot of artwork Lodo and this one struck me right away. There’s something to it. I thought of you when I saw it. That’s why I want you to have it.”

I hadn’t quite grasped what Vintage was saying since I’d moved to my computer to Google some of the names. James TOP. Dondi. Odd Partnerz. Graffiti. New York City. What I got was:

Train muralist James Top (aka JEE 2) was part of the legendary Odd Partners in the 1970s. The Brooklyn crew bombed with throw ups and block letters; they were highly regarded and had a strong presence in the city. These days Top has taken his art indoors -- teaching a graffiti class in the Bronx and, this weekend, opening his first New York exhibit.

Afrology opens this Friday and includes the debut of seventeen variations of "the 1970’s Afro hairstyle that illustrate humorous and serious messages about being an African American within the United States and in New York City." We recently asked him about the early days of graffiti writing as well as his latest endeavours.

How, and when, did you get into writing graffiti? Everyone around the neighborhood was doing it. I was about 12 years old...

Do you recall your first experience using a train as your canvas? Please tell us about it, and the early years of graffiti in the city. My first experience was in the train yards--- really for the first year and a half I began writing my names on the building walls of my projects. I graduated up to trains and became the King. Mickey729, Hurst and In1 and myself formed the legendary crew: The Odd Partners. We worked central Brooklyn and became legendary.

Early graffiti in the city was really fun. All the kids were doing graffiti at the time, every block had a writer. We wrote our names more than anybody. Our energy was different and it was a lot stronger than other local writers. With every train line we took over, we eventually became the kings of that train line— IRT, BMT, IND it didn’t matter. We went where other people didn’t go. Even though each line had it’s respective King, we would writer over their tag and dominate that line. Even those Kings had to bow down to us and there wasn’t really any major beef behind that— we were well received. There wasn’t really competition. It was really “us” vs. the MTA who often tried to clean up our tags. Everyone tried to find a new style but ours became the best style to mimic: the “throw up”. It’s close to a tag but takes more skills to execute with one fill-in color and one outline. We used a lot of silver and black. Mostly “high heat silver” from automotive stores— very luminous stuff.

Did you have any favorite spots back then? I grew up in the projects right next to the Euclid Avenue// A train local train yards. It was very comfortable for me to go out into that massive yard and write. It was the A, AA, E, F and sometimes the G. From that one spot, I hit up 5 trains and became an “all city kid.” We also liked the “lay-up” at the Atlantic Avenue yard where coincidentally, we were up nearly 10 stories high and watched the city go black—hence, the blackout of 1977. Down the block from me was another yard called the New Lots Yard where the 2 & 3 trains were parked.

If you could hit any New York train/building/wall today, which would it be? It would be the A line, that’s my home line and it would run through areas where my friends currently reside.

Do you have a most memorable run-in with the law? (laughs) No comment. (laughs again)

What do you think of street art? Some people consider graffiti art to be street art but unfortunately that’s not true. I don’t classify my artwork as street art. I never use the term street art, not even when my art is in the gallery.

Who do you like that's still writing today? I’ve worked with the very best in this art form. However, I don’t comment about vandalism as I don’t attach myself to random acts of vandalism. But the best writers I know are Mickey729, Hurst, and Dondi, (RIP to them all) and let’s not forget Knock167 who is still alive today.

You currently teach a somewhat controversial graffiti class at Hostos College; what do you teach your students in this class, and what are they most interested in taking away from it? I teach the history of graffiti art forms, how they started and evolved from trains to everywhere all over the world. I try to also have people come in and explain their experiences being graffiti artists. I also show movies and documentaries about graffiti in an effort to showcase different styles. We take trips to see legal graffiti murals. I feel as though I am best to teach this class because I was there when graffiti began and I was in it— I was there. I continue to find information on this art form on a variety of levels and I share it with the students so that they can see how to transform their own style writing into different ways. The students get to learn that hip hop was born in the same borough where the college is— they live where hip hop was born. And with graffiti being associated with Hip-Hop, it means that there is a rich culture right under their noses. Through the class, they learn the illustrious history behind the culture and the people in graffiti arts especially in the south Bronx Community

Your first solo show opens this month, how long have you been preparing for it, and can you tell us a little about what to expect? It’s really my first solo NYC show, but I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. Corrupt systems are an important factor in my artwork. I get to express my anger, concern, and frustration with drugs infiltrated in our neighborhood. On the upside, a black man running for president is a representation of positive changes in our community. These few issues are what my canvases address. It’s New York City! The best city in the world! I couldn’t miss out on not having my show here. This is my home and it won’t be my last solo show either.

Given the opportunity, how would you change New York? I would have a program that involves the youth of New York City where we get them to legally paint murals throughout the summer in order to beautify the city and integrate graffiti into our neighborhoods. With the help of the youth expressing varying styles and messages regarding the community, it can bring about self-esteem to see how one has helped beautify their communities through personal artwork. I would definitely get rid of those pesky graffiti laws. I would want to have more art based programs in and after schools for graffiti based art.

-End Article-

“Uh, Vintage, you may want to look at this.”

After our bit of research it was clear my unemployed ass was not gonna be in the market for Vintage's high-end artwork. But I wasn’t upset. In fact, I was happy for Vintage and his keen eye. He’d made a nice score.

We admired the painting with our newfound information until finally I interjected.

“Alright man, let’s walk it back down to your truck.”

“What d’ya mean?” Vintage asked with a furrowed brow, “I told you, I want you to have it.”

“Aw Vintage, I’m sorry man. This just isn’t a good time for me to buy anything. This thing’s worth real mone...”

“Who said anything about buying, man? I told you, I want you to have this. It’s perfect for you.”

“What?”

“I told you Lodo, I thought of you right away.”

My Man Vintage (big thanks friend!!):

Buddy Guy: Five Long Years

Buddy Guy and Jeff Beck: Let me Love You (at Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame 25th Anniversary Concert, NYC):

It Ain't Easy being Kanye in a Taylor Swift World

2010-07-28T08:43:00.000-07:00

My favorite porn-star (Jada Fire):

Its been said that if you want to get something done, give it to a busy man. That may sound like a conundrum, but I think get the logic behind it. Busy people are organized people. Task-oriented. Whereas people with unstructured time on their hands tend to get lost in their own thoughts and internet pornography.

Since quitting my job, I've slowly descended into that latter camp. I'd have probably arrived sooner had my family not come to town last week. Their brief visit helped stave off the uncertainty of my future, but they left last Thursday and now I find myself alone with a few still photos from Coney Island and my mother's words spinning round in my head. I can still hear them echo thru the inner chambers of my now vacuous mind, though now that we've reconciled, they elicit more of a chuckle than the nervous anxiety of a week ago.

With that said, I'm going to cheat a bit this post since I really have no new writing. You'd think all this free time would provide me the opportunity to work on some of those larger/longer stories I've never had the courage to tackle, but instead I find my morning coffee takes me hours to finish and one You Tube clip seamlessly leads to the next, 'til 10:00 a.m. turns into noon and far beyond.

Well, we'll obviously have to rectify that; but for now, here's some out-takes from a brief conversation between my mom and I that took place last week.

Mom: "You know, ever since you met that guitar hero of yours you’ve gotten all high and mighty with yourself. 'I’m great. No one can talk to me like that.' You...

Me: "They can’t. I mean, unless they’re going to kick my ass. A lot of people can do that. But not in a business setting. I don’t have to take that and I'm not going to."

Mom: "You’re supposed to be a New Yorker Lodo. Don’t be so thin-skinned. "

Me: "I am a New Yorker and I don’t take shit like that. I am great. When Jeff B..."

Mom: "Oh again with this guy--you won a contest Lodo! That’s an accomplishment?! My God its already a long time ago. I swear if I ever meet this Jeff...whatever character I’d like to give him a piece of my mind to let him know how he’s corrupted you. Really--I don’t think you’d have quit if you hadn’t met that guy. You never talked about it before.”

“Sure I would’ve.”

"No--I don’t think so! You met that guy and that...Dog Person and now I think you feel you’re some kind of big-shot or something."

“I met Keifer Sutherland too--did I tell you that? He thought he knew me.”

“I can’t listen to this, your brain’s gone to mush smoking all that stuff you smoke.”

Anyway, I'm so damn glad my mom and I are talking again. She'll always be my greatest champion.

* SPECIAL NOTE: Just as an aside, we at Stays Put have to give a big shout-out to stupid Jake who got hit by a car yesterday out in Denver. Glad you're okay buster! (though I can't shake the fear that you're always seconds away from sticking that snout of yours into the proverbial beehive). Well, good luck!

Jake (in front)/Spiffy (right):

Somebody Still Loves Me:

2010-07-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

"How can you quit a job in this economy?"
No need for proper tenses now. Or grammar. Or linear chronology. Not when you’re free as a pirate on the sea, spun and tossed atop life’s frothy waves like a loose ragdoll in the last car of The Cyclone. No job. No attachments. Finally able to breathe after our escape from the steamy City and its ozone-choked air. Out to Coney Island and its ocean breeze and its rickety, wooden roller-coaster that smashed my brain concussively, side-to-side in my skull as my sister and little niece howled and shrieked in the terrified exultation of the ride’s unseen, hairpin turns. Life passing so fast that time almost stopped--only now and nowness in the vortex of my vertigo.

"I love you Uncle Lodo," Jaybird emphasized with an unsolicited hug as I stumbled out the last car of the small coaster; Jay’s young arms wrapped tight 'round my waist as though I were a lifejacket, though in truth I was the one in need as I fumbled for balance beneath the bright suspended moon that glowed above our insignificance down to the boardwalk below. Weekends, weekdays--nothing but days thru which I float now that I’ve removed myself from the gravitational force of the workweek.

"How do you quit a $________ a year job in this economy? my mom asked incredulously. You know how many people would kill for that job?

“I told you on the phone, I was insulted.”

“Excuse me?” my mom asked, though I know she heard me.

“I was insulted and humiliated,” I told her again, “..in front of all my co-workers. I don’t know why my boss did that. All I ever did was make him look great.”

My mom looked at me quizzically. As though something were missing behind my eyes, or perhaps something was there she hadn’t seen before.

“You were insulted Lodo?-- so the hell what?! Who are you? That was a good job. Every two weeks you got paid. And to think you just walked away with no prospects. Now what’re you gonna do for health insurance? And you can’t even collect unemployment ‘cause you quit. Where’s your responsibility? How could you just up and do that?”

Now it was my turn to look at her quizzically.

“’Cause I’m great and I’m not going to be treated like that.”

“What?” my mom asked with a sarcastic laugh as her arms dropped to her sides with a pronounced slap against her thighs. “What’d you say?”

“I said I’m great,” I repeated as I locked eyes with hers. “You of all people should realize that.”

But she just shook her head and stormed out the room.

But that’s all in the past, just like that job or the minute or two since this post first started. In my mind I can control time’s direction, but otherwise its always forward, forward--older and older till the lifeforce fades and fear sets-in and; if you’re like most, you get married, have kids, cling to a job in a desperate attempt for a sense of permanency or security. Something to keep you anchored in the sea of lonely, terrifying possibility we call freedom.

“What’re you thinking about Uncle Lodo?” my niece asked as we stood on the boardwalk and stared out at the moon-lit ocean.

“...I’m thinking we should ride The Cyclone again. What do you think?”

Jaybird laughed and stomped her feet as she immediately pulled me toward the coaster.

“I love you Uncle Lodo.”

Kid Creole & The Coconuts: Endicott

NYC Pics* (*Double-click on Pics for Full-View):

2010-07-21T06:30:00.001-07:00

Lower East Side (or possibly Brooklyn--can't remember!):

Brooklyn:

Summer in New York (Freaking hot!):

Williamsburg Bridge:

Grumpy Belle:

Boozed-up Bunny Just Keeps Going! (Brooklyn):

Sexy, Trippy Sax Gal:

* All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. (5) Boroughs of NYC. All rights reserved.

NYC Pics--Williamsburg, Brooklyn* (*Double-click on images for Full-View):

2010-07-16T12:49:00.001-07:00

NYC Pics* (*Double-Click on photo for Full-View):

2010-07-13T20:03:00.001-07:00

West Village:

Can't remember if this is Lower East Side or Williamsburg, Brooklyn:

Definitely Bronx:

Billy's Antiques (Houston Street):

Corona (Queens):

Self-Portrait at home* (*ever since I met Keifer Sutherland I've been trying to improve my self-portrait technique w/ my camera):

Bad Pussies (Parts 1 & 2):
* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak (not that there's any real skill involved). Five Boroughs, NYC. All rights reserved.

Freedom!

2010-07-10T07:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve been told by my most loyal fan that if I mention a certain British guitar legend (1) more time in the near-future I’ll have lost a reader. So I’ll choose a different musical icon to illustrate my theme for today.

About a decade or so ago (gosh--probably even more than that) a very young, tight Mariah Carey got signed to a $25 million dollar deal by Sony Records. Actually, she was signed by Tommy Mottola who later became her husband. Course Tommy was 21 years older than Mariah, but that’s life. And for $25 million dollars, I’d say they both scored.

But if you know anything about life, you know the man always gets the better deal, and it didn’t take long for that to become clear to Mariah. Sure Tommy paid her a shitload of money, but that was Sony’s money--not his; whereas she had to shake her ass and pump-up her tits and belt out the tunes night after night for that same $25 million she started with. For I don’t know how many years or albums her contract dictated.

And the material she was asked to sing was so freaking bad! I’ll Be There. Forever. And who can forget the infamous Glitter soundtrack. White-bread, cross-over shit that seemed specifically designed to court an audience that had no soul or ethnicity whatsoever.

Well, say what you will about Mariah, but she’s from New York. Big city girl of mixed-race heritage who’s got some skills. I don’t know if she deserves to have more # 1 hits than Elvis (in fact, I'm sure she doesn’t), but she’s definitely got a range and (at least 5 or 10 years ago) a smoking hot, fuck-me body. All being wasted on cornball Disney soundtracks and an old man 21 years her senior. Mariah couldn’t be Mariah.

Aw, poor baby! For $25 million dollars I’d wear my underpants on my head and let a dildo hang out my ass on You Tube. That’s what a lot of people said when Mariah had her nervous breakdown and demanded to be released from her Sony contract. They said it about George Michael too. Spoiled divas.

Well, maybe. But at the end of the day, what’s the point in being loved if you’re not being yourself? That’s what Woody Allen said in Zelig and I’d say he’s a pretty great artist. The purpose of life is to discover and develop your soul, then search for avenues that help you express it. At least, that’s an artist’s life and I don’t care how much money you make; after awhile, if you can’t do that you begin to feel like a constipated Jew who hasn’t taken a shit in (2) weeks. Life becomes uncomfortable in your own skin.

As for myself, I’m an artist. I have an artist’s temperament and sensibility even if I make my money as an investigator. Or perhaps I should say made my money as an investigator.

‘Cause now I’m simply an artist--nothing more. I quit my job yesterday much to the shock and amazement of...well, pretty-much everybody, myself included. The head of my department’s jaw dropped open when I told him. My mom cried and thus far refuses to speak with me. My sister’s only concern is that now I may have to leave New York. But what about all the shows we’re gonna miss? Did you ever think about that Lodo? The shows. You love New York!

That’s true I do. And hopefully I’ll be able to stay. But its gonna be on my terms--no one else’s. You can do that when you have no wife, no kids, no house, and no car payment. You can be your own person.

And that’s what I am--now and forever.

Not real big on Mariah as an artist, but this is a smoking tune and vid:

Happy Birthday Spiffy!

2010-07-05T15:58:00.000-07:00

"That's a lot of money to pay for a rescue dog."

"She couldn't have been more than a foot long...maybe 5 or 6 pounds."
"...Get your ball. Now your rope. Now Bone. Now frisbee."

My dog Spiffy’s birthday was yesterday. Actually, we’re not really sure when Spiffy was born--but we celebrate her birthday on July 4th.

I first got Spiffy in August of 2000, from a puppy rescue in North Denver. Had to pay $75.00 for the adoption, shots; and to get her fixed. “That’s a lot of money to pay for a rescue dog,” my dad told me at the time. Please. I love my dad heart and soul, but when he says things like that..makes me so mad. $75.00 for Spiffy? That was the greatest steal of all-time.

When I took Spiffy home from the rescue they said, “Don’t be surprised if she gets sick in the car--that happens with a young pup." Yeah, yeah. Spiffy instantly passed-out on the center console of my old T-Bird. She couldn’t have been more than a foot long and maybe 5-6 pounds. I got her home about an hour later; opened the car door and gently placed her on the grass. She looked up at me with a bit of dreamy confusion then proceeded to take a piss. Good girl.

The first 8 months I had Spiffy I was unemployed, so we spent everyday together. I taught her to run next to me on the bike and to go into her crate on command. Mornings began with a leash-walk to the local coffee shop, then we’d get home and work vocabulary as I sipped my Grande Mocha Latte. Spiffy, get your ball. Ball. Now your rope. Get your rope. Now bone. Now frisbee. Now collar. Now we need your leash. Then we’ll ride in the car. And go the park. To fetch sticks.

Spiffy got a lot of words down fast and was a quick thinker, but was also the cutest pup that ever happened. The first time my friend Rules saw her she immediately fell to the floor and gushed all over her.

“Oh my God Lodo, she’s darling!” she screamed as she cradled her in the crook of her elbow like a baby. “Let me take her home with me--just for tonight.”

So Rules and I sort-of shared custody of Spiffy right from the start. She’d take her home about 2-3 nights a week; whereas I had her the rest of the time. When I left Denver for New York, Spiffy was in good, familiar hands.

About 6 months to a year after I left Denver, I came back to see Spiffy. It was my first return to Denver and as Rules drove me from the airport, she suggested we play a little game.

“Tell you what,” she said with a mischievous smile, “use the front door to get in the house and run up to the top of the steps. I’ll let Spiffy in thru the backyard. Let’s see how long it takes for her to find you. Ha!--she’ll be so surprised!”

We shared a laugh as we envisioned Spiffy’s face, but as we got closer to the house I decided I didn’t like our game.

“No offense Rules,” I told her from my passenger seat, “but I’d rather not trick Spiffy like this. She’s trying to make sense out of life just like we are. I don’t want her to think I might jump from behind a closet door after six months or suddenly appear at the top of the steps like a ghost. You should’ve taken her with you so she can see how it works. How you drive out to the airport and pick me up. After a time or two she’d get it. Oh, we drive out to this one place and that’s where Lodo comes in.

Rules looked at me incredulously.

“...You think that’s what I should’ve done?” she asked.

“Absolutely, Spiffy’s smart...”

But Rules stopped talking for awhile.

Anyway, Spiffy’s really smart and curious, which got her into a lot of trouble as a pup. She got hit by a car one time and was stolen for a few days. She escaped from the backyard two times and squirted out the window of Rules’ car up in Winterpark. That was particularly funny ‘cause we approached the bottom of our run, looked down toward the chair-lift at the base of mountain. Hey isn’t that? Oh my God how’d she get out!

There was certainly no guarantee Spiffy would make it to ten years old, that’s for sure. I even said that to Rules when I left for NY. I said, “Spiffy’s either gonna live to double digits or get herself killed in some horrific tractor accident.”

But it turned out to be double-digits. Good work Spiffy--and to you Rules!!!!

Spiffy (w/ frisbee), w/ Rules (center) and my Dad:

Spiffy's (10) years old, but she still has a hop to her step. Happy Birthday girl!!!

Jaybird (left)/Spiffy (right):

Everybody's A Star

2010-07-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

Last night (Wednesday) I went for slices at my favorite pizza joint. $3.00 each. I reached into my pocket to pay, but as I pulled-out my wallet a loose quarter fell to the floor. It landed, then rolled toward the guy behind me, who was kind enough to bend-down and retrieve it. As he handed me the quarter our eyes locked. Hmmmm.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"No," I answered, "but you mind if I get a quick picture with you?"

The guy stole a quick look 'round to evaluate the scene.

"..Alright," he said, "if you make it quick."

* NOTE: Sorry for no new writing y'all, but enjoy your long weekend!!!! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

NYC Pics* (*Double-click Images For Full view):

2010-06-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

Last weekend at Times Square:

Lower East Side yesterday (6/28/2010):

5x NY Daily News Golden Glove champion; 1984 Olympic Gold Medalist (Welterweight division); and 2x WBA Welterweight Champion of the World Mark Breland signs an autograph for a young fan at Madison Sq. Garden a few months back: (Mark Breland professional record: 35 wins; 3 losses; 1 draw; 25 KO's).

Corona (Queens), NY: Taken today--6/29/2010 (90 frickin' degrees outside!!!!):

Kids in Corona (Queens) spray-down a car today w/ hydrant:

Burnt Sugar (about 2 weeks ago at Sullivan Hall:

One of my personal favorites: Marc Cary w/ Focus Trio (about 2 weeks ago):

Bernie Worrel w/ SociaLybrium at Le Poisson Rouge (about 2 weeks ago):

Cab and Broken pay-phone (Midtown):

Looking at NY from somewhere in Jersey (either Hoboken or Weehawken--can't remember!):

Fulton Street and Linwood Street today (6/29/2010):

* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. 5 Boroughs of NY (with exception of that Jersey pic). All rights reserved.

Marc Cary Focus Trio: Minor March

5 Pointz (some Old/some New)--Double-click on Images for Full View:

2010-06-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

5 Pointz: Long Island City, NY

Big Chin/Orange Cap:

Gold-Diggin' Hoochie:

"Come at the best--Best not miss."

Last Halloween:
Business Proposition:

TV Burps a Universe:

"His hatchet-shaped head in profile."

Big Eyes Buggin' Out:
* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak (with exception of the Halloween pic taken by my sister). All outdoor artwork created by 5 Pointz Artists, Long Island City, NY.

Out-takes from Real Heroes Don't Let You Down:

2010-06-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

Before my night started:

Jeff Beck (left)/Meatloaf (right): I'm so close the pic's out of focus!

Next Morning: "What the fuck?"

After (2) full weeks, I suppose its time to put my Jeff Beck night behind me; but I did have some unused material that for various reasons didn’t make the final cut. Most of it is just as described--throw away, but since there’s never a charge here at Stays Put, I don’t see the harm in slapping a few excerpts into a quick post.

So here’s some bonus footage:

When I got back inside Ellen’s I made a bee-line for the shrimpbowl. It was the first thing I saw since I was so freaking hungry. ‘Til then I’d made a conscious decision not to eat and drink since Stardust is such a tourist trap rip-off; so I’d forced myself to choose one, which turned out to be booze. Johnny Walker’s in fact since a $15.00 scotch seemed a better deal than a $10.00 bottle of beer.

But now there was free grub, so I planted myself next to the huge shrimpbowl and built a pyramid of large, peeled shrimp so high I had to make an effort to keep it balanced. Thing must have stood a good 4” or 5” high. Then to my astonishment, the waitress placed a big tray of about a dozen pint-draft beers on the table next to me.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Stella’s.”

“For me?” I asked clumsily, “I mean,...you know, us?” I asked as I gestured to the others around me.

“You think you can drink all those yourself?” she asked with a laugh. “I’d like to see that.”

“Welll, you know what I mean.”

“You want one?” she asked, “take it,” as she motioned toward the tray.

So I grabbed a pint, took a sip, and placed it down next to me.

Only the waitress stayed where she was with her eyes fixed on me.

“...What?” I asked her.

“ C’mon,” she said with a challenging eye, “I thought you were gonna drink these.”

“Well, I ne..”

“Oh my God!,” she exclaimed as she cut me off and gestured for me to move over. “Look--its Meatloaf.”

Meatloaf? I don’t know reader, maybe its ‘cause I’m vegetarian now, but her enthusiasm was a bit of surprise. Hell, meatloaf was never anything to phone home about, even when I did eat meat. So I was in no hurry to move from my prime spot to make way for something as pedestrian as meatloaf.

But the waitress continued to hop up and down and crane her neck, so I turned ‘round to see why she was so excited and my jaw dropped open. Not because I’m so in awe of Meatloaf--hell, has he had a hit in the last (20) years?--but of all the people in the world, there were about 250 billion I’d have expected to see at Jeff Beck’s after-party before Meatloaf.

...Oh but I was perfectly set-up! I mean, I was wedged right between the shrimpbowl and Beck’s booth, so I didn’t even have to approach anybody--they came to me. First it was Imelda May. Imelda you killed! And you’re so smoking hot--mind of I get a picture? Then Warren Haynes. Love that solo you took on Dreams. Then Steve Miller. Oh shit--the gangster of love! Then Paul Schafer. (Goofy smiles exchanged).

And the trays of Stella’s just kept on coming.

By the time Steven Van Zandt approached the table my buzz had kicked in pretty good. I should mention that I’ve met Springsteen a few times in Jersey, and have never watched The Soprano’s, so I wasn’t as in awe of Little Steven as the rest of the crowd.

Still, I have no doubt Little Steven’s an ultra-cool guy, so as he approached my position I stuck out my hand said “Nice to meet you sir.”

He shook my hand, smiled, then rolled his eyes as if to say 'So this is what rock n roll’s been reduced to?' But that was just my interpretation.

I’d held my premier spot (basically leaning on Beck’s table) for over an hour until finally Beck’s handler or assistant or whoever she was slapped my shoulder in a manner more playful than menacing and asked, “Alright, so what d’ya want?”

“What do I want?” I responded, surprised by her sudden attention.

“Yeah, what? You think we haven’t noticed you here for an hour?”

“Oh, well,...I guess I was hoping I could get a picture.”

Her response was immediate.

“Everybody here want’s a picture--what else.”

“Oh, well, uh...”

I stumbled for a second (always a mistake in these situations) since I’d already got what I’d really wanted. The touch of legendary greatness. A recognition. A kind response. Communion as they say.

I certainly didn’t go into the night with expectations of a conversation with the guy; and in fact, if you know anything about Jeff Beck, he’s not a talker. At least, not publicly so. I’ve seen him in concert almost (10) times now and with the exception of the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame show he’s said maybe (10) words in all those performances combined. At several shows he’s said nothing at all. So what did I want?

“Oh--wait! I know what I want.” I told her as I drunkenly fished ‘round in my blazer pocket. “I want him to sign my golden email.”

“What?” she asked with a curious laugh as I continued to search for my Iridium certificate/invite.

“This,” I said as I finally located the certificate and proceeded to unfold it.

Only instead of it being all pristine and clean like I’d remembered it being, now it was all tattered and stained from what looked like Johnny Walker. Regardless I presented it to her.

“I want him to sign this,” I said again as I opened it up and attempted to hand it to her.

The woman looked at my invite like it was a used hankie. Her hands never moved in its direction and she stared me straight in the eye.

“He’s not going to do that,” she responded as she motioned for me to put the email away. “Besides, he’s eating now.”

“Oh my God--is he hungry?” I asked as I reached down to retrieve my plate. “I’ve got a whole plate of shrimp here. Ask him if he wants some.”

The woman’s eyes blinked rapidly like I’ve seen my boss’ sometimes do.

“..I think he’s got someone to get him shrimp if he wants some.”

“..You sure?” I asked as I carefully lifted my overflowing plate to eye level. “I mean, I’ve got so much here.”

Finally she smiled.

“Just get out of here, would ya?”

So I turned to leave, when she suddenly tapped my shoulder. I spun to face her and she placed her hands on her hips as if to chastise me.

“You were gonna have him eat off that plate there?” she asked with mock outrage as she pointed to my dish. “Look at this, you’ve got a dozen empty tails there.”

“Those are at the bottom!” I exclaimed as I picked them off and threw them away. “C’mon man, I must have a pound of un-touched shrimp here. Ask him if he wants some.”

To which she shook her head and gestured with her thumb in the universal sign that it was time for me to leave.

* NOTE: Sorry for that last pic there Jeff--we all know you're a sharper guy than that! Just thought it was so appropriate. Happy Birthday man and enjoy your day!!!

Real Heroes Don't Let You Down--Conclusion* (*Scroll down for Parts 1-3):

2010-06-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

"I've had to wait a decade for my shot at redemption..."

"...it expressly stated we could stay for the after-party."

w/ smoking hot Imelda May:

Little Steven (front, right)/Nils Lofgren (background, right). Guitarists for Bruce Springsteen's E-Street Band:

Les Paul's God-son and 70's Music star Steve Miller (center):

Paul Schafer (front) and Anton Fig (in hat) of Late Night Letterman Band:

Kirk Hammett (center) of Metallica speaks with David Fricke (back to camera/blazer) of Rolling Stone Magazine:

One of my personal favorites--Lou Marini from The Blues Brothers and old Saturday Night Band.

"...like a prophet amongst disciples..celebrities and nobody's cheered aloud."

Like an ancient Jew who had to wander the desert for (40) years, I’ve had to wait a decade for my shot at redemption. (10) years since that fateful morning first described when I began this post in Part 1. September 29, 1999, when I bum-rushed my hero Jeff Beck at 7:00 in the morning. Little did he know he was expected to be on 24 hours a day--at any moment, lest he disappoint a fan out in butt-fuck Denver.

“You got dissed,” my friends told me later that day (and still do sometimes).

What d’ya do last night?” my friend Rules asked me earlier this year.

"Saw Jeff Beck at Madison Square Garden."

“Jeff Beck--wasn’t he that guy who snubbed you when you worked at...”

“Hey! He didn’t snub me.”

He didn’t reader, and I’ve always believed it. And now that I’ve looked in his eyes again I know it. Maybe I just wasn’t prepared for revelation back in Denver. Was too young and hadn’t learned enough life lessons to earn the acknowledgment of overwhelming greatness. I certainly thought I had. But maybe not til now. Or at least, that night at Iridium.

Actually it wasn’t The Iridium. It was Ellen’s Stardust Diner. Biggest tourist trap in NYC and the last place I’d usually be in the whole world. $14.00 burgers. $10.00 bottled-beers. In all my years in New York I've never once stepped foot in there.

But Ellen’s is directly upstairs from Iridium, so that’s where they held the Jeff Beck after-party. My plebeian genes weren’t allowed to get into the actual performance, but my golden Iridium certificate allowed me to sit upstairs in Ellen’s ‘til the show was over. Then it expressly stated that I could stay for the after-party. In fact, all of us upstairs had the same certificate.

Yet you’ve gotta earn everything, right? 40 years of toil in the desert--not just a three day weekend of beer and barbecue.

So I wasn’t surprised to see one of the managers approach just as Beck finished his performance. The manager huddled us together--all of us who’d been upstairs and addressed us as a group.

“Okay guys, now everyone from downstairs is gonna start to come up here, so we need you to step outside till they come in. Then we’ll let everybody back in.”

Hmmm. Okay. Seemed a reasonable request.

So we all obediently made our way towards the exit and lined up against the wall as we waited to be allowed back in. I was the last one out since I took a moment to share a few words with the manager.

“Hey, you’re not _____are you?” I asked him.

“No, I’m not. How do you know _____?” he asked with interest.

“We exchanged a few emails when I first got my certificate. About the way my name was printed. I thought maybe you were him is all.”

“Naw,” the manager said as he looked me up and down, “...but here,” he said as he deliberately handed me his card with a fixed gaze. “That’s me. ..Hold on to that.”

I accepted the card as he led me out the door.

I was the last outside, at which time the manager closed the door behind me. Now all of us who’ d been upstairs were on the sidewalk, lined-up in front of the door. Shortly thereafter a huge bouncer with a black, cannonball-shaped head took a position in front of me. He turned and faced us as a group, much like the manager had done. Only this guy was about 250 pounds and his demeanor was vastly different.

“Okay everybody, listen up. I know they said you’d be able to stay for the after-party, but not everyone’s getting back inside. I’m going to work my way down the line, check your wristband, and look at you. If I say you’re in, you’re in; and if I say you’re out--you’re out. End of story.”

We all looked at each other incredulously. Can’t count on anybody. As a group we were outraged; yet you could also see people begin to evaluate their own chances of getting in. As I voiced my disapproval with my brethren in-line I placed that manager’s card beneath my wristband as seen below* (*actually, turned the opposite way so his name was visible, but I don’t want to do that here). No sooner was it in place then the bouncer turned toward me, since I was first in line. He grabbed my wrist, turned it over to reveal the band and card.

“You’re in--go.”

EPILOGUE:

True religion is based on communion. A great man (or woman) has a vision. Communicates it to the world. People find commonality within it and form traditions around it. A community is born.

But as time passes, memories of that original person or tradition begin to fade. The symbols of the mythology become outdated and no longer speak to the younger generations. As fellow blogger Spencer Troxell might say, eventually Everything in the Medicine Cabinet Expires.”

Course as a secular person, I look to my heroes to guide me. Miles Davis. Jimi Hendrix. Henry Miller. All the great writers. When I listen to their music or read their books its a renewal of my faith.

My man Jeff Beck had his own heroes. I’m not in a position to speak for him, but I know one of his all-time favorites was guitar legend Les Paul. Les had a regular gig at Iridium every Monday night for the last (20) years, which is why Iridium got to sponsor Jeff Beck’s Les Paul Tribute Concert.

Well reader, by now you know I never got into that show. But when Beck came upstairs after that performance, it was like a prophet amongst disciples. All of us--celebrities and nobody’s like me cheered aloud. We reached out to shake his hand and pumped our fists in the air.

When Beck walked by my position, I gave him a soft pat on the back much like Cesar Millan had done to me a few weeks back. I wasn’t the only one, the poor guy was mobbed like a quarterback who’d just won the Superbowl.

But after my touch Beck’s head whipped ‘round. He turned in my direction and our eyes met. His eyes narrowed in a manner that I initially interpreted as anger, but now I’m pretty sure he was just confused as to who I was. Or might be. I pumped my fist in the air and shouted a hurrah! as the others had done, and this time--over (10) years since that fateful morning in Denver, Beck nodded, pointed, and smiled in my direction.

Eventually Beck took a seat in a corner booth where he shared dinner with the band. It must have been like dining in a fishbowl the way all of us huddled ‘round to watch the poor guy chew and swallow his mozzarella/roast-pepper sandwich.

“Look at ‘em,” the guy next to me said as we stared at Beck in awe. “I’m just so proud to have him here.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink-in, but then I turned toward the speaker.

“Hey, you’re not_____ ?” I asked.

“Yeah, I am,” he answered quizzically. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lodo. Lodo Grdzak.”

“Ha!” he answered with a hearty laugh, “So you’re Lodo Grdzak--God that's a stupid name. But I'm glad to see you got in.”

“Just thankful to be here,” I said as we shook hands, bathed in a glow I assume came from the lights of Times Square, filtered thru the windows of Ellen’s Stardust Diner.

As planets do the Sun, we orbit ‘round God according to Laws as elegant as Keplers. God is as sensible to us as a Sun to a Planet. Tho’ we do not see Him; yet we know where in our Orbits we run--when we are closer, when more distant--when in His light and when in shadow of our own making. ...We feel as components of Gravity His Love, His Need, whatever it be that keeps us circling. Surely if a Planet be a living Creature, then it knows by something even more wondrous than human sight where its Sun shines, however far it lie.
-From Mason & Dixon
Thomas Pynchon

Jeff Beck: Drown In My Own Tears* (*may have to turn volume way up--levels are low):

Tonight Jeff Beck Performs in my old Hometown of Detroit. Blow the roof off Jeff!

Real Heroes Don't Let You Down--Part 3* (*Scroll down for Parts 1 & 2):

2010-06-15T15:41:00.000-07:00

Everyday for the last month, I submitted an entry to Iridium’s Facebook Jeff Beck Ticket giveaway. That’s all they’d give you--one vote per day; and like a Muslim called to prayer I submitted mine every morning. Hell, I enlisted girls I hadn’t spoken to in years to submit entries.

“Hello.”

“Yeah Wendy? Its me, Lodo.”

“Lodo? Where do I know that from? ...From M____’s party?”

“Yeah, listen. You know how Jeff Bec...”

“Oh my God--you have got to be kidding me!” (-click-)

About (2) weeks ago, Facebook finally had their drawing. They had a link on computer where you could find out if you’d won; and when I clicked it and saw the golden ticket below I pretty much lost my shit.

"Wheww hewww!" I screamed out my apartment window as I waved my freshly-printed email at the street below. “I’m in beotch!--got that?” I screamed as I pointed to an old Chinese delivery guy on his bike. He returned a warm, toothless smile and pedaled on his way.

Not my proudest moment--I’ll admit, but you can’t count on anybody to know how to act. Not on me when I’m drunk and certainly not Iridium.

Cause on more sober and careful examination of the email I realized that in fact, I hadn’t won. Or at least, hadn’t won entry to the show. What I won was an invite to “...the after-party for the band and guests..” As long as I brought “official, picture I.D.”

Hmmm.

But this is how life works isn’t it reader? Two steps forward and one step back. And the harder you want something, the more life fuck’s with you. It’s some kind of law of physics.

So not only hadn’t I won reservations, but now I had to go back to Iridium and beg ‘em again; for less than what was rightfully mine to begin with. But life makes you earn everything.

To: ____ of IridiumJazzClub.com
From: LodoGrdzk@yahoo.com

As you probably already realize, Lodo Grdzak is a psudonym I use on the internet and social network sites like Facebook. For a variety of reasons I can’t use my real name or personal information, so this issue of “official, picture I.D.” may be a problem.

To: Lodo Grdzak@yahoo.com
From: _____ of IridiumJazzClub.com

Sorry my friend. No I.D., no entry. We’ve got some serious security in place.

Oh fuck me up the ass.

But again reader, I don’t quit. Not on stuff that matters to me. Sure, there've been a few posts where I dropped the ball mid-stream, but 9 out of 10 times I get the shit done.
And besides, I know how these NY clubs work.

So rather than bail, I instead uploaded all my pics of me with the legendary jazz people I’ve met: Dave Holland; Mulgrew Miller; Dr. Lonnie Smith; Joe Zawinul. Shameless name-dropping I know, but I posted ‘em all up on my Facebook page. Then I wrote back to Iridium.

To: ______ of IridiumJazzClub.com.
From: LodoGrdzak@yahoo.com

I don’t have picture I.D., but if you go to my Facebook page you’ll see a bunch of photos of me. I’ll be damned if there’s (2) Lodo Grdzak’s!

At which point I patiently waited,...until.

To LodoGrdzak@yahoo.com
From: _____ of IridiumJazzClub.com

Just messing with you. Bring your invite and you’re in!

* NOTE: Word on the street (yes, I'm talking to you Willie) is that it's time to wrap this up. Concluding post at week's end. And thanks for reading!!!

Real Heroes Don't Let You Down--Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

2010-06-13T17:07:00.000-07:00

Jeff Beck w/ Sting at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Show (MSG):

To get into Jeff Beck’s show at Iridium last week you had to be an industry person, an invited guest, or have won a lottery sponsored by Facebook. That’s how I got in, but I’m gonna to get to that.

First I’m gonna mention that it was never supposed to come down to my having to luck-out in a raffle. I’d heard about these shows months before anyone, from a tip I got off an even more rabid fan. So I made my reservation with Iridium back in February or March. Months ago.

But I knew something was fucked-up about the ease with which I allegedly got in.

“Okay Mr. Grdzak,” the girl said over the phone after our 20 second conversation, “I’ve got your name down.”

“...Really,” I responded. “That quickly.”

“Yep. June 8th and 9th, right?” she confirmed. “I wrote your name down for both nights.”

“Uh, okay ...Have you been getting a lot of calls for those nights?”

“A few, yeah. But I haven’t been told anything special. What’s going on?”

That’s when I knew my reservation was useless.

About three weeks later, I decided to check-in again. Just to call and see if I was still on the list.

“Hello Iridium.”

“Yes I have reservations for June 8th and 9th and was wondering if you still have my name listed.”

“What’s your name sir?”

“Lodo. Lodo Grdzak.”

“Lodo’s the first name and Grdzak’s the last?”

“That’s right.”

“...Okay Mr Grdzak, yes. I see you’re on the list for both nights.”

“Really? Wow. You mind if I get your name?” I asked the girl.

“Rebeka.”

Um hm.

Every 3-4 weeks thereafter I called the club to see if they still had my reservation.

“Hello Iridium.”

“Hey, is this Rebeka?”

“Yes it is, who’s this?”

“My name’s Lodo. I have a res..”

“Lodo Grdzak?” she asked with a laugh.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You’re name’s still in there Mr. Grdzak. We’ve got you down.”

But come on reader, you know you can’t count on anybody. I certainly knew that. So when I called again just over a month ago, I wasn’t as shocked as some others.

“Hello Iridium.”

“Yeah, is this Rebeka?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hey Rebeka, this is Lodo Grdzak. I just wanted to check on my reservation for June.”

“Oh--Mr. Grdzak. ...Uhmm,...wow. (Heavy sigh), ..um,...they’re not doing that anymore.”

“Not doing what anymore?”

“Umm--you know. Those reservations. They’re not doing those anymore. The manager’s gonna call you over the week to tell you. He’s gonna have to call everyone on the list. Some people have been...Oh my God--really mad!”

That’s one way to put it, reader. Course I was more disappointed than angry since I’d already had my doubts and suspicions. Iridium’s a small club. Super-small by Jeff Beck standards. The guy played Madison Square Garden the last two times he was here and sold the place out both times--so Jeff Beck at Iridium? Only a fool would have counted on those reservations.

But sometimes low expectations can work to your advantage. For example in this case, when I got the call from the guy at Iridium, I was calm. He just confirmed what I’d already known, so I didn’t lay into him like others had apparently done.

“Hello, is this Lodo Grdzak?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Who’s this?”

“This is ______ of Iridium Jazz Club.”

“Oh, okay. What’s up?”

“...Well, ...its about that Jeff Beck show next month. I’m sorry to have to tell yo...”

“I’m not getting in am I?”

“Well,...no. Not by reservation anyway. I don’t know how you learned about that show so early, but were gonna make an announcem..”

“Its cool. I never expected to get in.”

“..What do you mean you never expected to get in?” he asked with a defensive laugh.

“I mean Jeff Beck at Iridium? No way I’d ever get into that show. I understand. ..Though I’ll admit, my hopes began to rise when April passed and you still had me on the list.”

“Yeah (laughs), well sorry ‘bout that. This show’s more than just us; its Beck’s management and Gibson and... But listen, you seem pretty cool. A lot cooler than the others I’ve spoken to. We’re gonna run a lottery on Facebook. 50 people are gonna win, and if you do the show’s free. No charge. Just list us as a friend on your Facebook page and you can enter.”

Sure reader, I’ll just list Iridium as a friend on my Facebook page and...wait a minute--what freakin’ Facebook page is that? I’m 43 years old. I don’t have a Facebook page. And I’m an investigator, I don’t need my face and address plastered all over the internet. Especially on a site as insecure as Facebook.

So for about (2) weeks I defiantly resigned myself to the fact I wasn’t going to that show. I'd already had my reservation, so I'll admit I got a bit sour at Iridium and felt they'd let me down.

But Jeff Beck’s not like other people. Or other artists. If he’s in town I feel an almost gravitational need to be close; and if I was ever going to right the wrong of 10 years ago, this was my last shot. Two time inductee into Rock n roll Hall of Fame. # 1 album in Japan just last month. #1 music DVD here in the States. Just won (2) Grammy’s in February and has never been more popular. One of the holy triumvirate along with Clapton and Page. When else would I ever gain access to this guy?

So now I’m on Facebook.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into one more part. Should have part 3 finished in a few days.

Real Heroes Don't Let You Down--Part 1

2010-06-11T17:26:00.000-07:00

You can never count on people. Doesn’t matter who they are: political leaders, legendary athletes, best friends, favorite artists; at some point, everybody lets you down.

But I still have my heroes. At 43 years old you may find that comical or pathetic, but I don’t care. I’m a secular person--heroes guide my life. They're all I’ve got. So I read their books, listen to their music; study their lives and how they've handled their big moments.

That’s how I’m gonna do it.

Cesar Millan’s definitely one of my heroes, so I was thankful to meet him last month. He seemed like a cool guy despite the fact that his time was so limited. And when I met William Vollman a few years back he almost immediately wrapped a big meaty paw round my shoulder and posed for a warm photo. That surprised me.

Heroes come and go as their influence wanes with time, but anyone who’s read this blog knows my oldest hero, the one who’s stuck with me throughout my life is Jeff Beck. He’s been my favorite since I was a teenager; and with the exception of his self-imposed exile in the 80’s he never really dropped off my radar.

When I met Beck 10 years ago,...man. It was just bad timing. I know that’s all it was.
Back then I was bellman in Denver and Beck stayed at my hotel. It was the last stop of his tour before he had to fly back to London. I saw the show that night, then made sure I was on the early shift when he checked out. I’ve already written a post about it, so I'll just print an excerpt:

He was wearing sunglasses. Those aviator kind of Ray-Bans with dark black lenses that matched his over-dyed, thick mullet. I was really taken aback since I’d expected to be called up to the room--to be prepared to meet him, when in fact he just appeared with one of my co-workers in tow. Wearing sunglasses in the lobby at 7:00 in the morning.

And you're gonna think I'm a liar reader, but I was just like Homer Simpson or one of those Three Stooges: the way I sidled behind the cart while Beck and his manager were lost in discussion and forcefully hip-checked my co-worker out the way to steal his place. Keeping that same pace, seamlessly equidistant from Beck and his manager just like nothing had changed. And I could hear Beck say to his manager:

“I mean bloody hell, mate. I’m paying close to $2,000.00 in air fare out of here. I have to believe that’s outrageous.”

That is outrageous. I thought to myself, nodding my head adamantly in agreement.

And I don’t know if it was the nod of my head or if the manager just turned toward the cart to retrieve his organizer; but suddenly he got a look at me and did a double-take. He wasn’t mad. Just confused.

“You’re not my bellman are you?”

I never even looked at the manager. To this day I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about his features except that he was a white guy older than me. But what I remember plain as day is I immediately turned to Beck and said,

“I saw your show last night and you were awesome. We're not allowed to talk to the famous guests, but that was the best show I ever saw and I’m just so glad to tell you in person. You’re the greatest, man. I’ve listened to you forever and you’ve never sounded better.”

Beck looked in my direction. His rigid countenance never changed and he never said a word. He slid those aviator sunglasses down his nose like a college professor might peer over his bi-focals, locked eyes with mine for maybe a second, then pushed the glasses back up to their original position to resume his discussion with the manager.

"I mean $2,000.00 mate."

Later that day--when I told my friends and girlfriends that story, they all agreed that I got dissed; but I never interpreted it that way. It was just bad timing. The guy had business to tend to. A plane to catch. He didn’t have time to chat-up the bellman at 7:00 in the morning. Who the fuck can blame ‘em.

Still, that episode’s been a bit of a sore spot with me. Whenever my friend Rules wants to get a dig-in on me she’ll remind me of it, and sometimes my friend Catfish will drop comments that he doesn’t realize make me angry--but they do!

Or did.

But ever since Wednesday, those days are behind me.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into at least (1) more part. Should have Part 2 completed by end of weekend.

New 5 Pointz! (*Double-click on Images For Full-View):

2010-06-08T20:15:00.001-07:00

High on Spray Paint fumes:

Not Sure What To Call this One:

Awesome Joker:

Two Skulls/Third Eye:

Weird Whitie Tighties-thing:

Self-Portrait:

Gun to Side (Reservoir Dogs-style):

The Coming Apocalypse:

Queens-Pie Panties:

* All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. All outdoor spray-paint/mural art created by 5 Pointz Artists. Long Island City, NY. All rights reserved.

Lodo Grdzak's Sportin' Life: (My People Edition)

2010-06-05T13:40:00.001-07:00

"When was the last time you were at The Garden?" (Khan--Left./Malignaggi--right.):

The demise of my epic, 10-part series on Detroit was largely the result of a dozen new cases assigned by my boss; coupled with my father’s recent visit to New York.

My dad was only here for a few days, but we did a lot of things. He bought a bunch of expensive meals; took me fishing on a party boat. Hell, we even went to the fights.

“When was the last time you were at Madison Square Garden?” I asked him that afternoon at lunch. He had to think about it.

“Gosh, it must have been over 40 years ago--before it moved,” he finally answered. “Why?”

“’Cause we should go there tonight. There’s a fight I want to see--a boxing match. It’s gonna be a local guy from here in Brooklyn.”

“...A boxing match?”

“Yeah,” I answered as I slurped down an oyster.

My dad looked at me with an odd consideration. Put down his lobster claw as he studied my face.

“Boxing?” he asked again with amazement.

“...I’ll buy,” I told him as I grabbed the lobster claw off his plate and motioned for our waiter to bring another round of drinks.

That night I took my dad to see Amir Khan vs. Paul Malignaggi at The Garden. Boy was he excited about that.

I should probably mention that my dad’s a very intellectual guy. He’s earned a doctorate degree from a prestigious university and had dual majors as an undergrad. He even considered being a rabbi as a youngster, which says a ton right there about his cerebral nature and temperament.

So with that in mind, imagine my 70 year old, professorial dad at The Garden immersed in a crowd of buckwild Italians from Brooklyn and an army of Amir Khan fans who traveled all the way from London.

The Brits were really rabid, aggressive fans; but Malignaggi was our hometown guy. He had his own emotional contingent (that included myself); but as the fight became lopsided Malignaggi's fans got restless.

Everytime Khan scored a punch, his base would frantically wave their Pakistani flags, which only seemed to add to the Malignaggi-crowd's tension. Several fights eventually broke-out in the stands which caused security to intervene. It was mostly drunken Brits being escorted out; hands restrained behind their back as they were pushed thru the exits. Some laughed. Some fought back, only to be restrained by three or four huge bouncers with the little secret service ear plug in their ears.

“Wow!” my dad said with sober astonishment as we walked to the train after the fight had been stopped. “That was...really something.”

My dad and I don’t always get along, but we share the bond of common blood and experience. He’s my people as they say, and I don’t have many. In fact, just exactly who my people are is an open question, the answer to which seems to be in constant flux.

Its certainly a question that’s been on my mind as the Miguel Cotto/Yuri Foreman fight approaches. The Slugfest at Yankee Stadium as its being billed for the Super Welterweight Championship of the world.

Foreman’s gotta be the first Jewish champion in at least the last 30 years--and he’s of Russian descent (also like me); so I’m a little surprised I’m not more excited about him.

But Foreman's a rabbinical student, and I’ve never had any emotional connection to Judaism. In fact, my work here in NY forces me to deal with a lot of Orthodox Jews, and I can't stand most of 'em. Perhaps I judge them more harshly since I expect the most from my own kind; but the coarseness of their Hebrew; their outright condescension towards outsiders; the untamed beards and heavy clothes. That’s what bothers me the most--those heavy black clothes and skullcaps in summer.

I genuinely can’t deal with hot weather. The heat nearly drives me to madness when I’m stuck on a subway platform drenched in sweat. Yet everywhere in Brooklyn I see the Hasidim on the platforms dressed in black overcoats and felt-brimmed hats atop their yarmulkes. Literally a hundred degrees; but they’ve got two hats on their head. Standing in one spot; lost in contemplation as they twirl their long side braids that drip with perspiration. I swear I want smack ‘em and say “C’mon, man. Demonstrate some human intelligence and take that hat off!"

Which is why I have no natural affinity for Foreman.

And I’m not just gonna turn on Miguel Cotto. He’s been one of my favorite boxers since he always has a fight at The Garden this time of year. He’s been my hometown guy and always shows great heart. He's rugged, genuinely tough; and leaves everything in the ring. So I’m not gonna drop Cotto for a total unknown just ‘cause he’s Jewish.

Yet just yesterday, as I posted a bunch of pictures of myself on Facebook, I found myself wondering:

Why have I always worn a beard?

’Cause you look like Pee Wee Herman without it.

Right, okay. But why do I seem naturally compelled to wear a hat?

‘Cause you’re bald Lodo.”

Makes sense. ..And why’d I stop eating pork?”

‘Cause Babe was such a great talking-animal movie.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

I’ll tell you reader, this fight tonight at The Stadium has dredged-up some real life questions.

Course the biggest question is whether I’m actually gonna go or not. I haven’t yet been to the new Yankee Stadium and I’d love to see the parade of dark-skinned Puerto Rican gals.

Plus these are my people, right? The Russian Jew--Yuri Foreman. My traditional favorite Miguel Cotto. And of course all my fellow New Yorkers broadcast ‘round the world on HBO. It should be a no brainer.

Yet this morning, when I went outside to get my coffee, I was immediately hit with the hottest, most stagnant air, the likes of which is unique to New York. It was still early, yet the foul heat had already begun to rise from the pavement; and the humidity had my T-shirt drenched in sweat within seconds out the door. I can only imagine what it’ll be like tonight in the Bronx with 30,000 people.

“Lodo,” the cashier said to me as he rang up my coffee, “you going to the stadium tonight?”

“I’m not sure Andy--I’m still on the fence.”

“Really?” he answered with surprise since he knows I usually go to the fights. “I figured you’d have been one of the first with a ticket. You of all people.”

“..Well Andy,” I answered as I used the back of my forearm to wipe the sweat off my brow, “I think my people are the ones who like air-conditioning.”

Miguel Cotto's greatest victory was over Sugar Shane Mosley at Madison Square Garden: (Cotto--right/Mosely--left):
Super Middleweight Champion Yuri Foreman: (28 wins; 0 losses; 8 Ko's): Good luck, man!

NYC Pics: On The Streets It's Always Memorial Day* (*double-click on images for full view):

2010-06-01T20:01:00.001-07:00

He Rehabilitates Dogs and Trains People:

2010-05-26T17:22:00.000-07:00

Regular readers know I’m a big fan of National Geographic’s Dog Whisperer and have written several posts inspired by the show. So when I got the chance to to meet Cesar Millan at Grand Central Station, I had to talk with my boss.

I entered his office and closed the door behind me, which is the rule whenever there's something to discuss.

“Yeah Lodo,” my boss asked as he gestured for me to take a seat and continued to type on his computer, “what is it?”

“There’s an errand I wanna run at lunch that may take a bit longer than my hour.”

“...Yeah.”

“..So I was wondering if I went 15 minutes or so over if it’d be a problem.”

My boss continued to type.

“An hour’s not enough time for lunch?”

“Sure it is,” I answered, “except,..I was hoping I could run this errand.”

My boss typed for a few more seconds before before he turned to face me. He placed his elbows on his desk and formed his huge dark fingers into a tent.

“Is this going to be a ‘Jeff Beck 15 minutes’ where you’re gone all day?--or a 15 minutes 15 minutes?” he asked.

I laughed.

“Welll,..its not Jeff Beck. I can tell you that.”

My boss and I locked eyes 'til he waved me out the office.

“...You can take an extra half-an-hour if you need it.”

So I hustled up to Grand Central and got in the long line to meet Cesar Millan.
I know for sure there were 450 people in line since I overheard the store’s cashier mention it to Cesar’s promotion person. “We sold all 450,” she told her (meaning 450 copies of Cesar's magazine). I also know that there were a total of (4) people behind me, so 450 - 4 = ....one late motherfucker Lodo.

But I didn’t sweat it. Instead I used the time to work on my presentation. I had an idea for a Dog Whisperer segment that I wanted to pitch to Cesar. A good idea inspired by my dog Spiffy.

That said, I know how these Hollywood and TV types work. They want everything in 25 words or less.

So as I stood 446th in line I worked on my pitch, which I finally whittled down to:

“Hey Cesar, I’m sure everyone hassles you with their ideas, but my dog Spiffy has no interest in other dogs. I take her to the dog-park and she won’t even look at them. She just stands there fixated on me, hoping I’ll throw a ball. Maybe you could do a segment about how to get dogs like her interested in other dogs, if that’s even possible.”

Over 25 words, I know; but I had it down. I practiced it there in-line even while others tried to engage me in small talk or show me their dog pics. I planned to jump right into it as I approached.

Hey Cesar, I’m sure everyone hassles you with their ideas, but my dog...

Cesar was gonna sign autographs at Grand Central from 12:00 to 2:00 p.m. I’d left my office at noon and my cellphone read 1:40 by the time Cesar’s promo person/assistant waved me forward. Whatever. From what I saw of the people in front of me, I only had about 20 seconds to get a picture, make my pitch, and have him sign my magazine.

Despite the late hour, I reminded myself to stay focused as Cesar’s assistant gestured me to approach. To my surprise, Cesar immediately stood-up from behind the autograph table and extended his hand for a firm shake.

“How do you do?” he asked from behind clear eyes.

“Great Cesar, I’m a big fan. I think I’ve seen every show.”

“Oh thanks man!” he said with a wide, bright smile and a friendly clasp of my shoulder.

“Yeah sure. So anyway, I’m sure everyone hassles you...”

“Come here,” Cesar motioned as he led me toward the autograph table. He took a seat and grabbed a pen off the table in the same motion.

“What’s your name?” he asked me.

“Lodo,” I answered as I watched him remove the cap. “..Listen, I’m sure everyone hassles you with their...”

“Logo? How do I spell that?” he asked as he prepared to sign my magazine.

“It’s Lodo--not Logo. L-O-D-O.”

“Oh--Lodo! Okay.”

“Yeah, thanks. So,..anyway. I’m sure everyone hassl...”

“Lodo? Do you mind if I ask you the origin of that name? I’ve never heard that before.”

“Well, actually, it’s what my friends call me. I guess you could say I earned that name.”

“Okay. I can respect that. But where does it come from? What’s its meaning?”

“Well, its a spot in Denver where I spent a lot of time. I guess you could say my full name is Lower Downtown.”

“Oh--Lower Downtown. That’s a very powerful connotation. I think I can see that in you too. Very interesting name.”

“Oh wow!--thanks so much ..Anyway, I’m sure everyone hassles you with their ideas, but my dog...”

“Oh, do you have an idea?” Cesar’s assistant asked as Cesar and I stood for a photo.

“Yeah, I do” I answered as the picture was taken.

With that Cesar gave me another strong handshake and a soft, reassuring push as he returned to his position behind the autograph table; but his assistant motioned me forward, toward her.

“Come here,” she said with an animated hand gesture much like I use to call my dog Spiffy, “so we can create some space for the next person.”

So I walked toward her--to the side of the table, prepared to pitch my idea to Cesar when the assistant suddenly--very deftly, stepped in front of me. It was smooth, the way she created a buffer between myself and Cesar’s table. No sooner had I recognized what happened then a security guard approached.

“Did you get your magazine signed?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” the assistant told him, before I could respond. “He’s good.”

My jaw dropped, but I wasn’t mad. I’ve been in similar situations before--I just didn’t realize what it was 'til then.

The assistant and I made eye contact. Even shared a tacit smile. She knew I recognized what she’d done, even as she took time to usher the next person behind me out the door.

EPILOGUE:

It was close to 2:00 when I got back to the office. I tried to slide into my cubicle unnoticed, but no sooner had I sat down then my telephone rang. The display window showed my boss’ extension, so I picked up.

“This is Lodo.”

“Get in here.”

I walked to my boss’ office and closed the door. To my surprise two other members of my unit were seated as well.

“Nice of you to join us,” my boss said.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” I answered, “I didn’t know there was a meeting.”

“It was unannounced,” my boss replied as he pushed a chair in my direction, “something’s come up.”

My pockets were full since I hadn’t had a chance to empty them, so before I sat down I pulled out my cellphone and camera and placed them on the edge of his desk.

“What’s this? my boss asked as he snatched my camera with one of his long arms. I went to grab it--just out of reflex; but its a company camera and technically not my property. I had to concede it to him.

“I took my camera with me is all,” I answered.

“I thought you said this wasn’t about Jeff Beck,” he said with a laugh.

“It wasn’t.” I answered.

My boss fiddled with the camera until it was obvious the image had appeared. His face displayed a confused countenance.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Its Ces...”

“Not you,” he snapped at me as he handed the camera to my co-worker Cindy. “You know who that is? he asked her.

“Oh my God!” she shrieked. “Isn’t that The Dog Whisperer from TV?” she asked.

“Who?!” my boss asked as he grabbed the camera back to look again.

“Cesar Millan,” I answered.

“He’s a dog trainer,” Cindy added. “They call him The Dog Whisperer. He’s really famous.”

“Dog trainer, eh?” my boss mused as he reluctantly handed the camera to my other co-worker.

“Actually, he’s not a trainer,” I responded. “He’s a behaviorist. That’s what he says at the start of every show. He says ‘he rehabilitates dogs and he trains people.”

My boss laughed.

“And is that what he does Lodo?”

A vision of Ceser mind-flashed in my head. The reassuring pat on the back as he sent me on my way. His assistant’s gesturing me to approach.

“Oh yeah,” I answered “...he’s got the whole thing down.”

* NOTE: To any readers that expected Part 5 of my series on Detroit, I'm definitely gonna come back to it. But earlier in this post I mentioned how my boss called that unplanned meeting. Things are definitely afoot. Sooo,...lets just say change of plans!

My boss looks a lot like NBA legend Darryl Dawkins:

Detroit: I Couldn't Stay, But I took You With Me--Part 4* (*scroll down for Parts 1-3):

2010-05-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Gifted is the politician who can transcend race or gender. Rare are the instances when its been done, since successful politicians usually represent a particular interest group, and in so doing exclude others. That’s the nature of the beast.

Which is why artists and athletes are such important people. The most important people, really. ‘Cause they navigate us thru all kinds of murky social waters--particularly the rough surf of race relations and integration where most politicians fear to tread.

The history of race relations in Detroit is pretty pathetic, but when it comes to Joe Louis and Tommy Hearns, everyone in Detroit--black and white, claims them as their own.

Course Joe Louis was way too early for me, but my dad got me his autograph on one of his trips to Vegas. By then Louis was broke and indebted to the IRS for hundreds of thousands of dollars, so he sat outside Caesars Palace and signed autographs for $20 a pop. The legendary Brown Bomber who knocked-out Max Schmeling at Yankee Stadium. Detroit’s own Joe Louis! 20 bucks a pop.

Detroit Tigers are the oldest sports team in Detroit--and Red Wings are probably the most decorated franchise; but my family grew-up with NBA, so my favorite team has always been The Pistons.

One day when I was a kid--maybe ten years old or so, my dad took me to a Pistons game at Cobo Hall. Back then we used to go to all the games and oftentimes had courtside seats. Sounds like a big deal now, but this was (35) years ago. Long before ESPN and skyboxes and the need for salary caps. Men still wore suits to the game--no team jerseys or jeans in the crowd.

Anyway, in those days there was a guy who’d go to every game. Leon. An older black guy who always wore a pimped-out red suit and fedora hat. Leon had the same seats, but a different gal every game. I was kind of in awe of him for that, and because of the respect he commanded from his seat behind the Pistons bench.

Before each tip-off, Leon would hold court with a regal air to prognosticate about the game and opine on the various match-ups. It’d be him, my dad, about a dozen other regulars with season tickets. Professional men from disparate racial backgrounds who (back in the 1970’s) would never have socialized in a non-work, social situation. This is what I mean about the importance of sports.

Well, this one night Leon was in the midst of his pre-game analysis when he casually dropped what appeared to be an innocuous comment.

“You all hear about this kid they got out in Lansing?” he asked the group of men in suits.

“Johnson?” one of ‘em asked.

“That’s right. Got the chance to see him play the other night.”

“Yeah, he’s good?”

“Shit! Let me tell you, that kid’s got Magic in his Johnson. That’s just what they call him too--Magic. Kid’s gonna turn the league on his head, you’ll see. Ain’t never been nothing like him.”

I walked away from that conversation with a confusion I couldn’t shake. It tugged at my young mind long after the game began. Until finally, I had to ask.

“Dad, what’d Leon mean when he said ‘that one guy had Magic in his Johnson.’”

My parents exchanged a tacit look.

“...Nothing Lodo,” my dad finally said. “He just means he’s real good.”

That was the first time I’d heard of Magic Johnson, and little did I know it was the beginning of the end for the Grdzak’s and our courtside seats.

Before Magic and Bird the NBA wasn’t much bigger than hockey, but once they entered the league it was Showtime. Courtside seats were worth big money and any games we watched after that were from our couch in front of the TV.

When Magic beat Larry Bird for the NCAA title there wasn’t really any racial element to the rivalry. It was more like the small school (Indiana State) vs. the big goliath of Michigan State University.

But when Bird went to the Celtics along with Kevin Mchale and Danny Ainge, you had to scratch your head a bit. Not that all those guys weren’t great--of course they were. Yet you couldn’t help but feel like Boston went out of its way to sign white guys.

Those Celtics/Lakers teams had a great rivalry in the ‘80’s; and both Magic and Bird had success in different years. Course I liked Magic over Bird since he was from Detroit and because he was more unique in the way he played all positions. And at the end of the day Magic won (3) more rings, so I think history validates Magic’s dominance.

Isaiah Thomas and my Bad Boy Pistons eventually got (2) rings themselves, but they had a much harder time with the Celtics. Those teams were very evenly matched.

More than the Lakers or The Celtics, The Pistons climb to greatness was an extended journey. With very gradual steps since we had no overwhelming superstar to propel us over the top. As such, our margin for error was less and there were more obstacles along the way.

At one point in 1987 it appeared the Pistons were going to finally beat The Celtics in the East Coast Finals. I forget if it was game 6 or 7, but Boston was down by a point with (5) seconds left on the clock. All Isiah Thomas had to do was inbounds the ball, then we’d run out the clock. The game was ours.

But that freaking Larry Bird was a crafty motherfucker! Isiah got a little flippant with the pass, Bird made a great read on the ball--suddenly a steal, a quick basket. Boston wins by a point.

...What the fuck the just happened?!

A great play by Bird. A heads-up play. That’s all it was. He got the best of Isiah just like he got the best of most of the league--white and black. The guy was a surefire Hall of Famer.

But after that game--perhaps in the heat of the moment, rookie Dennis Rodman commented,

“Bird’s very over-rated. He only won (3) MVP’s cause he’s white.”

Then Isiah Thomas chimed-in. “I agree with Rodman. ...If Bird was black, he’d be considered just another good guy.”

Keep in mind, these comments took place right after the game, while both players were still in the moment of what had happened. You cant blame them for being emotional.

But when those quotes made it to the papers, it was pretty strong stuff. Isiah had to hold a press conference to apologize. Rodman too. They were both apologetic; but Isiah didn’t completely back down either. He gave a kind of long-winded explanation as to what irked him so much--some of which seemed valid; but in my mind all he really had to ask was "Hey Boston, why you got so many white guys on your team?"

Why indeed was what we'd all wondered in Detroit, long before that play.

Isiah Thomas (3 days after Bird's steal): “Larry definitely had to work to get where he's at, but so many times its been said about black athletes that their talent is ‘God-given’ or that it’s natural ability. I had to work just as hard to get where I am. It's not God-given or instinctive. Basketball is a game where you do things over and over again. When someone makes a great play it's not a matter of instinct, but how quickly you can recall.”

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into at least (1) more part.

Detroit: I Couldn't Stay, But I took You With Me--Part 3* (*Scroll down for Parts 1 & 2):

2010-05-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

Course the only reason the Pistons played The Silverdome or The Palace was that white people refused to go to Detroit. White people tend to get uncomfortable anytime they’re not the majority; and when I was growing up Detroit was 85% black. Most of that was due to the riots that took place at the end of the 1960’s; but it was also because of Coleman Young. After he got elected, Detroit got darker than a Ben Wallace/Grace Jones love-child.

Coleman Young was one of the first black mayors of any major American city, and probably the last of the real machine politicians. He served something like (5) terms and kept half of Detroit on city payroll in one form or another.

When Coleman first got elected, he gave a famous inauguration speech in which he said, “We’re gonna push all the criminals and muggers past 8 mile!”*

Note how he didn’t say he would stop crime--which I think we can all agree would be a noble cause. He said, “We’re gonna push it past 8 mile,” which in Detroit demarcates the city limits. So you can imagine how that went over in the suburbs.

But racism was always strong in Detroit, and it went both ways. Black Detroiter’s older than 50 know the term STRESS police and remember literal walls of separation that were erected at 8 mile. And when my dad first moved to Detroit in the early 60’s, he says it’d be common to see FOR RENT signs that would read: “Clean, two-bedroom, $600 a month. NO NIGGERS."

Coleman Young’s election marked a political milestone for Detroit’s black community. At that time Detroit was like the 6th largest city in America, so a black mayor was a super-big deal.

Yet it was all symbolic power. Coleman got the office of mayor for himself, but the black community had no economic self-determination of its own. Like everyone, it relied on the auto companies for survival; so when Coleman actually tried to exert some of that mayoral influence the white people and auto execs were like--You want Detroit? Take it.

And Coleman took it, ‘cause with no real power symbolism was as good as it was gonna get. Five terms in office and Detroit always got worse and worse. When the white people left, so did the tax base. Cops couldn’t be paid. The streets became unsafe. More families moved out; so even less money. Schools closed, so now who was gonna move there? Then the genocide of crack cocaine. Game over.

But Coleman and his bullet-proof limo achieved one dream. Probably the only benign accomplishment to distinguish his time in office. He built The Joe Louis Arena. Dedicated to his childhood hero--the great Brown Bomber. God of a certain generation of Detroiters like Coleman who listened on the radio as Louis laid a legendary beat-down to former champion Max Schmeling. A small, yet significant cultural step that led to the integration of baseball (9) years later.

And if it were up to me, that would be the legacy of the Joe Louis Arena. It’d be a symbol of human camaraderie and a dedication to racial parity. After all Louis and Schmeling each beat each other one time. There’s was an epic rivalry. So perhaps a statue of the two men out front would be appropriate. Each man holding the other’s arm above their head. And Jackie Robinson could be there. And of course Rosa Parks. Yeah, that’d be classic stuff.

But I guess I’m just a high-on hippie dope-smoker from the suburbs. Soft in the brain from too much LSD and easy living.

‘Cause Coleman had his own idea for a statue. If you visit Detroit (my God why would you do that?!) you’ll see it in front of Joe Louis Arena. A huge fist the size of a Mack truck about to take your head off. And if you turn that fist upward it becomes the black power sign.

Not the symbolism I’d have chosen. But hey, maybe I wasn’t a real Detroiter after all.

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into at least (1) more part.

**2nd NOTE: You may want to fact-check that Coleman Young inauguration quote.

Detroit: I Couldn't Stay, But I Took You With Me--Part 2* (*Scroll down for Part 1):

2010-05-12T17:18:00.000-07:00

The Who at The Pontiac Silverdome: Sponsored by Schlitz Beer!

Tommy Hearns vs. Sugar Ray Leonard was the biggest sporting event of my lifetime. That fight was bigger than the biggest Superbowl. A huge pop-culture event that actually transcended the sport.

Nowadays boxing’s nowhere close to any of the major sports--let alone NFL football; but boxing used to be the most popular and important of all sports. Jack Johnson vs. James Jeffries. Detroit’s own Joe Louis vs. Max Schmeling. Joe Frazier vs. Muhammad Ali at The Garden. These were historical events with political ramifications.

Anyway, I was 15 years old at the time of the Tommy Hearns/Sugar Ray Leonard fight, so of course my dad didn’t fly me out to Vegas. Instead, we watched the live, closed-circuit broadcast at the Pontiac Silverdome.

Pontiac Silverdome--oh man, that makes my mind race. The place sat 80,000 people when it was sold-out! First time I walked in there I was probably 9 years old. Hypnotized by the pomp of all that silver and blue filed neatly in its rows. The green astro-turf. The endless skin of the dome-roof that spanned the size of a cornfield. I took a deep breath of that rarified air; stared at that scoreboard juxtaposed against the sheet of elephantine grey dome and realized life and civilization were bigger than I’d ever realized. I was ready to join the Army.

The Silverdome was so stupid big and the acoustics were terrible; yet I still went there to see The Rolling Stones and The Who. The line-up for that Stones show was Iggy Pop, Santana, and The Rolling Stones. And for The Who, the backup band was The Clash. Legendary stuff, even if the sound sucked and you couldn’t see a thing.

Speaking of sucking and not being able to see a thing, the Detroit Pistons played at the Silverdome during a pretty-much terrible stretch in the early 1980’s. This was while The Palace was being built; and it was a complete joke. Half the seats were so far from the court you’d have to ask your neighbor which team had the ball.

But the owners were smart ‘cause they’d just give away the tickets. Literally $5 or $10 a pop ‘til they built-up a great fan base. We’d get high, drive-out to The Palace. Buy a pair of $5 seats just to get in. Move-up when we could.

Until a decade’s worth of shitty teams finally resulted in a first-draft choice and a kid named Isiah Thomas. Add Joe Dumars; get lucky with an unknown named Dennis Rodman, and suddenly coach Chuck Daly was in the big-time.

R.I.P Coach Daly!:

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post. I'm going to split it into at least (1) more part. I may need a few days 'cause my boss is fucking with me. But thanks for reading.

Detroit: I Couldn't Stay, But I Took You With Me--(Part 1):

2010-05-09T07:33:00.000-07:00

"Every Tommy Hearns fight ended one of two ways, he either knocked-out his opponent or he got knocked-out..."

"Ever since Stevie and Aretha there's been at least a half-dozen Stevie or Aretha rip-offs on the U.S. charts at all times..."

So rarely do I think about Detroit anymore. Ann’s really my last connection. Along with Jaco she's the last friend from high-school that’s still with me.

But Detroit’s been on my mind this past week or so. Like last Saturday when I saw Tommy Hearns on HBO's Mayweather/Mosely broadcast; or Monday night as I watched Rasheed Wallace’s big game 2 in Cleveland. I think it was during that game that I got a call from Ann, who laughed with a touch of sadness when I didn’t know Ernie Harwell died.

"Who?"

Oh my God Lodo! And I thought you were a real Detroiter.

Oh man--Detroit Daze! I feel I could write a whole nostalgic blog ‘bout those times right now as the thoughts race thru my head faster than Jaco and me doing 130 mph on the Lodge Freeway. Not the first time I’d done that either as Neil S_____n, formerly of the United States Army can attest. 125 mph round the Davison Avenue exit as I performed a feat of dare-devil recklessness that alone should put me in the Hall of Fame of Teenage, Speed-car drivers.

Oh man Detroit--how did I live to tell the tale! I had guns pulled on me twice in Detroit. Had my dad’s Cadillac stolen from me at knife-point. I was locked in an abandoned house; watched a friend’s skull get smacked with an aluminum baseball bat. And who can forget my man Curtis?--the guy who turned me on to Stanley Clarke’s Schooldays. Poor guy got shot for trying to jack a car stereo. But everyone knew he was a crackhead.

Back in high school, we’d drive deep into Detroit--to Scorpio’s Record Shop. There were maybe (8) records total that hung on the walls, and a counter in back encased in bullet-proof glass.

“Give me six,” you’d say and the black guy behind the counter would drop six micro-dot of acid thru the narrow security window. Eventually that changed to crack and drug-gangs like Young Boys, Inc. and Motor City Cobras or Cash Flow Posse. Until eventually (I assume) Crips and Bloods. But I can’t say for sure, we stopped going to Scorpios by then ‘cause Detroit turned into something that resembled Fallujah.

But I never turned on Detroit--even when I left. It was and still is where I’m from, 0-16 Lions or not.

When I was young my family traveled a lot.

“Where you from?” kids would ask me. Kids I’d never met with New York accents that intimidated me or southern drawls that sounded funny and almost foreign.

“Detroit,” I’d answer and almost always the kids would nod with respect.

“Oh--Motor City. Where they make the cars.”

"Um Hm."

“Motown, eh? Bet you know all that stuff.”

"A lot of it."

“Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin.”

"That’s right."

I was ten years old when Stevie Wonder broke out Songs in the Key of Life and a track from that record is probably still playing right now on at least one Detroit radio station. Stevie and Aretha own Detroit like Elvis owned Memphis. Like Springsteen owns Jersey. Like Lebron owns Cleveland. Hell, ever since Stevie and Aretha there’s been at least a half-dozen Stevie or Aretha ripoffs on the U.S. record charts at all times. And still no one’s surpassed them.

When it comes to music--forget it. Detroit kicks everyone else’s ass. Jackie Wilson. David Ruffin. Madonna. Iggy Pop. Berry Gordy. Diana Ross. Alice Cooper. Eminem. Kid Rock. MC5. Smokey Robinson. Anita Baker. J Dilla. Anthony Kiedis of the Chili Peppers.

And lets not forget jazz legends Barry Harris or Ron Carter. Or Betty Carter.

Betty lived just down the road from my house. Towards the end of her life, I got the chance to see her here in New York. She did the tune you see below (Amazon), and afterward, when I mentioned my old cross-streets, I know a put a smile on her face. She died 3 or 4 months later, and when she did I remembered how we'd laughed together at The Blue Note.

I also lived a mile or two from my favorite boxer of all-time. The Motor City Cobra--Tommy “Hitman” Hearns. Every Tommy Hearns fight ended one of two ways--he either knocked out his opponent or he himself got knocked out. That’s all you can ask for from your favorite fighter--to lay it all on the line. And Tommy always did. My man was no sell out. I never cried over sports--not before or since; but when Sugar Ray Leonard knocked Tommy Hearns thru the ropes, I know my eyes welled-up.

Betty Carter: Amazon

J Dilla: Won't Do

Aretha and Stevie (not working particularly hard): Until You Come Back To Me:

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into at least (1) more part. I'll probably need a few days for Part 2. If you made it this far--thanks for reading!

N.Y.C. Pics--Panel Trucks* (*Double-click on Image for Full-View):

2010-05-05T20:10:00.000-07:00

Immigration: "Don't Fall For It Kemosabe--it's a Trap!"

2010-05-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

Regular readers know I have no wife, no kids, no house, and no car payment. That’s a bit of a mantra hear at Stays Put and I doubt it’ll change anytime soon.

That said, you can see why I can only generate so much genuine interest in the future of us primates. I tend to look upon the lives of my fellow countrymen with the same curious interest that Jane Godall watches chimps. With an outsider’s curiosity that can leave me both bemused and depressed.

Course there’s nothing more comical than Americans in an election year. All the corn-dog slogans and infantile cliches that even my 10 year-old niece can see thru a mile away.

Change!

Service!

Sacrifice!

Freedom!

...Shut the fuck up!

Stays Put will never be a political blog--I just don’t care enough to be sincere ‘bout the subject. But I do have a strong interest in animal behavior and cant help but be fascinated by the psychology of human behavior--both on the individual level and in large, organized groups (a/k/a as politics).

At present, the immigration issue has made for some good entertainment. William Faulkner once said that “no man deserves love since nature did not equip us to bear it”; and while it may be an imperfect analogy, I’d argue that no politician deserves immigration in an election year for the same reason. Its just too complicated an issue.

Fact is, for every law-and-order Republican who refuses to consider amnesty for illegals there’s another capitalist/free-trade Republican who loves the cheap, free-flow of labor. And for every liberal Democrat who buys into the inherent human-right of the individual, there’s an AFL/CIO labor member upset at the loss of jobs and the downward slide of wages.

So for all the rhetoric of how important immigration is, its a loser issue for any politician outside of Arizona and Texas. That rare issue that taps into the conservative side of Democrats and the liberal side of Republicans. Best you can hope for is to break-even.

But that’s best-case scenario.

As long as I’m dropping famous quotes or insights, its an established precept of haggling that the first party to mention price in the course of a negotiation finds themselves at an immediate disadvantage. If you believe that (and I certainly do), then its obvious that the Republicans once again have shot themselves in the foot.

Again, I’m not here to argue for or against amnesty for illegals. What interests me is the art of politics and political strategy. And with that in mind, I think its more than obvious that President Obama made the right political move when he placed the immigration issue on the back-burner; whereas the Republicans and their up-front, “show me your papers” approach should pretty-much fly like the proverbial lead zeppelin.

In fact, the Republicans basically handed the Hispanic vote to Democrats, which was stupid because Obama had promised Hispanics to tackle immigration this year. Republicans could have made some in-roads with Latinos. Yet I doubt there’ll be much of a political price for Obama to pay now. Hispanics know how Republicans feel about them.

But people, let’s be honest. If you really want to know the problem for the American economy and the ‘cause of our high unemployment, just take a look at this Chinese guy here. If he looks a little familiar it may be because there’s close to a billion of 'em on this planet. And there average wage is about .70 cents a day* (*you might want to fact-check that statistic).

Or how ‘bout this guy here? He may not look quite as familiar ‘cause he’s Indian. Only 800 million of these guys, and their living the high life--an average wage of close to $2 dollar day* (*again, I suggest you fact-check that).

Or what about this (below)? Recognize this machine? Its called a computer.

The reality is, unless you’re a great athlete, or a surgeon, or a plumber, or a farmer; robots and computers can probably do what you do. And do it better. And they don’t get tired. Or angry. Or ask for health benefits. Or vacation.

So scapegoat immigrants all you want Sara Palin and John McCain, 7-10% unemployment will be here long after Obama’s gone. Why would you hire an American worker when you can go overseas? Or use a computer? Or a robot?

The real question for future Americans and the modern countries is going to be: how do we live in the post-employment world? A world where people and labor are no longer needed. Think about it, unless you live on a farm, why would you have 3 or 4 kids? ‘Cause that’s what your parents did? You’re a person, not a chimp. You have to see that there'll never be enough good work for all these people. So rather than breed, perhaps you should find a healthy hobby to stay busy.

Though in the case of some of these Arizonans, they probably could use a girlfriend.

Lodo Grdzak's Sportin' Life: Mayweather/Mosely Edition:

2010-05-01T06:24:00.000-07:00

Professional boxing is all about the knockout. Any fan who denies that is a liar. In the amateur ranks its more about points. Each punch-connect, no matter how soft or ineffective, is considered a point so long as its flush. Get more points and you get the win--even if you never hurt your opponent.

That’s all well and good at the Olympics; but to be a professional fighter you have to sell tickets. Have to get people to actually part with their money. And the best way to generate interest in a fight is to market the blood-lust and excitement of a potential KO.

Because of the brutal realities of professional prize-fighting, a lot of casual observers equate boxing as little more than thuggery or street-fighting. All they can think of is Duk Koo Kim or the Parkinsonian shake of Muhammad Ali. They don’t see the sport behind boxing: the hand speed, balance, footwork, movement , stamina, intelligence. All they see is the violence and its results.

In fairness, its an open debate how well boxing skills translate to other sports. Boxing’s one of the rare, land-based sports in which running speed and jumping ability aren’t all that important; and boxers rarely (if ever) transition to another sport the way Michael Jordan dabbled in baseball. So how much success someone like Muhammad Ali would have had in another sport is an open question.

But fact is, Jordan didn’t exactly light it up in baseball. Not in the same way Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders dominated in both baseball and football. Yet no one doubts the incredible athleticism of Jordan. And only an idiot would doubt the pure athleticism of a cut-up, 220 pound Muhammad Ali. Boxers are definitely world-class athletes of the highest order.

Tonight we’ll see a match-up between (2) of the (3) best athletes in boxing--Floyd Mayweather, Jr. and Sugar Shane Mosely. Biggest fight of the last (5) years.

Floyd Mayweather’s definitely the best athlete in the sport. Better than anyone--Shane Mosely or Manny Pacquiao and I’ll put in it in writing. Perfect fluidity to his movement. Fastest of all hands. Specific accuracy to every punch, and impregnable defense. Floyd’s got the whole package; so unlike a lot of fight fans, I don’t hate him.

But Floyd doesn't often get the knockout--that's why he needs to run his mouth. He generates interest by making fans hate him. So much so that you'll pay to see someone clean his clock.

On the other hand, Sugar Shane almost always wins by KO. And not just by being a bruiser. That's why I like and support him. Sure he’s lost a few fights and is a bit of a dud in the personality department; but no one’s been more consistent, for a longer period of time, against such a high level of opposition. Oscar De La Hoya was probably better in his prime, but he’s long since faded. So (sadly) has Miguel Cotto, and now even the legendary Bernard Hopkins. But Mosely’s still pretty-much where he’s always been, even at 39 years old.

Blazing speed.

Great motor.

More experience.

Excellent trainer.

And you know he’ll go for the knockout.

Go Shane!

N.Y.C. Pics* (*Double-click on Image for Full-View):

2010-04-28T05:09:00.000-07:00

Astoria (Queens):

Astoria (Queens):

86th Annual N.Y. Daily News Golden Gloves (Madison Square Garden):

Commuters Check the Board for their Train (Long Island Railroad/Penn Station):

"Catch The 2 Train to Youngland" (Bronx):

Chris Potter (center, in black shirt) w/ Adam Cruz (drums); Vincente Archer (bass); and...I can't remember the other guys: (At Smalls):

Pyramid/Robot-Thing (Lower East Side):

Upper-East Side:

Definitely Bronx:

Back-side of Panel Truck (Union Square):

* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. (5) Boroughs of New York. All rights reserved.

* 2nd Note: It used to be you only had to click on the image (1x) to get the full-view, but now you must click on the photo (2x) to get the real, full-screen view.

Just Clarifying Why We're There (a/k/a I Am a Blogger):

2010-04-25T17:25:00.000-07:00

Trish looks like this:

I apologize to my readers since I don’t have much to say; but I don’t like to go more than (3) or (4) days without a post. So while its probably more information then you care to know, I’m gonna give you a little rundown of my Saturday night.

My plan was to watch the Cris Arreola/Tomasz Adamek fight on HBO when my phone suddenly indicated a text message. It was from Trish.

Locked out. Need to kill some time. Want to meet me for a drink while I wait for my boss? I’m just a few blocks away.

Hmmm. A heavyweight fight or a drink with Trish?

Lodo: I could do that. Where u want 2 meet?

Trish: How ‘bout _____.”

Lodo: Be there in 5 minutes.

I got to the bar and found Trish still outside.

“You didn’t want to go in?” I asked.

“No I want you to buy me a drink.”

I laughed. “...Uh, okay.”

We got situated inside the the bar. Despite it being Saturday, were able to get a small table by the window.

“That’s how you’re dressed?” Trish asked as she took a sip of her Absolute and cranberry.

“I was just gonna stay home and watch the fights. I didn’t plan to go out.”

“Smells like you were smoking weed,” she said as she put her nose to my sleeve.

“Oh, no way.”

That got a laugh out of her.

“I’m surprised you were home,” she said, “I figured you’d be getting laid somewhere.”

“Well, as you can see I’m trying. ...What about you?” I asked. “What happened with your keys?”

“I left ‘em at the store. Everyone walked-out together, so I didn’t have to lock up. I only figured it out when I got to my car.”

“Well, you can stay at my place tonight.”

“Ha! Listen Lodo, I had to come back here so I figured I’d give you call. That’s it. Jeremy’s on his way from Queens to let me back in. Then I’m going home. Don’t read anything into this.”

“Oh I’m totally reading into it.”

“I can see that. But I’m telling you not to.”

“Well I don’t like that. And my night doesn’t sound like much fun if I have to believe that.”

“Do what you want to do. I’ve been honest, I won’t feel guilty.”

Silence ensued as we looked ‘round at the semi-crowded bar. We people-watched for a few minutes 'til I broke the quiet.

“...So I saw your poster at the bus stop last week.”

“Really! I wanted to ask you about that. What’d you think?”

“..That’s why you wanted to see me isn’t it. ‘Cause you wanted my opinion on your poster.”

“No--not at all,” Trish answered defensively. “...But I do respect your opinion. Even if you didn’t use my pictures for your blog.”

“That’s not true. In fact I just used one of ‘em a few posts back.”

“...We took that over a year ago.”

“Well if you remember, I was supposed to use those pics for my new blog. It was gonna be Tales From the Green Room and I even had the first post. It was gonna go something like:

In the Green Room I have all my photographs hung on the walls. All the places I’ve been and the special people in my life. Its where my internal self and the exterior world connect. I stare at the blown-up images of far-away places and my soul spits outward even as my mind inverts back into its own thoughts and recollections. Its a kind-of dual competing process that keeps me in a state of constant nowness...

Trish stared at me as she took another sip of her drink. She didn’t seem too impressed.

“...Something like that,” I said.

“What about my poster?” she finally asked.

“I think you look smoking hot.”

“You do?”

“Of course, its great. You know it. I wanted to call you as soon as I saw it.”

I placed my hand on Trish’s thigh but she immediately removed it.

“I have a boyfriend now Lodo.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s a musician.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yep. He plays guitar and drums.”

“Christ, the two best ones to pick-up chicks.”

“Yeah they are,” she laughed, “and he’s good. So believe me, you have no chance.”

“Alright. ...So let me ask you. Why’d you call me up?”

“I told you, ‘cause I have to wait for Jeremy. Plus I wanted a drink.”

“Okay. But lets face it, we both know you could’ve found someone interesting to buy you a drink. You don’t need me.”

“No, that's true. I like you Lodo. You’re...happy.”

“I’m what?”

“You’re happy. Seriously. Not everyone is, but you are. I read that post of yours about that girl who said you’re fun. She’s right about that. You are fun. I like that about you.”

For the first time that night Trish looked like she could use a little happiness. Or maybe she was just tired as she monitored the front door for Jeremy.

“You know,” I said, “I could put a little of this happiness inside you.”

Trish hadn’t been giving me her full attention; but eventually she processed my comment.

“...What’d you say?” she finally asked as she turned toward me.

“I said I know how to inject a little happiness in your life if you want some.”

“ Ha! You are so funny Lodo. But you know what, maybe we’d better call it a night. I told you why I called. And its obvious why you answered.”

I finished my drink and got up to leave; but before I left, Trish and I exchanged a hug.

“You want me to pay for my drink?” Trish asked, “since,..you know. You’re going home empty-handed.”

I gave Trish a good look up and down. She doesn’t get that dolled-up before she goes out, but her body’s extremely tight. She kickboxes and attends pilates 3x a week. I've seen what she’s got under that skirt and its nice.

“...My hands wont be empty long,” I told her.

"Little more than I wanted to know Lodo."

"Well, I am a blogger."

* NOTE: The images of kickboxers I've used are merely included to enhance the narrative. I've never seen either of them naked.

Random Thoughts on Artists, Fads, and my man Guru:

2010-04-21T19:24:00.000-07:00

For simplicity's sake, lets just say there are three types of famous artists.

The first are genius innovators like Charlie Parker or Henry Miller who have such completely original ideas that they introduce a whole new wave of thought to the generations.

The second type is the most common, which I would term the "bridge artists" or "carriers of the baton." They take an already established form and add their own generation’s twist to it. Make it fresh again until its new. Or at least, seem new. In a healthy culture, one bridge artist seamlessly leads to the next; but as a culture dies-out so does its art. Until a new Charlie Parker comes along.

Of course the last type of famous artist really isn’t an artist at all. These are the fads or the personalities. The Fonzies, the Farrah Fawcett Majors’; the Paris Hilton’s and the Britney Spears’.

My man Guru was a bridge artist. For those of you too young to remember or too old to care, Guru first broke-out with a band called Gangstarr. They had a few hits and were highly influential before Guru left to form Jazzmatazz.

Jazzmatazz never had a legitimate hit (at least as far as I remember), but they fused hip-hop with real jazz instrumentalists like Donald Byrd and Branford Marsalis. In that way Guru literally “bridged the gap” between the hip-hop generation and their older siblings, who still couldn’t or wouldn’t respect music that didn’t have live musicians. He may not have been my generation’s best artist, but he was damn good and represented us well. A kind-of Mos Def before Mos Def; Guru was not only an ambassador for the kind of hip-hop that was still fun and positive, but had a unique tone to his voice that may have been equalled, but never surpassed.

Guru’s my generation. He died yesterday at 43 years old, which is the same age I am now. He was born in NYC, which is where I live, and his name Guru has certain syllabic qualities that match my own--Lodo. I never met him, but in many ways we were connected. His time on the charts was short, but he was no fad. In my book he achieved the highest level that man can achieve. A genuine artist.

A lot of rappers got flavor,
and some got skills,
But if you're voice ain't dope,
then you needs to chill.

R.I.P Guru!

Guru w/ Jazzmatazz and Chaka Khan: Watch What You're Sayin'

Guru Live w/ Donald Byrd (trumpet); Roy Ayers (Vibes): Transit Ride