This sucks. Just saw the news that Willy DeVille has died of pancreatic cancer. Maybe now they’ll rerelease the Mink DeVille catalog on cd. Dammit. Another musical genius goes down. At least it wasn’t hookers and blow.
Remember my poinciana tree, that was a naked twig one day, and covered with little feathers the next?
This is it in high summer, a fractal canopy of green, casting a huge swath of shade over the driveway and the side yard.
As ever, this is part of the Nature Notes meme.
The other day an article ran in the Miami Herald about the toll the recession is taking on Miami restaurants. They named names, listed locations, and there in the middle was one of my favorite places to eat: North 110. The owner/chef is Dewey LoSasso and I’ve been a fan of Chef Dewey since he was in the kitchen at the late, lamented Foundlings Club on Lincoln Road in the late 80s, early 90s. I was a member of the Foundlings, and the day that Chef Dewey put my mango marmalade on the menu with a rack of lamb, I felt I had earned a place in foodie heaven.
But now he’s cutting back to only weekends, and putting his restaurant up for sale. I confess, I haven’t been there in better than a year: I live at the other end of the county, and the time, and gas and honestly, the cost of the meal, have all conspired to keep me away.
At this end of the world, I went to Gil Capa’s Bistro for my anniversary dinner. We were the only people in the place. All night. I don’t know how Carmen and Gil can stay open, and it frightens me to think of Gil closing his kitchen. My girlfriend Star was a waitress for him in the 70s, and two of her three daughters have waited tables at this location.
My own family closed their business in 1984, when the mall opened up on the other side of town, and the big chain clothing stores (who carried the same brands we did, by and large) opened. Well, Jordan Marsh and Burdine’s (both begun as family stores themselves) were swallowed by Federated, and are just memories, same as the Stuart Department Store. So maybe it’s in my blood, but there is something very precious to me about an independently run business, a mom and pop brick and mortar store. That’s why I’m adding a new badge to this blog, and throwing my support (and my money where my mouth is) behind the 3/50 project.
What is the 3/50 Project? Its stated goal is “Saving the brick and mortars our nation is built on.” Here’s the gist, from the front page of their site:
I pledge to eat at Gil’s more often, to buy at the independent bookstore, to stop by my local yarn shop. It only takes one person to start a movement.
Yesterday, I pulled out everything from my studio and piled it around the house. Boxes, baskets, piles. Fabric, quilt tops, unfinished projects by the pound. Roving, Knitting supplies, spinning supplies, quilting supplies. And papers. I spent a few hours culling the paper. Then I went to the Container Store and dumped a grand on shelving/organizing tools. Was up till midnight building the new shelf/basket system. Now the big question: did it help? That remains to be seen. But I am amazed at how much STUFF I was able to cram into my studio. I was also amazed at the amount of dust and dirt a baseball bat, judiciously applied, can loosen and remove from a rug. No wonder our fore-mothers beat them every spring. Holy hell.
On another note: the human spammers who are infecting my comments with drivel and ads for limo services and mailing lists? Go die in a fire. And quickly. Thank you.
To the media: Anesthesia is not a sleep aid. Michael Jackson was not administered a powerful anesthesia to “help him sleep”. That’s like saying someone shoots heroin to “take the edge off”. A junkie is a junkie is a junkie. Looking for a high or a low. MJ just had enough money to pay those with dubious morals to acquire his drugs for him. The doctors, nurses, pharmacists who were complicit should all have their licenses revoked. For that matter, the drug company that sold the Propofol to a doctor and not to a hospital? They are culpable, too, and should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t give a rat’s patootie about Michael Jackson or his addictions. But the hooha following his death has just gotten me sick. Dude was a high-functioning junkie. Pure and simple. Just like Anna Nicole Smith. And junkies tend to die of ODs. End of story. Sad, but hardly the stuff of Shakespearean tragedy.
Yesterday the RLA, the Number Two Surrogate Daughter and her squeeze and I all went to see the new Harry Potter movie. It was great. But that’s not what I’m writing about. In the interminable run-up to the interminable previews, there were any number of locally-produced commercials. They were for nutrition supplement vendors, cosmetic dentistry, cosmetic surgeons and a fundie church (the #2 and I debated who goes to this theater, if these ads are targeted to a demographic). The last one was for… a car dealership maybe? It featured a blue-eyed blonde little boy who was supposed to be a super secret agent, taking super important documents to the POTUS. And that, my friends, is when my brain imploded. Because there was a very believable Barack Obama impersonator in the ad. Believable, that is, until he opened his mouth, and then he spoke with a ludicrously perfect and stereotypical Cuban accent. And nobody in the theater seemed to notice this disconnect except the four of us. And then it was just jaw-droppingly horrendous.
Ah, Miami. My tropical home. But the movie was fun. Sad, and almost a Cliff-notes version of the book, but splendidly done. I can’t wait for the last two. The RLA and I want to re-read the whole series…again.